Her Gift Was My Dress, My Gift Was His Downfall

Chapter 3 Clean Break

That night, I returned to the studio after everyone was supposed to have left. The fluorescent lights buzzed over the archive cabinets.

Five years of my work filled the leather portfolios: the Autumn Gala sketches that won Julian his first major award, the Monaco Resort boards that put him on the *Vogue* cover, and the original patterns for every Cross bestseller. I had cataloged each revision in my own hand because Julian never learned how to read the cutting notes.

Every page carried my pencil marks and his public credit.

I switched on the industrial shredder and fed in the first portfolio.

The machine cut the paper into narrow strips and dropped them into the steel bin. Several junior designers were still working on the Paris show and gathered at the doorway. They recognized the collections by the paper tabs. Those portfolios held the references Cross used whenever a new team needed to reproduce the house style, and everyone there understood what would be lost with them.

The door struck the wall. Julian came in with his tie loose and his face red.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I fed the last portfolio into the blades. The first sketches for the *Crown of Starlight* disappeared between the rollers.

He crossed the room and grabbed my arm. "Have you lost your mind, Sera? This is my life's work!"

"It was mine, Julian."

His grip loosened when he saw the junior designers watching. Anger gave way to the same tired patience he had used in the fitting room, as though I had made a mess and left him to clean it. He lowered his voice for the audience and tried to guide me away from the shredder.

"All right, that's enough. Stop this tantrum. It's been a long day."

He released me. "Go home, Sera. Get some sleep. We'll fix this in the morning."

The shredder finished chewing through the final sheet behind us.

"I'm serious! You need me. I gave you this brand, this name, everything. Without me, you're a girl who can sketch!"

He had repeated that version of our partnership for years. In public, he was the visionary and I was the shy fiancée who preferred the workroom. In private, he reminded me that his contacts sold the clothes. This time, I no longer had to pretend either story excused putting Chloe's name on my dress.

I pulled the engagement ring from my finger. Julian had called the five-carat diamond the symbol of our empire when he gave it to me, though he had chosen the stone with the Cross publicity director and announced the engagement before I told my family.

I dropped it into the bin full of shredded sketches.

The ring struck the metal bottom with a small click and vanished under the paper strips.

Julian stared into the bin. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I walked past him and out of the studio.

Outside, the street was empty and cold. The studio windows glowed above me, and the shredder could still be heard through the loading entrance. My ring finger carried a pale band where the diamond had sat for five years.

My phone buzzed before I reached the corner. I expected Julian's name.

The number belonged to Alexander Sterling, the only man in the industry Julian treated as a threat.

His message contained one question.

"Finally free, Miss Vance?"