Mike
I didn’t want to be right.
When Eloise confided in me about Jennifer possibly copying her new designs, again, I told her I’d look into it just to calm her down. I figured maybe it was coincidence, maybe a stylist with a big mouth, or hell, maybe Jennifer was just that good at stealing from the past. But the way Eloise’s hands trembled the first time Jennifer stood her designs, the way her voice cracked when she said, “I just wanted to start fresh,” I knew I couldn’t write it off.
I made a few calls. Quiet ones. The kind that don’t leave digital footprints or blow back to Eloise. The atelier she was working with was a modest one located into a narrow building on Rue Saint-Honoré. It was a normal underground building, exactly the kind of place that made it easy for someone like Jenni
