Chapter 2
For several seconds, I thought I'd misheard my father.
I stepped toward him.
"What do you mean, the first complaint about me?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He was staring at the manager's phone.
Diane stood beside him, looking as though she wanted to disappear.
Marcus had moved away from the entrance.
The security guard who'd blocked me so confidently was suddenly studying the marble floor.
Dad looked at the manager.
"Who submitted this report?"
The man swallowed.
"My name is Calvin Price, sir."
Dad's expression hardened.
"I asked who submitted the report."
Calvin looked toward Diane.
She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Dad noticed.
"Calvin."
The manager's voice trembled.
"Ms. Whitmore did."
My heart began pounding.
I stepped closer.
"Can I see?"
Dad hesitated.
Then turned the phone toward me.
It displayed an internal incident report.
The heading read:
RESTRICTED CUSTOMER NOTICE.
My name appeared beneath it.
NIA BENNETT.
My stomach dropped.
The report described me as a potentially disruptive visitor who might attempt to claim special privileges through family connections.
It instructed security staff to verify my identity and deny entry without management approval.
I stared at the screen.
"What?"
Dad looked furious.
"Who authorized this?"
Calvin remained silent.
Diane finally spoke.
"Arthur, we can discuss this privately."
Dad turned toward her.
"No."
Her expression changed.
"This is a company matter."
He looked around the boutique.
"You made it public when you humiliated my daughter."
I felt tears gathering.
"Dad, I've never been here before."
He nodded.
"I know."
I pointed toward the report.
"Then why is my name on a restricted list?"
Diane crossed her arms.
"We received information suggesting you might create problems."
I stared at her.
"From who?"
She looked away.
"Confidential sources."
Dad's voice became cold.
"That's not an acceptable answer."
He looked toward Calvin.
"How long has this notice been active?"
Calvin checked the screen.
"Three weeks."
Three weeks.
My heart began pounding.
Three weeks earlier, I had submitted my jewelry portfolio to the Sterling Diamonds independent designer program.
I remembered the email.
The sketches.
The photographs.
The application fee.
And the excitement I felt when I pressed submit.
Then, two days later, I received a rejection.
No explanation.
Just a short message saying my designs didn't meet the company's current requirements.
I looked at Diane.
"Did you review my design application?"
Her expression flickered.
"What?"
"My portfolio. Three weeks ago."
Dad turned toward her.
For the first time, Diane seemed genuinely frightened.
"I review many applications."
I felt sick.
"Did you review mine?"
She didn't answer.
Dad looked toward Calvin.
"Access the submission records."
Diane immediately stepped forward.
"Arthur, that isn't necessary."
My father turned.
"Why not?"
She glanced toward the customers.
"Because we're disrupting business."
Dad's expression didn't change.
"Then we should have considered that before refusing service to a customer."
Calvin hesitated.
Then opened another screen.
A list of designer applications appeared.
He searched my name.
There it was.
Nia Bennett.
Submission received.
Portfolio reviewed.
Application rejected.
But a second line caught my attention.
DESIGN MATERIAL FORWARDED TO EXECUTIVE REVIEW.
I frowned.
"What's executive review?"
Calvin looked uncomfortable.
"It's an internal evaluation process."
I stared at him.
"Why would rejected designs be forwarded?"
He didn't answer.
Diane suddenly spoke.
"Because we maintain records for future reference."
Dad looked toward her.
"That's not the answer."
He turned back to Calvin.
"Who received the designs?"
The manager tapped another field.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
Dad leaned closer.
"Calvin?"
The manager swallowed.
"The file was forwarded to Whitmore Creative Holdings."
I looked at Diane.
"Your company?"
She folded her arms.
"It's a consulting business."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What does your consulting business have to do with my designs?"
Diane looked directly at me.
"You're overreacting."
I almost laughed.
Overreacting.
First she denied me entry.
Then I discovered she'd placed my name on a restricted list.
And now my rejected design portfolio had been sent to her private company.
I looked at Dad.
"Please tell me this isn't normal."
He shook his head.
"It isn't."
Then he turned toward Calvin.
"Preserve those records."
Diane's eyes widened.
"Arthur, you can't—"
Dad interrupted.
"Don't delete anything."
The manager nodded.
"Yes, sir."
I stared at my father.
"Dad, what exactly is your relationship with this store?"
He took a breath.
"Bennett Holdings owns a controlling interest in Sterling Diamonds."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"We acquired the company earlier this year."
I stared around the boutique.
The chandeliers.
The diamond displays.
The sales counters.
My father controlled the business.
I hadn't known.
Dad continued.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel obligated to work within my companies."
I swallowed.
Then looked at Diane.
Her face was pale.
Dad turned toward her.
"Explain why your private consulting company received my daughter's designs."
Diane opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Then a young sales associate stepped forward.
She wore a black blazer with a silver name badge.
Her name was Elise.
"Mr. Bennett?"
Dad turned.
"Yes?"
She looked frightened.
"I think I know."
Diane's expression changed.
"Elise, go back to work."
Elise shook her head.
"I can't."
I stared at her.
She looked directly at me.
"Miss Bennett, I saw your designs."
My heart pounded.
"And?"
Her eyes filled.
"They were beautiful."
I swallowed.
"Thank you."
She hesitated.
Then whispered,
"And I saw them again yesterday."
My stomach tightened.
"Where?"
May you like
Elise looked toward a locked display cabinet at the back of the store.
"In the new Whitmore Signature Collection."
