Chapter 3 - THE DESIGN THAT BELONGED TO MY FATHER
“My father didn't sell Olivia anything.”
I said it so sharply that the nurse turned toward me.
Noah didn't argue.
Instead, he looked at Dad.
“Mr. Bennett, have you ever signed a design agreement with Hart Studio?”
Dad's breathing was still uneven.
“No.”
“Did Daniel bring you any paperwork about a hotel project?”
Dad frowned.
“Daniel borrowed some samples from my workshop.”
My stomach tightened.
“What samples?”
“Walnut panels. Three of them. He said he wanted to surprise you with an expansion of the studio.”
I felt cold.
I had spent almost twelve years designing custom interiors alongside my father.
Bennett Workshop wasn't a glamorous company.
We created cabinetry, carved doors, and specialty furniture for families who wanted something made to last.
Dad handled the wood.
I handled the drawings.
Together, we'd built a modest but respected business.
Daniel had always called it my little hobby.
Now somebody was using our work to win a major hotel contract.
“Dad,” I whispered, “when did Daniel borrow those panels?”
“Late April.”
Six months ago.
Around the time Daniel had suddenly become interested in renovating the Bellrose Hotel.
He'd claimed he was researching wedding venues.
I remembered how pleased I'd been that he was finally taking initiative.
The nurse interrupted.
“We need to get Mr. Bennett moving.”
Noah stepped back.
“Absolutely.”
Before they wheeled Dad away, he caught my hand.
“Claire, don't make any decisions about the workshop until we've talked.”
I kissed his forehead.
“Just get through surgery.”
He nodded.
Then they took him.
For the first time that morning, I felt genuinely afraid.
Not of losing Daniel.
Of losing my father before I could tell him that none of this was his fault.
At Silver Ridge Medical Center, my mother and I sat in the surgical waiting room.
My wedding dress looked absurd against the gray plastic chairs.
Rachel arrived with a change of clothes.
She'd also brought my bouquet.
“I didn't know what else to do with it,” she admitted.
I accepted the tulips.
“Thank you.”
Noah stood near the windows, speaking quietly with his company's operations director.
When he finished, I approached him.
“Tell me everything you know.”
He hesitated.
“Claire, your father is about to have surgery.”
“And somebody has stolen his work. Please.”
Noah took out his tablet.
“Walker Commercial Design is evaluating contractors for a major Bellrose renovation. The budget is just over three million dollars.”
“Olivia owns a design company?”
“Apparently. Hart Studio. She registered it eighteen months ago.”
I almost laughed.
Olivia had spent years telling me she was trying to figure out her career.
She'd worked in event planning, marketing, and occasionally luxury real estate.
She'd never mentioned running an interior design firm.
Noah showed me a rendering.
I recognized the walnut divider immediately.
The curved edges.
The narrow brass inlays.
And a small carved tulip hidden near the bottom.
It was Dad's signature.
But the drawing itself was mine.
I had created that divider two years earlier for a historic home in Henderson.
The client eventually canceled the renovation.
I'd kept the sketches.
In a locked cabinet at our workshop.
“Who approved this?” I asked.
“We haven't awarded the contract. The proposal is still under review.”
“Who submitted it?”
“Hart Studio, with Daniel listed as the commercial project manager.”
I stared at him.
“Daniel?”
Noah nodded.
“His name was buried in the supporting materials. I didn't realize he was involved until I checked this morning.”
“You didn't recognize the drawings?”
“I recognized the style. But I didn't know which of your projects they came from. I assumed the applicant had permission.”
My chest tightened.
There was no reason Noah should have known.
He'd seen dozens of proposals.
Besides, I'd never believed Daniel would steal from my father.
Why would Noah?
“Does Daniel know you're involved in evaluating it?”
“He knows I work for Walker. He doesn't know I'm helping oversee this specific review.”
That explained one thing.
Daniel's sudden hostility whenever Noah visited.
Maybe it hadn't been jealousy alone.
Maybe he'd been afraid of being discovered.
I sat down.
Then I remembered something.
Three weeks earlier, Daniel had asked me to photograph several old sketches for what he called our wedding memory album.
I'd handed him my phone.
He'd spent nearly an hour in my workshop.
I hadn't questioned him.
Seven years together had convinced me that trust meant never looking over his shoulder.
Now I wondered how much of my life I'd handed him simply because he asked.
At 12:26 p.m., the surgeon came into the waiting room.
Dad's operation had begun shortly before eleven.
The surgeon explained that Dad had required an additional procedure, but his condition was stable.
We wouldn't know more until later.
Mom finally exhaled.
I held her while she cried.
Then Daniel appeared.
Still wearing his wedding tuxedo.
He stopped when he saw Noah.
“Of course you're here.”
I stood.
“Not today, Daniel.”
“I came to see your father.”
“He's in surgery.”
Daniel looked at my mother.
“Ruth, I'm sorry about what happened.”
Mom regarded him coldly.
“Then you should have stayed beside my daughter.”
He flinched.
For one brief second, I saw the boy I'd fallen in love with.
Then his eyes moved to Noah's tablet.
His expression changed.
“What are you showing her?”
Noah locked the screen.
“Her own work.”
Daniel went still.
“Claire, I can explain.”
I stepped toward him.
“Then explain why Olivia's company is submitting my designs for the Bellrose renovation.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“It's complicated.”
“Did you take the drawings?”
“I borrowed some ideas. I was going to tell you after the wedding.”
“After?”
“Claire, the contract could be worth a fortune. We were building something for our future.”
I stared at him.
“Then why is Olivia's name on it?”
His silence answered more than he realized.
Finally, Daniel spoke.
“She needed a chance to prove herself.”
I actually laughed.
“You were willing to steal from my father to give Olivia a career?”
“That's not what happened.”
“Then what happened?”
Daniel looked toward the hospital doors.
For the first time, he seemed frightened.
“Your father signed off on the project.”
“No, he didn't.”
“Claire, you don't know everything.”
He reached into his jacket and removed a folded copy of a workshop authorization form.
Dad's signature appeared at the bottom.
The handwriting looked real.
Even the little upward stroke on the B.
I had watched my father sign thousands of papers.
My stomach dropped.
Then I noticed the date.
April 18.
Dad had spent that day at Silver Ridge undergoing cardiac testing.
I remembered because I'd taken him myself.
And on that very afternoon, he'd complained that Daniel had failed to meet us for lunch.
I looked up.
“Daniel, where did you get this signature?”
He said nothing.
Then I noticed something else.
The authorization carried a project title in the lower corner.
Not Bellrose Hotel.
Not Hart Studio.
It read:
BENNETT WORKSHOP — OWNERSHIP TRANSFER REVIEW.
And beneath it, someone had typed my name.
May you like
Not as the owner.
As the person surrendering her claim.
