Chapter 5 - Sabotage in Silver
Tuesday morning arrived with a crisp autumn breeze and the electric pressure of a make-or-break industry showcase.
By 1:00 PM, the private viewing suite on the top floor of the Ainslie House building had been transformed into an elite salon. White orchids filled glass vases, soft ambient piano music played through hidden speakers, and three senior buyers from Bergdorf Goodman sat on velvet couches alongside Catherine Mercer.
I stood behind the heavy black velvet curtain in the dressing wing, double-checking the final fittings on our five runway models.
“Look three is ready,” Elena reported, making a minor adjustment to a zipper. “The silk on look seven is steamed and perfect. Claire, this collection is breathtaking. You’ve outdone yourself.”
I smiled, feeling a rare moment of pure, unadulterated pride. The Celestial collection was my proudest work: fluid silks, structural coats, and subtle hand-beaded star patterns that caught the light like morning frost.
At 1:45 PM, fifteen minutes before the show was scheduled to begin, Catherine stepped behind the curtain, her face glowing.
“They’re thrilled already,” Catherine whispered to me. “The head buyer brought the editorial director from Vogue with her as a surprise guest. Claire, if this presentation goes the way I think it will, we’re going to expand your floor budget by fifty percent next quarter.”
“Thank you, Catherine,” I breathed, my heart pounding with excitement. “We won't let you down.”
Catherine returned to the salon. I turned to look at our centerpiece gown—the finale dress worn by our lead model, Ananya.
It was an off-the-shoulder gown made of rare, ivory liquid silk, with thousands of microscopic crystal beads woven into the train. It was meant to look like moonlight drifting across water.
I walked over to the rolling garment rack where the gown had been sealed in a protective garment bag since yesterday evening.
I pulled down the zipper.
My heart didn't just stop—it felt like it was violently ripped out of my chest.
A thick, dark, oily stain spilled across the entire front bodice of the ivory gown. The chemical smell of industrial machine grease hit my nose instantly, sharp and nauseating. The silk was completely ruined, the pristine ivory fibers destroyed beyond any possibility of cleaning.
Elena let out a horrified shriek behind me, clutching her mouth. “Oh my God! Claire... what happened to the centerpiece?!”
The entire dressing wing went deathly silent. The models turned, their eyes wide with horror.
I dropped to my knees, my hands trembling as I lifted the ruined fabric. Beneath the garment bag on the floor lay a small, crumpled receipt that must have slipped out of someone’s pocket when they unzipped the bag.
I picked up the scrap of paper with shaking fingers.
It was a visitor’s pass badge from the front desk building log, timestamped from yesterday afternoon at 4:15 PM—right after Caroline had stormed out of my studio.
The name printed on the pass was Caroline Sterling.
She hadn't left the building after leaving my floor. She had used her VIP guest access to slip into the holding dressing rooms while my team was taking their afternoon break in the cafeteria.
“Claire...” Elena was crying now, tears streaming down her face. “The buyers are outside! The show starts in ten minutes! We don't have a finale look!”
I stared at the ruined silk, my vision swimming with heat and shock. My mind screamed at me to collapse, to cry, to give up. Four years of hard work, my reputation, my team’s future—all hanging by a thread because of a bitter woman’s jealous rage.
Then, I looked down at my own hands.
The small, tiny faint scar on my thumb from my grandmother’s needle when I was seven years old.
I stood up slowly. The trembling in my hands vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp, terrifying focus.
“Elena,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into pure iron authority. “Get me the shears, the leftover dusty-rose silk from my kitchen cutting table in my office locker, and every box of silver seed beads we have in stock.”
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“Claire... what are you going to do?” Elena gasped.
“I’m going to build a finale dress,” I said. “And I’m going to do it in eight minutes.”
