Chapter 3 - THE NAME THEY TRIED TO ERASE
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
Leah could tell because she could see the reflection of the bus shelter behind Daniel Ellis.
Someone had been watching them.
Someone close enough to photograph their faces.
She immediately called the number.
It rang once.
Then disconnected.
She tried again.
The number was no longer in service.
For a moment, Leah considered getting off the bus and finding a police officer.
But what would she say?
Someone had sent her a threatening message from an untraceable number.
She had no idea who.
And Victor Hale had already threatened to accuse her of theft.
If the police contacted him, he would undoubtedly tell them she was a disgruntled employee trying to get revenge.
Leah put her phone away.
She was tired of being afraid.
Still, when she reached her apartment building in Rogers Park, she checked the sidewalk twice before unlocking the entrance.
Her apartment was on the third floor of an aging brick building with unreliable heat and windows that rattled whenever the wind picked up.
Inside, everything looked exactly as she had left it.
A chipped kitchen table.
Two mismatched chairs.
A sewing machine her mother had bought secondhand seventeen years earlier.
And, on the wall above it, a framed photograph of Rose Mercer standing beside a young Leah at a school Halloween party.
Rose had dressed her daughter as a butterfly.
The wings were made from leftover silk and wire hangers.
Leah touched the frame.
“What did you get yourself into, Mom?”
Her phone rang again.
This time, the caller was Marisol Vega.
Marisol worked in Hale Atelier's stockroom.
She was forty-one, sharp-tongued, practical, and one of the few people who had always treated Leah like a real person.
“I heard what happened,” Marisol said.
Leah sat down.
“Victor fired me.”
“I know. He's telling everyone you damaged Mrs. Ellis's dress on purpose.”
Leah closed her eyes.
“Of course he is.”
“That's not the worst part.”
“What else?”
“He's telling the staff you were caught taking confidential designs.”
Leah sat upright.
“Those were my designs.”
“I know.”
“No, Marisol. He stole them from me.”
“I know that too.”
Something in Marisol's voice made Leah hesitate.
“How?”
A pause.
“Because last month, Victor asked me to move twelve folders from his office to the locked sample room.”
Leah's pulse quickened.
“What folders?”
“They had your name on them.”
Leah stood.
“Are you sure?”
“Leah, I read the labels myself.”
“Then you can prove—”
“No.”
Marisol lowered her voice.
“Listen carefully. Victor had the names removed the following morning. He told me to shred the original labels.”
“Did you?”
“Not all of them.”
Leah gripped the phone.
“Marisol?”
“I kept one.”
For the first time that evening, hope broke through the exhaustion.
“Can you send me a picture?”
“I already did.”
A notification appeared.
Leah opened it.
The photograph showed a manila folder.
Written in black marker were the words:
LEAH MERCER — ORIGINAL SUBMISSIONS — BUTTERFLY COLLECTION
Below that was a date.
Five months earlier.
Leah stared at the image.
It was proof her work had entered the boutique before Victor claimed it as his own.
Not enough to win a lawsuit by itself.
But enough to start asking questions.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don't thank me yet,” Marisol replied. “There's something else.”
“What?”
“Victor wasn't working alone.”
Across Chicago, Daniel Ellis stood in his late father's study.
The mansion in Lincoln Park had belonged to the Ellis family for nearly forty years.
Its shelves held business awards, photographs, antique books, and carefully preserved reminders of the family's wealth.
Daniel had never liked the room.
His father had loved it.
Philip Ellis had been a brilliant businessman and a distant parent.
After Charlotte died, he poured his energy into expanding the family companies, while Eleanor spent years trying to preserve the parts of their home that still felt alive.
Tonight, she stood beside the fireplace holding a blue velvet jacket.
Daniel recognized it immediately.
“Charlotte's?”
Eleanor nodded.
“I kept it.”
He moved closer.
The fabric had faded slightly.
But the butterfly inside the pocket remained perfect.
Daniel touched the embroidery.
“Rose made this for her.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me she was the woman Father accused?”
Eleanor lowered her eyes.
“Because I was ashamed.”
Daniel looked at her.
“Of what?”
“Of believing him.”
He waited.
Eleanor sat in Philip's old leather chair.
“Your father invested in Hale House because Arnold Hale convinced him he could build a luxury fashion company around independent American designers.”
“Victor's father.”
“Yes.”
Daniel remembered Arnold.
A polished, silver-haired businessman who smiled without warmth and always wore expensive watches.
“He's still on the children's hospital foundation board,” Daniel said.
“I know.”
Eleanor rubbed her hands together.
“Rose worked for Hale House as a freelance designer. She was supposed to become creative director after her first collection launched.”
“What happened?”
“Arnold claimed the sketches belonged to another designer. He accused Rose of copying confidential work.”
“Was there evidence?”
“Apparently.”
“Apparently?”
Eleanor looked up.
“I never saw the originals.”
Daniel stared at her.
“Then why did you believe him?”
“Because your father said he had reviewed everything.”
The room fell silent.
Finally, Eleanor reached into a drawer.
She removed a thick envelope with Philip's handwriting.
“I found this while sorting his papers.”
Daniel opened it.
Inside were old company documents.
An investment agreement.
A list of shareholders.
Several letters from Arnold Hale.
And a sworn declaration signed by Philip Ellis.
Daniel read the first paragraph.
Then the second.
His face hardened.
The document claimed Philip had personally reviewed evidence showing Rose Mercer copied designs from proprietary company archives.
It also said she had refused an opportunity to correct her conduct.
At the bottom was his father's signature.
Daniel looked up.
“This is what destroyed her reputation.”
Eleanor nodded.
“The accusation appeared in newspapers. Designers stopped hiring her. She couldn't afford a legal fight.”
Daniel remembered Leah's expression at the bus stop.
She died believing the world thought she was a thief.
He looked back at the document.
Something bothered him.
The declaration referred to twelve original designs.
He counted the photographs attached.
Eleven.
One was missing.
“Mother, where's the twelfth?”
“I don't know.”
Daniel examined the document again.
Near the bottom of the final page was a handwritten notation.
ARCHIVE TRANSFER — WAREHOUSE B — UNIT 17
He went still.
The same warehouse named in Rose's letter, although he didn't yet know Leah possessed it.
“Mother, what was Warehouse B?”
Eleanor's expression changed.
“It was where Hale House stored its original patterns and fabric samples.”
“Does the building still exist?”
“I believe so.”
Daniel picked up his phone.
Before he could make a call, Eleanor said, “Daniel, there was a fire there.”
He stopped.
“When?”
“Eighteen years ago.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“A seamstress died.”
The next morning, Leah entered Katherine Price's office at nine sharp.
She wore her cleanest blouse, inexpensive black slacks, and shoes whose heels she had repaired herself.
Daniel was not there.
That helped.
Katherine was a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and a reputation for refusing to be intimidated by wealthy men.
She greeted Leah with coffee.
“Daniel told me very little,” Katherine said. “Only that you may have been fired after repairing a garment and that you believe your designs were taken without permission.”
Leah hesitated.
“Is he paying you?”
“He offered. But I haven't accepted payment for representing you.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to meet you first and make sure you understood that if I become your lawyer, I work for you. Not Daniel.”
Leah felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.
She opened her mother's sketchbook.
Then she placed her phone on the table.
For nearly an hour, Katherine reviewed photographs, submission emails, dated sketches, and Victor's messages promising her a position.
The attorney's expression grew increasingly serious.
“These records matter,” she said. “They don't automatically establish ownership of every finished garment. Fashion law can be complicated. But they can help establish authorship of your illustrations and support claims about how these submissions were obtained and used.”
Leah leaned forward.
“Can we stop him?”
“Possibly. First we preserve every original file and confirm the contest's written terms.”
Katherine examined a photograph of Leah's sketch.
A deep-blue evening gown with hand-embroidered butterflies climbing one sleeve.
“Did your mother teach you this technique?”
“Yes.”
“It's beautiful.”
Leah's throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
Katherine turned another page.
Her expression changed.
“Leah, where did you get this design?”
“That's one of my mother's original sketches.”
“When was it drawn?”
“Years ago.”
“May I photograph it?”
“Why?”
Katherine turned her laptop toward Leah.
On the screen was a promotional advertisement for Victor Hale's upcoming collection.
A model stood in a midnight-blue gown.
Butterflies climbed one sleeve.
The neckline, waist, and distinctive folded shoulder matched Rose's drawing almost exactly.
Leah stared.
“No.”
She stood abruptly.
“No, that can't be right.”
Katherine opened the advertisement's description.
THE HALE LEGACY COLLECTION
DESIGNED BY VICTOR HALE
EXCLUSIVE PREMIERE AT THE ST. CATHERINE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL ANNIVERSARY BENEFIT
Leah's voice came out barely above a whisper.
“He stole from my mother too.”
Katherine looked at the sketchbook.
“Leah, this changes the scope of what we're investigating.”
Leah sat down again.
All those years, she had believed Victor simply disliked her.
Now she wondered whether he had recognized her surname from the beginning.
Whether the endless cleaning shifts, the promises, and the apprenticeship contest had been something more deliberate.
Katherine's phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
“Excuse me. It's Daniel.”
Leah watched as the attorney answered.
“Katherine Price.”
She listened.
Her expression became grave.
“Are you certain?”
A pause.
“When was the report filed?”
Another pause.
“No. Don't contact the manager. I'll handle this.”
She disconnected.
Leah's stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
Katherine looked directly at her.
“Victor Hale has reported a missing antique sapphire brooch valued at eighty-five thousand dollars.”
Leah stared.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“He claims it disappeared during your shift.”
Leah shook her head.
“I never touched any jewelry.”
“There's more.”
Katherine took a careful breath.
“Victor says the boutique has security footage showing you placing a small object inside your sewing bag.”
Leah felt the blood drain from her face.
“That was my mother's thimble.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why would he—”
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Victor appeared.
YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN YOUR FINAL PAYCHECK AND KEPT QUIET.
Then another.
CHECK YOUR SEWING BAG, LEAH.
Leah slowly turned toward the battered tool roll on Katherine's desk.
She remembered something.
When Victor had dismissed her, he'd picked up her bag from the sewing table before handing it back.
For several seconds, it had been out of her sight.
Katherine noticed her expression.
“Leah?”
With trembling fingers, Leah unfastened the roll.
She lifted the thread packets.
The scissors.
Her mother's silver thimble.
Then she reached into the narrow pocket beneath the lining.
Something cold touched her fingertips.
She pulled it out.
A large sapphire surrounded by antique diamonds glittered in her palm.
Leah couldn't breathe.
Katherine stood immediately.
“Don't touch it any further.”
But Leah was staring at the brooch.
Because attached to its clasp was a tiny piece of folded paper.
May you like
And written on that paper were five words.
SIGN THE CONTRACT OR ELSE.
