Chapter 4
I read the message three times.
Your father has more to lose than you think.
For a moment, I felt a familiar kind of fear.
The kind that came whenever someone suggested my father's reputation could be damaged because of something involving me.
I'd spent years avoiding that possibility.
I didn't want to be called a rich man's daughter.
I didn't want anyone saying my success came from his influence.
And I certainly didn't want to become the reason his business faced a public scandal.
Dad noticed my expression.
"Nia?"
I handed him the phone.
He read the message.
His jaw tightened.
"Who sent this?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know."
Rachel leaned forward.
"Preserve the message. Don't respond."
I nodded.
Dad looked at me.
"You're not stopping because someone threatens my reputation."
I swallowed.
"Dad, your company—"
He interrupted gently.
"My company is responsible for what happens inside its stores."
I looked up.
He continued.
"If employees are mistreating customers or misusing designers' work, I need to know."
My eyes filled.
"And if my own daughter is the person who reveals it?"
He took my hand.
"Then I'm proud of her for refusing to stay silent."
I wanted to believe him.
But I knew how quickly wealthy families protected appearances.
I'd seen business dinners where people smiled through obvious lies.
I'd watched executives explain away misconduct because acknowledging it would be expensive.
And now my father was being asked to investigate his own company.
I took a breath.
"Promise me something."
Dad nodded.
"Anything."
"Don't protect me from the truth either."
His expression softened.
"What do you mean?"
"If something in my application was wrong, tell me. If my designs weren't good enough, tell me. I don't want special treatment."
Dad smiled sadly.
"Nia, you deserve a fair process."
I nodded.
"That's all I want."
The next morning, I visited my old design instructor, Samuel Reed.
He taught jewelry design at a small arts college outside Atlanta.
He'd encouraged me when I first began sketching.
When I told him what happened, he looked devastated.
"Nia, I remember Midnight Promise."
My throat tightened.
"You do?"
He laughed softly.
"Of course. You spent three months trying to get those tiny stars balanced."
I smiled through my tears.
"They weren't supposed to be balanced."
He nodded.
"Exactly."
I showed him photographs from the boutique.
His expression changed.
"That's your design."
I swallowed.
"Can you help me prove it?"
He nodded immediately.
"I still have your original evaluation files."
My heart pounded.
"Really?"
"Yes."
He opened his computer.
Then located a folder from three years earlier.
There were sketches.
Instructor feedback.
Photographs of the original wax model.
And a dated presentation recording.
I covered my mouth.
In the video, I stood beside a projector explaining the pendant.
My hair was shorter.
My voice sounded nervous.
But the design was unmistakable.
Samuel looked at me.
"Your work has a history, Nia."
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"And nobody gets to erase that."
I hugged him.
For the first time since the boutique incident, I felt hopeful.
That afternoon, I brought the records to Rachel.
She reviewed everything carefully.
Then she smiled.
"These are useful contemporaneous records."
I exhaled.
Dad sat beside me.
He looked proud.
But the investigation uncovered more problems.
The internal audit identified several designer submissions that had been forwarded to Whitmore Creative Holdings.
Some belonged to small independent creators.
Others came from students.
Several had been rejected by Sterling Diamonds shortly before similar designs appeared in company development folders.
Rachel explained that similarity alone didn't prove theft.
But the access records, file histories, and licensing documents required examination.
I listened carefully.
Then asked, "Are there other designers who might have been hurt?"
She nodded.
"Possibly."
My stomach tightened.
For a moment, I imagined all the people who'd worked for years developing their ideas.
People without wealthy parents.
People who couldn't afford attorneys.
People who might have simply accepted a rejection and moved on.
I felt angry.
Not because Diane had embarrassed me.
Because she might have built a business by taking opportunities from people who had no way to fight back.
Dad looked toward Rachel.
"How many applications are involved?"
She opened a spreadsheet.
"At least twelve require closer review."
I stared at the screen.
Twelve.
Rachel continued.
"We haven't established wrongdoing in every case."
I nodded.
"But there may be a pattern."
She agreed.
Then Dad asked about Marcus Reed, the security guard.
Calvin had submitted a written statement.
Marcus claimed he'd followed management instructions.
He admitted he had no evidence that I posed a security risk.
He also acknowledged that other walk-in customers had been allowed to enter without appointments.
My stomach tightened.
I remembered his arm blocking my path.
The way he looked at my handbag.
The embarrassment.
The customers staring.
I asked quietly, "Did he know Diane had placed my name on the restricted list?"
Rachel nodded.
"He says he was told to deny you entry."
I looked at Dad.
His face was grim.
Then Rachel added something unexpected.
"Marcus also provided a message from Diane."
I leaned forward.
"What message?"
Rachel read it aloud.
"If the Bennett girl appears, make sure she doesn't reach the display area."
My heart stopped.
I looked at my father.
He stared at the document.
Then whispered, "She knew exactly who you were."
I felt sick.
Diane hadn't mistaken me for someone who couldn't afford jewelry.
She had recognized my name.
She'd known about my portfolio.
And she'd tried to stop me from seeing the collection containing my designs.
Then Rachel continued reading.
A second message appeared beneath the first.
"Do not allow her to speak with Elise."
I stared at the screen.
Suddenly, the humiliation made terrible sense.
May you like
It hadn't been random.
It had been planned.
