Chapter 4 - The Showroom Ambush
By Monday afternoon, the Ainslie House design studio was an organized battlefield of silk, organza, pins, and steam.
Mannequins lined the exposed-brick walls, draped in fluid, dark navy silks and silver embroidery that caught the bright overhead lights. My team of six pattern cutters and seamstresses worked in near-perfect harmony, their scissors slicing through expensive fabrics with practiced, rhythmic precision.
I was standing over a large wooden cutting table, pin cushion strapped to my wrist, adjusting the drape of a backless silk gown, when the heavy glass doors at the front of the studio clicked open.
I didn't look up immediately. “Elena, pass me the three-millimeter silver seed beads, please.”
“I don't have seed beads, Claire,” a tight, familiar voice said from the doorway.
I froze, then slowly raised my head.
Caroline stood in the center of our private workroom. She was wearing an oversized beige trench coat, dark designer sunglasses indoors, and held a quilted leather handbag like a shield across her waist.
My assistant, Elena, stood behind her, looking anxious. “Claire, I told her the workroom is restricted to staff only during collection prep, but she said she was family...”
“It’s alright, Elena,” I said quietly, setting my shears down on the table. “Give us five minutes, please.”
Elena nodded and ushered the rest of the sewing team toward the breakroom, closing the glass partition behind them.
I leaned against the cutting table, wiping my hands on my canvas work apron. “How did you get past front security, Caroline?”
Caroline pulled off her sunglasses, revealing heavy dark circles beneath her eyes. Her usual perfectly manicured demeanor was fraying at the edges.
“I told the front desk I was here for a VIP fitting appointment,” Caroline snapped, stepping closer to the mannequins. She looked around the cavernous, high-ceilinged loft with a mixture of bitter awe and jealousy. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
“I haven't been hiding,” I replied evenly. “I’ve been working. Why are you here?”
Caroline walked over to a mannequin wearing a midnight-blue velvet dress—a piece I had spent forty hours hand-draping. She reached out a hand, her sharp acrylic nail catching slightly on the delicate fringe.
“Don't touch the sample, Caroline,” I said, my tone sharpening instantly. “That fabric costs four hundred dollars a yard, and it’s being reviewed by buyers tomorrow.”
Caroline pulled her hand back as if burned, her jaw clenching. “You ruined my life on Saturday night, Claire. My phone hasn't stopped ringing. Cousin Marcus sent a group text to the entire family asking if I wanted him to get me a discount through my 'famous sister-in-law.' Everyone is laughing at me!”
“You humiliated yourself by acting like a snob,” I said bluntly. “I didn't ask Melissa to speak up. She’s an eight-year-old child who saw something she recognized.”
“You made me look like an idiot in front of Mom!” Caroline shouted, her voice echoing off the high brick walls. “Mom hasn't returned my calls since yesterday! She canceled our Sunday lunch! Do you have any idea what you’ve done to my standing in this family?!”
I looked at her, genuinely amazed by the sheer scale of her delusion.
“Your standing in this family?” I echoed quietly. “Caroline, for nine years, you treated me like a charity case. You made fun of my clothes, my shoes, my baby’s christening gown. I stayed quiet because I loved Mark and I respected Eleanor. But you didn't just insult me—you insulted my craft, my time, and the memory of my grandmother who taught me how to hold a needle.”
Caroline let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Oh, please! Spare me the tragic origin story! You’re just a seamstress who got lucky! You think because Catherine Mercer gave you a fancy title that you’re suddenly better than me?”
“I don't think I’m better than you, Caroline,” I said calmly, walking over to open the studio’s exit door. “I just know I earn my keep. Now, leave my studio. We have work to do.”
May you like
Caroline glared at me, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, petty rage. She stepped toward the exit, but right before she crossed the threshold, she turned back with a terrifyingly cold smile.
“Enjoy your little fashion show tomorrow, Claire,” she whispered softly. “Let’s see how long your fancy title lasts when real society decides they don't like who’s running the floor.”
