HEART CONTRACT

“John, please tell me you didn’t do it.” That was the first thing that spilled out of my mouth that morning before the coffee, before my mascara, before the world remembered my name on another glossy magazine cover. My voice trembled, barely louder than a whisper, but heavy enough to hang in the air between us. John didn’t answer immediately. He just stood by the kitchen counter, staring at the marble like it might swallow him whole. His shoulders were slouched, his jaw tight, and his eyes dull with exhaustion. “I didn’t,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I swear, Chanel. I didn’t touch a dime from that account.” My chest constricted. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of my Manhattan apartment, flooding the room with gold. But everything inside me felt cold. The news alert had hit my phone barely fifteen minutes ago: ‘Top Financial Analyst, John Collins, Under Investigation for Embezzlement.’ John Collins, my brother, my only family, my anchor in a world that constantly measured worth in headlines and net worth. I moved closer to him, barefoot on the marble floor. “Then why are they saying you did? Why would your company” “They’re trying to make me the scapegoat,” he cut in, voice sharper now. “Someone has to take the fall, and I’m the easiest target.” I pressed my lips together, forcing back a wave of anger. My brother wasn’t perfect, but he was dishonest. Never, I’d built my career on instincts, knowing when someone was lying, when a model’s smile was fake, and when a deal reeked of manipulation. And right now, I could feel the truth radiating from him like heat. He was scared, not guilty. The espresso machine beeped behind me, breaking the silence. I turned, poured the shot into my cup, and stared at the swirl of dark liquid like it might offer answers. “You’ll fix this,” I said, though the words trembled as I spoke to them. “We’ll fix this.” He nodded, but there was a hollow look in his eyes that made my heart twist. By nine a.m., I was at my studio, House of Chanel Collins. It wasn’t the global brand my name might have suggested, but it was mine. A modern boutique tucked in SoHo, walls lined with sketches, fabrics, and mannequins that wore my dreams like armor. As I walked in, the scent of fresh linen and faint perfume filled the air. My assistant, Maya, hurried to me, tablet in hand and concern in her eyes. “Morning, Chanel. The Vogue team confirmed your interview for next week. "And, um..." she hesitated before continuing, "I saw the news about your brother." Are you okay?” I forced a small smile, the kind that belonged to the version of me the world adored. “I’m fine. Let’s just keep moving today.” She nodded, though I could see her doubt. People often mistook calm for strength. The studio buzzed with life: models slipping into gowns, photographers adjusting lights, and fabric swishing as designers moved from one piece to another. I thrived in chaos. It was where beauty lived, hidden between frantic breaths and unspoken pressure. I walked to the center table, where a new collection awaited my review. Layers of silk, sequins, and handwoven lace perfection in fragments. I picked up a sketch, one I’d worked on late last night, before the world shattered with that headline. It was a long, ivory gown, soft yet fierce. I called it The Rebirth. Now, looking at it, the irony stung. “Chanel?” a voice called from behind me. It was Marcus, my PR manager, in a sleek suit, with perfect hair, and with the kind of charm that could sell ice to the Arctic. “We’ve got a problem.” “Let me guess,” I said, not looking up. “The press wants a statement.” “They’re circling already. TMZ, The Times, even Page Six. Some of them are hinting that you might have… benefited from your brother’s supposed transfers.” My pen froze mid-air. “What?” “It’s the narrative they’re spinning,” Marcus continued carefully. “Maybe your brand expansion last year was tied to that.” “Don’t finish that sentence.” He didn’t. The room seemed to shrink around me, the hum of voices fading into static. I looked out the tall windows toward the street. New York was alive as ever, indifferent to my chaos. People walked, cars honked, and dreams collided. I’d spent years building my name from nothing, scraping through rejection, surviving heartbreak, and learning how to smile while the world picked me apart. Now, my brother's scandal was entangling everything I'd built. “I need to talk to my lawyer,” I said finally. “And John. Again.” Marcus nodded, but his eyes lingered, worried. “Are you sure you are, okay?” “I will be,” I lied. By afternoon, the studio was quieter. Most of the team had left for a late lunch, leaving behind only the sound of sewing machines and the faint hum of the air conditioner. I sat alone by the window, scrolling through my phone. Another notification. Another headline. Another stab. ‘Fashion Mogul’s Empire Tied to Family Fraud.’ I dropped the phone on the table and pressed my palms against my eyes. The heat of shame and fury burned beneath my skin. The door creaked open. I didn’t need to look up to know it was John. I could feel his energy heavy and restless. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said quietly. “Reporters could follow you.” “I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice cracked. “They’ve suspended me, Chanel. Effective immediately. They’re freezing my accounts too.” I looked up at him, the same brother who once stayed up all night helping me sew my first runway dress from thrift store fabric. The same brother who’d sold his old car to fund my first boutique. And now… they were destroying him. I rose slowly, walked over, and hugged him. He was trembling. I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him. “I’ll fight the battle with you,” I said into his shoulder. “We’ll clear your name.” He pulled back, eyes glassy. “There’s something else. Someone called me this morning. Said they could help make the charges disappear but only if I keep quiet.” I froze. “Keep quiet about what?” He hesitated. His gaze darted towards the window, then back to me. “About who really took the money.” The words sliced through the air like glass. “Who?” I asked, my voice barely audible. He swallowed hard. “It’s… someone high up, Chanel. Someone powerful. If I speak, they’ll destroy us both.” For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe. The city outside blurred, my thoughts spinning like torn silk in the wind. “John,” I whispered, “tell me their name.” He opened his mouth, and the door burst open. Marcus stood there, face pale, phone in hand. “Chanel… you need to see this.” He handed me the phone. My heart pounded as I stared at the live news feed. ‘Breaking News: Authorities Issue Arrest Warrant for John Collins, Financial Analyst at Blackwell Enterprises.’ Blackwell Enterprises? I looked up, every thought scattering like shattered glass. “Wait… did you say Blackwell?” Marcus nodded slowly, confusion on his face. But all I could hear was the rush of my heartbeat, the echo of a name I hadn’t heard in years: Jackie Blackwell. The man who broke my heart. The man who now owned the company destroyed my brother. And just like that, my world tilted.