You Took Credit? My Work’s None of Yours

Chapter 4

By the time I got to the studio, the battered umbrella had already been thrown in the bin.

The canopy was bunched up and damp, the broken rib jutting through the black fabric like an ugly splinter.

Jade stood nearby, her eyes red. "Ellie, I'm so sorry. I didn't see it."

Damien was reviewing her revised line drawings. He looked up at the sound. "It's just an umbrella."

I crouched down and lifted it out of the bin. Coffee grounds from a discarded bag had smeared across the handle. I wiped it clean, bit by bit, with a piece of tissue.

Damien came over, frowning. "It's dirty. Just leave it."

I didn't look up. "You gave this to me."

He went quiet for a moment.

Jade quickly murmured, "Oh, Damien gave it to you? I really had no idea. Please don't be upset, Ellie. I'll buy you a new one."

I finally looked at her. "You couldn't afford to replace it."

Her tears fell fast. "Damien, I honestly didn't mean to." She turned to him.

He drew her behind him, his voice already cold. "Ellie, there's no need to be cruel."

I gripped the umbrella handle. "Then what would you like to hear?"

"An apology."

I thought I had misheard him.

"You want me to apologize to her?"

"She's already apologized to you. You're still going after her. That's not right."

I laughed — and kept laughing until the edge of a broken rib caught my finger and drew blood. I stopped. A bead of red fell onto the black canopy and disappeared into the dark fabric.

Damien saw it. A crease formed between his brows, and he reached for my hand on instinct.

I stepped back.

His hand hung in the air between us. The silence that followed was too complete.

Then Jade pressed a hand to her chest. "Damien, I can't seem to catch my breath."

Damien turned immediately and steadied her. His hold was sure and practiced, and watching it, I remembered with sudden clarity how he had held me the same way years ago, while I shook in the rain.

The tenderness had always been real. It had simply found a new direction.

Half an hour later, an impromptu meeting with the label.

Jade had taken the structural elements from my mother's sketchbook and rebuilt them into the main visual for a new series. She stood at the screen, her voice soft. "The inspiration came from a rainstorm I witnessed as a child. I wanted to express how women grow through adversity."

I sat below, a piece of tissue pressed to the cut on my palm, the pain a low, persistent throb.

Damien listened, then nodded. "Good work."

The label was pleased as well. "This version has a real narrative quality. It feels younger than before."

"That isn't her inspiration," I said.

The room went still.

Jade's face drained of color. "Ellie?"

I looked at Damien. "That sketch is my mother's work. She drew it twenty years ago. It's part of her estate."

Something finally shifted in his expression. But only for a moment.

"Ellie," he said evenly, "let's finish the meeting first."

"You know whose sketchbook that is."

"I said, finish the meeting first."

Jade held her tears at the brim of her eyes. "Ellie, if you don't want me using it, I won't. But you can't accuse me of stealing."

"Then tell me," I said. "What does that Southfield dialect expression on that page mean?"

She had no answer.

Damien cut in. "Enough."

I looked at him. He looked away, turning to the label representatives. "The question of intellectual property ownership for this section will be handled by Whitmore Group."

Will be handled. Like dealing with a troublesome piece of old property.

After the meeting, he called me to the end of the corridor.

"Ellie, you were out of line today."

"She took something that belonged to my mother."

"She used it as a reference. That's not the same as stealing."

I held his gaze. "Have you lost all sense of right and wrong?"

He was quiet for a moment, then his voice dropped. "Jade's father's company is the key to our overseas distribution channels this round. She can't afford negative press right now."

And there it was. Not just favoritism. There were interests at stake.

"So my name, my drafts, my mother's things — all of that can just be given away?"

Damien raised a hand and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "You're making this sound far more serious than it is."

"Then what would be serious enough?"

He looked at me for a long moment. "We're pushing back the wedding."

My fingers went stiff.

He said it slowly, as though notifying someone of a project delay. "Once this round of collaboration wraps up, we'll talk about the ceremony."

I heard myself ask, "Why?"

He glanced toward the conference room. "Jade's in an emotionally fragile place right now. She's just starting to build her confidence. She can't take another blow."

I couldn't speak.

He added, almost as an afterthought, "Ellie, you've already waited five years. A few more months won't make a difference."

Won't make a difference. So those five years were nothing more than a blank space he could extend at will.

At that moment, Jade came out of the conference room with the sketchbook in her hands. Her foot caught on something and she stumbled, and the sketchbook dropped into the cleaning bucket beside her. Half a bucket of dirty water laced with paint soaked through the cover in an instant.

My mind went blank.

Damien caught Jade first.

"Damien, I didn't mean to," she sobbed.

I crouched down and fished the sketchbook out. The pages had absorbed the water, and my mother's handwriting was bleeding, spreading, disappearing stroke by stroke.

Damien stood behind me. His voice was quiet, but clear. "Ellie, stop pushing her."

I held what was left of the sketchbook in my hands. The pain had gone somewhere I couldn't find anymore.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A second notification from the notary's office:

[The original authorship evidence and audio recordings you submitted have been preserved.]

I turned the screen off, then reached up and dried the last of the water from the cover.