Three Votes, I Walked Out

Chapter 4 The Studio

My studio was on the fourth floor of an old textile building near the river, and it was the only place in my life where votes did not exist. I paid the rent myself. I set my own hours. I chose my own clients. It was small, just two rooms and a bathroom, but it was mine.

I went there after Nina's and locked the door and sat at my drafting table and did not cry. I was past crying. I was in the place beyond crying, the place where your chest is hollow and your hands are steady and your mind is clear.

I pulled out the sketch of the dress and spread it on the table.

I had designed it for my wedding. But I had also designed it for myself. The lines were clean. The silhouette was strong. The structure was built for a body that moved, that worked, that did not need to be hidden. I had made it because I wanted to feel like myself on the most formal day of my life. And they had taken it and put it on Linda and told me it was a compliment.

I took out my phone and opened my contacts and scrolled until I found the name I had not called in three years.

June.

June had been my mentor in design school. She had taught the advanced couture course, the one that only twelve students got into, and she had told me on the first day that the industry would try to make me small. She had said it was not personal. It was just business. And she had said if I wanted to survive, I needed to learn the difference between what I made and who I was.

I had not understood her then. I understood her now.

I called her.

She answered on the second ring. "Well. Look who finally remembered I exist."

"I need help."

A pause. "What kind?"

"Legal. Financial. I think I'm being taken advantage of, and I don't know how to prove it."

Another pause. "Come to the studio. Bring everything you have."

I packed my laptop, the registry spreadsheet, the sketch, the text messages from Meredith, and the invitation, and I drove across town to June's studio, which was three times the size of mine and full of half-finished gowns in every color.

She was seventy-two years old, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and wearing a black turtleneck that made her look like she had stepped out of a documentary about artists who did not care what anyone thought.

"Tell me everything," she said.

And I did.

June listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a long time. Then she got up and poured two glasses of whiskey and set one in front of me.

"Here's what I see," she said. "You're not just being taken advantage of. You're being erased."

I looked at her.

"The dress. The wedding. The registry. The guest list. These are not separate problems. They're all the same problem. They have built a system where you are a participant but not a decision-maker. And you have agreed to it. That's the part that stings, isn't it? You agreed."

I picked up the whiskey and took a drink. "I thought it was compromise."

"It's not compromise. Compromise is when both people give something up. What you've been doing is surrender. You've been surrendering your decisions to a vote that was rigged from the start." She sat back. "Two out of three. It's a majority, but it's not a democracy. It's a coalition. And you're not in it."

"What do I do?"

"You do what designers do. You start over from the muslin." She pointed at the sketch. "This dress. You designed it. Did you ever make it for yourself?"

"No. The fitting was the first time it existed in fabric."

"Then make it. Not for a wedding. For you. And in the meantime, you find out what the money is for, and you decide whether you want to be part of a family that operates like this."

"It's Cole's family."

"It's your life." She finished her whiskey. "You can love someone and still not sign a contract with them. That's the thing they don't teach you."

I looked at the sketch. The clean lines. The strong structure.

"Where do I start?" I asked.

"With the lawyer," June said. "The one on the invitation. Call him. Ask him what the trust is for."

I did not call Evan Cortland that night. I went home and slept in the guest room and locked the door, and in the morning, I called.

Evan Cortland's office was in a building downtown, glass and steel and a security desk that asked for my ID twice. He was in his late fifties, gray at the temples, with the kind of careful, neutral expression that lawyers practice in the mirror.

"Ms. Barrett," he said, standing to shake my hand. "You're Cole's fiancée."

"I am."

He gestured to a chair. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a question about the Hollis Family Trust."

His expression did not change, but his pen stopped moving. "The trust is a private matter."

"I'm on the wedding registry. The one that collects gifts for the trust. I want to know what the money is for."

He set down his pen. "Where did you see the registry?"

"It was a shared document. I had access to it."

"Did you download it?"

"I have a copy."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he folded his hands on the desk. "Ms. Barrett, I'm going to give you some advice. The Hollis family is a client. Their arrangements are confidential. If you have questions about the wedding, I suggest you ask Cole."

"I'm asking you."

He looked at me for a long time. Then he said, "The money is for the foundation."

"What foundation?"

"The Hollis Family Foundation. It funds a number of initiatives. Education. Conservation. The arts."

"And the wedding gifts?"

"The registry is a way for family friends to contribute. It's not unusual for a family with a foundation to route gifts through it. It's a tax structure."

"A tax structure for a wedding."

His mouth tightened. "I'm not going to discuss this further. If you want to know more, ask your fiancé."

I stood up. "One more question."

He waited.

"Does the foundation fund Linda's brand?"

His face did not move. But his eyes did. Just for a second. And that was enough.

"Goodbye, Ms. Barrett," he said.

I walked out.