Chapter 6

I moved my things to the guest room the next morning. It is at the end of the hall, small but bright with a window that looks out at the garden. I take two trips to carry my clothes and books. Leander watches from the kitchen counter, coffee cup in his hand. He does not try to stop me.

I will make a rule for myself, I will not talk to him unless it's important. No more asking about his whereabouts.

When I woke up, I made a breakfast and cereal for breakfast so by the time he gets up, I am already in my studio at the back of the house.

This studio is small just small enough to move around. I am doing a lot of things for me to not think about the photos of Leander and Wren, or the letters she wrote to him.

Leander tried to talk to me on Tuesday morning. He knocks on the studio door and walks in with a folder in his hand.

"Quinn," he said. "I have notes from my meetings with Wren. They are all in here. It's company business – her family owns shares we didn't know about. We had to make sure the deal was fair for everyone."

I didn't look up from my work. I am sewing a button onto a sample dress when he speaks.

“Quinn,” he said “I have the notes from my meetings with Wren. Everything we talked about is in this folder – all company business. Her family has shares we didn’t know about, and we needed to make sure the deal was fair for everyone.”

I kept my eyes on the dress in front of me, pushing the needle through fabric.

“I don’t care about your meetings. So why are you sharing all of this to me?" I said while still working.

He sets the folder on my desk. “Please, just look at them. We spent weeks putting this together – for your family, for my family, for the firm.”

I glanced at the folder, then back at my work. The needle slips and pricks my thumb then a tiny drop of blood dots the white fabric. I wiped it on my jeans without looking at him.

“That’s not the point,” I said. “The point is you kept things from me, you didn’t tell me she was back, you didn’t tell me why you were meeting her. Those papers don’t fix that.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I know I messed up. I should have told you the second I saw her, I was scared you’d get the wrong idea, that you will think I still care about her more than you.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said whispering.

“I just want to do my work and make sure my mother’s legacy is safe. I don’t have room for secrets in my life.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” I say. “You married me to save my family’s firm, but you’ve kept secrets about your old girlfriend the whole time. Those papers we signed don’t mean a thing if we can’t trust each other.”

He stands still for a moment, then turns and walks out of the room. The door clicks shut behind him, and I stand there with my hands shaking. I go back to my desk and try to cut fabric, but the scissors slip and nick my finger. I wrap it in a cloth and keep working – anything to keep my mind busy.

Three days later, the spring design showcase fills the downtown convention center. It’s one of the biggest events our industry hosts each year, with buyers and journalists packed into the hall. My team has arranged my dresses on white mannequins, with small cards telling the story of each design.

When Leander takes the stage to speak, he talks about growth and new partnerships. He doesn’t mention our history, or my mother’s role as a founder. I feel my hands clench at my sides.

“Our success comes from everyone here,” he says, gesturing to the crowd. “From our designers to our interns – every person matters.”

I stand up from my seat in the back. “What about the people who built this company before you?” I call out. “My mother was a founder too – when will her name be on the door like yours?”

The room goes quiet. Leander looks at me, his face pale. “There’s more to this than you know,” he says, but his voice isn’t strong.

“I don’t want more secrets,” I say, walking to the front of the room. “I want honesty. For my mother, for my family, for everyone who works here. That’s the only way to build something real.”

After the showcase ends, Wren finds me by the window. “I was wrong about so many things,” she says. “But you’re right, we have to make things right for the people who came before us.”

I nod, then walk out to the park across the street. The sun is setting, painting the sky the same colors as my mother’s favorite dress. I sit on the bench where she and my father used to sit, and for the first time in months, I felt like maybe, just maybe – we can build something that lasts.