CHAPTER SEVEN
1106 Words
Monday morning arrived sooner than Anita expected.
After spending most of the night staring at the contract she had signed with the Smith Group, she was still in awe of everything that had happened.
Just two weeks ago, she had been running through hospital hallways, desperately trying to escape the man she had loved for ten years.
A man who had turned out to be her biggest mistake.
And now…
She stood before the headquarters of the Smith Group as one of its newest employees.
Life really did have a strange way of turning everything upside down.
Drawing in a deep breath, Anita stepped through the giant revolving doors.
The receptionist immediately looked up and greeted her with a professional smile.
“Good morning, Miss Wilson.”
“Good morning,” Anita replied softly.
She couldn’t help but wonder how the receptionist recognized her. She didn’t even have an employee ID yet.
“Please come with me. We’ll be heading to the Human Resources Department.”
Anita nodded and followed behind her.
A few minutes later, she found herself seated inside a spacious office as several neatly arranged documents were placed before her.
The HR manager smiled politely.
“These are your employment documents. Please read through them carefully before signing. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
Anita nodded and began flipping through the pages.
Everything looked ordinary until one clause caught her attention.
CONFIDENTIAL EMPLOYEE AGREEMENT
Her brows knitted together.
Confidential?
What’s going on here?
She looked up at the HR manager, who was calmly sipping his coffee while typing away on his laptop.
“I’m sorry… why do I need this?”
The man looked up and maintained his professional smile.
“Those are Mr. Smith’s instructions.”
Anita frowned.
“So… my identity has to be kept a secret?”
“For the time being, yes.”
He closed the file in front of him.
“Any further questions should be directed to Mr. Smith.”
Although confused, Anita signed the agreement anyway.
She wasn’t a celebrity.
Hardly anyone even knew her.
She wasn’t someone important either.
So why would a fashion company want to hide her identity?
The HR manager gathered the signed documents, stacked them neatly, then gestured for her to follow.
Anita expected to be taken to the design department.
Instead…
They walked right past it.
Through the transparent glass walls, she saw dozens of designers gathered around large tables covered with sketches, fabrics, and unfinished garments.
Several of them looked up as she walked by.
Soon, whispers followed.
“She looks new.”
“Is she the one Mr. Smith personally recruited?”
“I heard he hired someone himself.”
“Who is she?”
The HR manager never slowed his pace.
They continued walking before entering an elevator.
When the doors opened again, they stepped into the quietest corridor Anita had seen since entering the building.
Only one door stood at the very end.
A silver plaque hung neatly beside it.
STUDIO 7
The HR manager swiped a key card across the sensor before handing it to Anita.
“From today onward, this is your studio.”
He pushed the door open.
Anita stepped inside.
Her breath caught.
The room was breathtaking.
Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the entire studio in warm light.
Rows of luxurious fabrics lined one wall.
Another was filled with fashion books from every corner of the world.
There were mannequins, industrial sewing machines, digital sketching screens, cutting tables, and everything a designer could ever dream of.
She slowly turned in a circle.
“This…”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“…is mine?”
The HR manager smiled.
“Only you have access to this studio.”
He placed the key card in her hand.
Anita looked at him, puzzled.
“But… why am I not working with everyone else?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Miss Wilson.”
“The instructions came directly from Mr. Smith.”
Before Anita could ask another question, the man excused himself with a polite smile and quietly left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Anita slowly walked farther into the room, running her fingertips across the smooth wooden worktable.
Everything smelled new.
Everything…
Except one thing.
Tucked away in the far corner stood an old wooden cabinet.
It looked strangely out of place among the modern furniture.
Curiosity got the better of her.
She walked over and slowly pulled open the cabinet doors.
The moment they swung open…
Her heart nearly stopped.
Sketchbooks.
Hundreds of them.
Arranged neatly from top to bottom.
With trembling hands, Anita pulled one out.
The moment she opened it…
Her breathing hitched.
The sketch staring back at her looked painfully familiar.
She grabbed another.
And another.
Then another.
Within minutes, sketchbooks surrounded her.
Every single drawing…
Belonged to her.
Each page carried the small butterfly she had always signed in the bottom right corner.
Her personal signature.
The one no one knew about.
“…How?”
The word escaped her lips in a whisper.
The sound of the door opening broke the silence.
Anita turned sharply.
Mr. Smith walked into the studio, his calm expression unchanged.
The faint scent of sandalwood lingered around him.
He glanced at the open cabinet before meeting her eyes.
“How did you get these?”
She didn’t bother going around the question.
Mr. Smith looked at the sketches for a long moment.
Then he answered quietly,
“I’ve been collecting them for a very long time.”
Anita stared at him.
Confused.
“…Why?”
His gaze softened ever so slightly.
“Because I believe masterpieces deserve to be remembered…”
“…even if the world never sees the person behind them.”
Before Anita could ask another question, he turned toward the door.
Just before leaving, he stopped.
Without looking back, he said,
“No one outside this floor needs to know who you are.”
“Build your name first.”
“The world can meet Anita Wilson later.”
Then he walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.
Anita remained rooted to the spot.
Surrounded by pieces of herself she had long believed were lost.
She looked down at the sketch still clutched in her hands.
It was the ball gown she had designed for her high school prom.
In the bottom corner sat her little butterfly.
And beneath it…
A date.
Ten years ago.
Her fingers tightened around the page.
Questions raced through her mind.
Questions she had no answers to.
Just how long…
…had Mr. Smith been watching her?
- Writer
