Chapter 3
I stared at the locked cabinet.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then I walked toward it.
Dad followed.
Diane hurried behind us.
"Arthur, you're making a serious mistake."
He ignored her.
The display cabinet stood beneath a large crystal chandelier.
A polished gold plaque was attached to the glass.
WHITMORE SIGNATURE COLLECTION.
COMING SOON.
Inside were several velvet trays holding jewelry samples.
A necklace.
Two bracelets.
A pair of earrings.
And a diamond-studded pendant.
My heart stopped.
I recognized the pendant immediately.
It was shaped like a small crescent moon surrounded by three delicate stars.
I'd drawn that design when I was twenty-three.
My mother used to tell me that no matter how dark life became, there would always be enough light to find my way home.
I'd created the pendant to honor her.
I called it Midnight Promise.
I had never sold the design.
Never licensed it.
And never given anyone permission to manufacture it.
I pressed my hand against the glass.
"That's mine."
Diane laughed nervously.
"Moon designs are common."
I shook my head.
"Not this one."
I pointed toward the center.
"Three uneven stars. A hidden emerald setting beneath the crescent. The smallest star angled seventeen degrees."
Dad looked closely.
Then toward me.
"Are you certain?"
I nodded.
"I have the original sketches."
Diane crossed her arms.
"Anyone can claim they drew something."
I turned toward her.
"Then explain why the design includes the exact imperfections from my first draft."
She looked away.
I continued.
"I deliberately left the stars uneven because Mom used to draw them that way."
My voice broke.
"That detail isn't accidental."
Dad touched my shoulder.
Then turned toward Calvin.
"Open the cabinet."
The manager hesitated.
Diane immediately stepped forward.
"Those samples are not ready for inspection."
Dad looked at her.
"Open it."
Calvin retrieved a key.
The cabinet door swung outward.
I reached for the pendant.
Then stopped.
I didn't want anyone accusing me of interfering with evidence.
Dad noticed.
"Calvin, please photograph the item before moving it."
The manager nodded.
Elise watched silently.
Her hands were shaking.
I looked at her.
"How did you know these were my designs?"
She swallowed.
"I helped organize the digital portfolio submissions."
Diane glared at her.
Elise continued.
"Your files were marked for rejection, but I recognized several pieces when the new collection samples arrived."
I felt sick.
"Did you tell anyone?"
She nodded.
"I asked Ms. Whitmore about it."
My heart pounded.
"What did she say?"
Elise looked toward Diane.
"She told me the designer had assigned the rights."
I stared at her.
"I never assigned anything."
Elise nodded.
"I thought something was wrong."
Then she reached into her pocket.
She removed a small flash drive.
Diane's face changed immediately.
"Elise."
The young woman looked terrified.
But she continued.
"I copied the internal file history before it was changed."
My father became still.
"What changed?"
Elise swallowed.
"The original submission labels."
I felt my chest tighten.
She continued.
"Miss Bennett's name was removed from several design files."
Diane stepped forward.
"That's confidential company property."
Dad raised his hand.
"Stop."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he looked toward Calvin.
"Contact our general counsel and information security team. Preserve the original system records and access logs."
Calvin nodded.
Diane stared at him.
"You're going to believe an assistant over your regional director?"
Dad looked at her.
"I'm going to review the evidence."
That answer seemed to frighten her more than anger would have.
The customers had begun whispering again.
Several were recording.
I looked around the boutique.
I wanted to disappear.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because something deeply personal had been dragged into public view.
My mother's memory.
My designs.
My dream of building a business independently.
Everything felt exposed.
Dad leaned toward me.
"Let's go somewhere private."
I nodded.
He led me into a consultation room behind the showroom.
Elise joined us.
Calvin remained outside.
A company attorney named Rachel Monroe arrived forty minutes later.
She listened while we explained what happened.
Then she reviewed the files.
My original portfolio.
The internal submission history.
The samples.
And the records showing that the design files had been forwarded to Diane's consulting company.
Rachel looked concerned.
"Nia, do you have dated records of your work?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
I opened my laptop.
My sketches were organized by project.
I had preliminary drawings.
Digital files.
Photographs of wax models.
Messages with my former design instructor.
And records from the online portfolio platform I'd used before submitting to Sterling Diamonds.
Rachel studied them.
Then looked toward Dad.
"These records may be important in establishing authorship and ownership."
I swallowed.
"Can they just take my designs because I submitted them?"
She shook her head.
"Not simply because you applied. We need to examine the submission agreement and any purported license."
I felt some relief.
Then Rachel continued.
"There's another issue."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"The portfolio rejection appears to have been entered before the evaluation committee completed its review."
I stared at her.
"How?"
She pointed toward a timestamp.
"The application was marked rejected at 9:14 a.m."
I nodded.
She opened another record.
"But the committee didn't meet until the following afternoon."
My heart stopped.
Diane had rejected me before anyone evaluated my work.
Then Rachel opened one final document.
It was a proposed licensing agreement.
The listed designer was Whitmore Creative Holdings.
The royalty recipient was the same company.
And beside a signature line appeared my name.
Nia Bennett.
I stared at it.
My hands began shaking.
"I never signed that."
Rachel looked at me.
"Are you certain?"
I nodded.
"Absolutely."
Dad leaned forward.
His expression was cold.
"Who submitted it?"
Rachel checked the file.
Then looked up.
"Diane Whitmore."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number had sent me a message.
May you like
I opened it.
STOP DIGGING. YOUR FATHER HAS MORE TO LOSE THAN YOU THINK.
