Chapter 4 - My Mistress Had Been Building a Trap
Camille did not answer my calls.
That was almost funny.
For nine months, I had been the one deciding when communication was convenient.
Now she disappeared.
Laurent’s investigators found enough within forty-eight hours to reconstruct most of what had happened.
Camille had accessed Bellamy files through an Arden Capital junior analyst she had dated briefly two years earlier.
The analyst insisted he believed she wanted to understand her father’s investments.
Camille downloaded photographs, preliminary sketches, vendor lists, and production schedules.
Then she sent selected images to Adrian Cole.
She manipulated dates.
Created anonymous accounts.
And began constructing a plagiarism story months before Isabelle ever left me.
The question remained:
Why?
I went to Étienne Arden.
He received me at his Manhattan office with all the warmth of a dentist preparing anesthesia.
“You look terrible.”
“I’ve had a difficult year.”
“It is April.”
“Exactly.”
He poured coffee.
I declined.
“Did you know Camille accessed Bellamy files?”
His expression changed immediately.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t answer questions twice.”
“Then we have a problem.”
I showed him the evidence.
He read silently.
By the end, his face was white.
“That stupid girl.”
I watched him.
“Why would she do this?”
Étienne removed his glasses.
“Because of me.”
I said nothing.
“Camille has spent her entire life trying to prove she understands this industry.”
“She’s a successful model.”
“She hates modeling.”
That surprised me.
“She wanted Arden Capital.”
“Your company?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t give her a role?”
“I gave her several.”
“What happened?”
“She was impatient.”
I almost laughed.
The description could have applied to me.
Étienne continued.
“When I invested in Bellamy, I told Camille Isabelle had what most designers spend their lives pretending to possess.”
“What?”
“Point of view.”
I stared.
“She took that badly.”
“I imagine.”
“She asked why I never invested in her ideas.”
“Did she have ideas?”
Étienne looked at me.
“That was not the correct question to ask her either.”
Fair.
“So she targeted Isabelle.”
“At first? Probably professionally.”
“And me?”
He became quiet.
I understood.
“You knew about the affair.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Almost from the beginning.”
“And you said nothing.”
Étienne’s eyes hardened.
“You were cheating on your wife with my adult daughter. Which part exactly required my guidance?”
I had no answer.
He continued.
“I told Camille it was foolish.”
“Because I was married?”
“Because you are vain.”
I stared.
He shrugged.
“Married men can leave. Vain men rarely change.”
That one hurt.
“Did she start the affair to hurt Isabelle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask her.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“She stopped taking my calls two days ago.”
So Camille was hiding from both of us.
By afternoon, another scandal broke.
Private photographs from Rome appeared online.
Camille and me on a balcony.
Kissing.
Her in my shirt.
My wedding ring visible.
The images spread faster than any fashion campaign Laurent had ever launched.
By five, photographers surrounded Bellamy Studio.
Not my home.
Isabelle’s studio.
They shouted questions.
“Did Gabriel steal your designs?”
“Did you know about Camille?”
“Is Bellamy funded to destroy Laurent?”
“Are you launching a revenge brand?”
I watched footage from my apartment.
Every part of me wanted to go there.
Stand between Isabelle and the cameras.
Tell them to leave her alone.
I called instead.
She answered.
“I’m coming over.”
“No.”
“Reporters are outside.”
“I know.”
“They’re using you to cover my scandal.”
“I know.”
“I can remove them.”
“How?”
“Security.”
“No.”
“Isabelle.”
“No, Gabriel.”
I closed my eyes.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn’t feel right.”
“Your feelings are not always instructions.”
I almost smiled.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have security?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Étienne arranged it.”
Of course.
A flicker of jealousy moved through me.
I recognized it.
Ignored it.
Progress.
“I met with him.”
“You what?”
“To ask about Camille.”
“What did he say?”
I explained.
Isabelle sighed.
“She hated me.”
“Did you know?”
“I knew she disliked me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She laughed.
“Would you have believed me?”
The answer hurt.
“No.”
“Exactly.”
That night, Camille finally called.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because lawyers are looking for you.”
She laughed bitterly.
“So Isabelle gets lawyers now?”
“This is not about Isabelle.”
“It is always about Isabelle.”
I went still.
Camille continued.
“You don’t understand what it’s like.”
“Then explain.”
“For years, every room I entered compared me to women like her.”
“Isabelle wasn’t a public designer.”
“No. Worse.”
“What does that mean?”
“She had people who knew.”
“Who knew what?”
“That she was good.”
I said nothing.
“My father talked about her work like it mattered before anyone even saw it.”
“Camille—”
“He never talked about me that way.”
“So you tried to destroy her?”
“I tried to beat her.”
“By sleeping with her husband?”
Silence.
There.
I felt something cold move through me.
“Was that why?”
“No.”
“Camille.”
“No.”
But her voice changed.
I closed my eyes.
“How much of us was real?”
She laughed.
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Answer me.”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“I liked you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You made it easy.”
Those words stayed.
I whispered, “Did you know who Isabelle was before we met?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
“Did you approach me because of her?”
“At first.”
The room became very quiet.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to know why everyone protected her.”
“Protected?”
“She had Celeste. My father. Old editors. Pattern makers. People who acted like she was some secret genius.”
“So you came after me.”
“I met you at a party, Gabriel. I didn’t force you into anything.”
“No.”
That mattered.
“You didn’t.”
“I flirted.”
“Yes.”
“You invited me upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“You lied to your wife.”
“Yes.”
“You kept calling.”
“Yes.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Then stop acting like I destroyed your marriage.”
“I’m not.”
The truth was strangely calm.
“I destroyed my marriage.”
Camille went silent.
“But you tried to destroy Isabelle’s career.”
“She already had yours.”
“No.”
I looked at the copyright registration.
“She helped build mine.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
For the first time, I understood the difference.
“Not anymore.”
Camille laughed.
“You’re going to choose her now?”
“That choice stopped belonging to me.”
She hung up.
Two days later, authorities located her at a hotel in Connecticut.
She was not arrested.
Yet.
But Laurent Group filed civil claims concerning trade-secret misuse and unauthorized data access.
Arden Capital filed separate claims.
The fashion press became unbearable.
Bellamy’s debut show was still five weeks away.
Retailers began quietly withdrawing orders.
One department store paused its contract.
Another demanded clarification about plagiarism allegations.
Isabelle had done nothing wrong.
Yet scandal rarely cared about guilt.
I asked to meet.
She agreed at Bellamy Studio after hours.
I had never been inside.
The warehouse was beautiful.
Not expensive.
Beautiful.
Long cutting tables.
Old wooden floors.
Natural light.
Fabric pinned everywhere.
There were twelve employees.
Mostly young.
Mostly women.
One wall was covered with photographs of ordinary people.
Not celebrities.
A bus driver.
A teacher.
A nurse.
A seventy-year-old woman laughing on a beach.
“What is this?”
Isabelle looked at the wall.
“People I design for.”
I stared.
“Not models?”
“Models wear clothes. People live in them.”
The sentence sounded like old Isabelle.
The Isabelle my career had slowly hidden.
She showed me the debut collection.
I understood immediately why Étienne invested.
The clothes were extraordinary.
Not louder than Laurent.
Quieter.
More certain.
A black coat cut to move like a cape without becoming theatrical.
A cream dress with hidden pockets.
A blue evening gown whose back folded like paper.
I touched nothing.
“This is good.”
Isabelle looked at me.
“That sounded painful.”
“It is excellent.”
“Better.”
I smiled.
Then stopped at one dress.
White silk.
A neckline I recognized.
The dress Camille had worn on Isabelle’s birthday.
My stomach turned.
“What is this?”
Isabelle approached.
“That design began fifteen years ago.”
“You?”
“Us.”
I looked at her.
“I thought I designed it last year.”
“You did.”
She touched the fabric.
“But you were returning to an old sketch.”
“Whose?”
“Ours.”
I closed my eyes.
Even the dress I used to betray her contained their history.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
The words were gentler now.
Not forgiveness.
But less sharp.
We sat at a cutting table.
“What are you going to do about the show?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Canceling would look like admission.”
“I know.”
“Proceeding risks financial damage.”
“I know.”
“Would you like my opinion?”
She looked surprised.
“You’re asking?”
“Yes.”
A faint smile.
“Fine.”
“Proceed.”
“Why?”
“Because the work will answer better than statements.”
She studied me.
“That sounds like old Gabriel.”
“Good old or bad old?”
“Good old.”
Something moved between us.
Then she looked away.
“We can’t.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You looked.”
“I’m allowed to look.”
“Not like that.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Yes, you do.”
I did.
I still loved her.
Perhaps I had never stopped.
But love, I was learning, could exist beside terrible behavior.
It did not excuse it.
“What do you need for the show?” I asked.
“Nothing from you.”
“Professionally.”
She hesitated.
“Retailers.”
“I can call—”
“No.”
I stopped.
She continued.
“If they come because Gabriel Laurent asks, then I’m still borrowing your name.”
Fair.
“What about press?”
“No.”
“Venue?”
“No.”
“Money?”
She almost laughed.
“Definitely no.”
I leaned back.
“So why am I here?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“Because I wanted you to see it before strangers did.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer gave me more hope than it should have.
Two weeks before the show, Bellamy lost its venue.
The landlord claimed a scheduling conflict.
We later discovered Richard Voss had pressured the owner.
Richard had been removed from Laurent Group, but apparently humiliation had not improved his character.
Isabelle called me at midnight.
Not because she wanted rescue.
Because she wanted one piece of information.
“Did Laurent book the venue through a related company?”
I checked.
“No.”
“Thank you.”
She hung up.
I stared at the phone.
Then realized something.
I knew a venue.
A warehouse by the river.
The first Laurent runway show had been held there fifteen years earlier.
It was now privately owned.
By me.
I almost called Isabelle.
Stopped.
Instead, I transferred ownership of the building into an independent arts trust with instructions that emerging designers could apply to use it at cost.
Then I said nothing.
Three days later, Bellamy’s production manager discovered the venue.
They applied.
The trust approved.
Isabelle found out eventually.
Of course.
She called.
“Was this you?”
“The trust is independent.”
“Gabriel.”
“I did not reserve it for you.”
“You donated the building.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we started there.”
Silence.
“I thought somebody else should get to start there too.”
She breathed out slowly.
“That was manipulative.”
“I worried it might be.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
Another silence.
“Thank you.”
The Bellamy show opened on a rainy Thursday night.
I did not have an invitation.
I went anyway.
Not inside.
I stood across the street beneath an umbrella.
Through the warehouse windows, I saw lights.
People.
Movement.
At eight-fifteen, applause erupted.
Loud enough to reach the sidewalk.
I closed my eyes.
For fifteen years, applause had sounded like proof that I mattered.
That night, hearing it through rain for Isabelle felt better.
Then my phone exploded with alerts.
I looked down.
A live fashion account had posted:
BELLAMY DEBUT STUNS NEW YORK.
Another:
ISABELLE BELLAMY MAY BE THE DESIGN VOICE FASHION HAS BEEN MISSING.
Then:
GABRIEL LAURENT SPOTTED OUTSIDE EX-WIFE’S SHOW.
A photographer shouted my name.
I turned.
Cameras flashed.
“Gabriel! Did Isabelle steal Laurent designs?”
“Gabriel! Are you here to stop the show?”
“Gabriel! Is Bellamy copying you?”
I could have walked away.
Instead, I faced them.
“No.”
They shouted.
I raised my voice.
“Isabelle Bellamy did not steal from Laurent.”
More cameras.
“She helped create Laurent.”
Silence.
Then chaos.
“What does that mean?”
“How much?”
“Are you admitting fraud?”
I looked through the rain toward the building.
Isabelle stood just inside the doorway.
She had heard.
I continued.
“For years, work that should have carried her name carried mine.”
The questions exploded.
I did not stop.
“The record will be corrected.”
Isabelle stared at me.
For once, I did not look away from the truth because it made me smaller.
I said the sentence I should have said fifteen years earlier.
“Laurent exists because of Isabelle Bellamy.”
By midnight, the statement had gone worldwide.
May you like
By morning, Laurent Group stock had fallen another eighteen percent.
And for the first time in my life, losing billions felt less frightening than living one more day inside a lie.
