One-Night Stand with My Hot Neighbor

004: Vindicated

Sophia

"She did what?" Mia's voice carried across the bar, causing several people to turn and stare.

I hunched over the table, lowering my voice.

"She copied my designs, Mia. Almost exactly. And then had the audacity to present them as her own in front of Clara and the entire design team."

We were at our favorite wine bar in the West Village, tucked into a corner booth with exposed brick walls and dim lighting that made everything feel like a secret. I had barely made it through the door before venting out the entire Margaret situation.

"That absolute—" Mia cut herself off, taking a long sip of her wine.

"Okay. What did Clara say?"

"She wants to review all the evidence tomorrow. Margaret's bringing in her 'development work,' and I'm showing the prototype and my documentation." I pressed my fingers to my temples.

"But what if it's not enough? What if Clara thinks I'm just some paranoid newbie who can't handle competition?"

"Soph, breathe. You're spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling. I'm being realistic. Margaret's been there longer, she has relationships with people—"

"And you have the truth." Mia reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "Don't worry about this. You're going to be fine."

I stared at her. "Are you drunk already? We just got here."

"I'm not drunk!" She laughed, her eyes bright. "I'm serious. You're going to be fine because—wait." She fumbled for her phone, nearly knocking over her drink.

"Oh my God, I'm an i***t. I can't believe I didn't think of this immediately."

"Think of what?"

"This." She thrust her phone at me, opening our text thread. "Look."

I scrolled up, confused at first. Then I saw them—photos. Dozens of photos I'd sent her over the past month. My sketches laid out on my dining table. Close-ups of fabric swatches.

Me holding up the partially completed blazer, asking her opinion on the lapel. A blurry selfie of us at my apartment with my mood board visible in the background.

Each message was timestamped.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

"Right?" Mia was practically bouncing in her seat.

"You've been sending me updates this whole time! Every time you had a question about color or fit, every time you wanted a second opinion—it's all here. With dates and times."

I kept scrolling, my heart racing. There was a photo from three weeks ago of my original sketch, the one I'd shown Clara. Another from two weeks ago of me draping fabric on my dress form, testing the asymmetrical closure. Even a video from ten days ago where I'd asked Mia if the deconstructed lapel looked "too avant-garde."

"Mia, this is... this is perfect. This proves everything."

"I know!" She clinked her glass against mine.

"So stop worrying. You're going to walk in there tomorrow, show Clara our entire text history, and watch Margaret's fake-ass face when she realizes she's been caught."

I felt tears prick my eyes, but this time from relief and gratitude.

"Have I told you lately that you're the best friend in the entire world?"

"Yes, but I never get tired of hearing it." She grinned.

"Now drink up. We're celebrating your work showing up on the runway in advance."

***

The next morning, I walked into Clara's office with my prototype, my portfolio of sketches, my dated photos—and my entire text thread with Mia printed out and organized in a folder.

Clara spent forty minutes reviewing everything while I sat across from her, trying not to fidget.

Margaret had apparently already dropped off her materials earlier that morning, and they sat in a neat stack on the corner of Clara's desk.

Finally, Clara looked up. "The security footage was very illuminating."

My stomach clenched. "What did it show?"

"Margaret accessed the studio at eleven PM last Tuesday. She was here for approximately forty minutes." Clara's expression was carefully neutral.

"Your locked portfolio drawer showed signs of tampering. Nothing broken, but our security consultant confirmed someone attempted to pick the lock."

"She tried to break into my drawer?"

"It appears so. However, she wasn't successful—the lock held." Clara tapped her pen against the desk.

"Your documentation is extensive and clearly dated. The text messages to your friend are particularly compelling. Margaret's 'development work' consists of sketches that are suspiciously clean for being a month old, and her fabric samples don't match the wear pattern of someone who's been working with them for weeks."

I held my breath.

"The designs are yours, Sophia. Unequivocally." Clara's voice was firm.

"Margaret will be terminated effective immediately. We have a zero-tolerance policy for plagiarism and intellectual property theft."

The relief that flooded through me was so intense I felt lightheaded.

"Thank you. Thank you so much for taking this seriously."

"I should be thanking you for catching this before it became a larger problem." She stood, extending her hand.

"Your work is excellent, Sophia. Both pieces—the blazer and the dress—will be featured in the runway show. I'm putting you on the main lineup."

I shook her hand, trying to process what she'd just said. "The main lineup? Really?"

"Really. You've earned it." She smiled.

"Now get out of here and celebrate. You look like you need a drink."

***

"To Sophia Martinez, future fashion icon and Margaret-destroyer!" Mia raised her glass, her voice loud enough to make the bartender grin.

"Shh!" I laughed, but I was already three cocktails in and everything felt warm and wonderful.

"I can't believe it actually worked. I can't believe I'm in the main lineup!"

We'd started at the wine bar and somehow ended up at a cocktail lounge in Chelsea, where the drinks were strong and the music was loud.

I'd texted Mia the news the moment I left Clara's office, and she'd immediately declared it a "mandatory celebration."

"I told you not to worry," Mia said smugly, downing what I think was her fourth cosmopolitan.

"I'm always right. You should just trust me about everything."

"You're drunk."

"So are you!"

She was right. The room had a pleasant tilt to it, and I couldn't stop smiling. My designs were going to be on the runway. Margaret was gone. Everything was perfect.

"We should go home," I said eventually, though I made no move to stand up.

"Probably," Mia agreed, also not moving.

Somehow, we managed to pay the tab and stumble outside. The cool night air hit me like a wall, making me realize exactly how drunk I was. Mia looped her arm through mine as we walked toward the subway, both of us giggling over nothing.

"I'm so proud of you," she said, squeezing my arm. "You're amazing. You know that?"

"You're amazing," I countered. "You saved my entire career with your text messages."

"We're both amazing. We're an amazing team."

By the time we got back to my building, I was exhausted and still pleasantly buzzed. Mia had sobered up slightly on the train, enough to navigate us home without incident.

"You good to get upstairs?" she asked as we stood in the lobby.

"I'm fine," I assured her, though the elevator buttons looked a bit blurry.

"Text me when you get home."

"Will do. Love you, fashion superstar."

"Love you too."

The elevator ride up was longer than I remembered, or maybe time was just moving weird. When the doors opened on the fifteenth floor, I stepped out carefully, concentrating hard on walking in a straight line.

Except the hallway looked wrong.

I squinted at the door numbers. 15A... 15A... wait, no. 15B... 15B.