Chapter 3: The Cold Betrayal

VIVIAN POV

The morning light did not feel like a new beginning; it felt like a cold, merciless spotlight.

I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I spent four hours sitting on the edge of my bathtub, shivering under a dry towel, watching the sky turn from deep indigo to a sickly, bruised gray. My eyes were raw, swollen shut from tears that had eventually burned out into a dull, hollow ache. My phone was dead—drowned in the alley puddle—and my body felt like a bruised shell held together by sheer, desperate denial.

A tiny, foolish part of my brain—the naive girl who still wanted to believe in people—kept telling me it was all a terrible dream. Maybe Zara was testing me. Maybe Leo would call my apartment landline and say he’s sorry, that it was a sick joke.

By eight in the morning, I was standing in the lobby of the House of Raymond.

The glass doors of the towering skyscraper sucked me in, the ambient warmth and faint scent of expensive white lilies washing over my damp coat. Surrounding me were people in crisp linen suits and sharp heels, holding six-dollar oat milk lattes, talking about quarterly projections and runway seatings. They moved through the grand marble atrium like polished clockwork.

I was a ghost walking among them. My hair was pulled back into a hasty, damp knot, my blouse was wrinkled from the storm, and my knuckles were still stained with faint traces of blue dye from yesterday's work.

I pressed my palm against my chest, feeling the hard, frantic rhythm of my heart. Just get to Studio 4B, I told myself, stepping into the glass elevator. The physical garments are still there. The rolling racks are locked. The physical samples, the stitching, the hand-dyed silk—she couldn't have moved twenty-five delicate gowns without the night guard seeing her. I still have the work.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open on the fourth floor.

The corporate design wing was quiet, the air humming with the soft murmur of early-bird associates and the steady click-clack of sewing machinery from the back rooms. I walked down the carpeted corridor, my knees trembling with every step, my eyes fixed on the frosted glass door at the end of the hall.

Studio 4B.

I reached for my keycard hanging around my neck, swiping it through the digital reader. The small LED light flashed red.

Access Denied.

My breath caught in my throat. I swiped it again. Fast. Hard.

Access Denied.

"It won't work, Vivian."

I spun around. Standing near the water cooler, holding a clipboard and a fresh cup of coffee, was Marcus—the junior facility manager. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He looked down at his shoes, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"What do you mean it won't work, Marcus?" My voice sounded thin, raspy, like dry leaves scraped across pavement. "This is my studio. I have the master keycard for the Celestial Dawn collection."

"Management updated the access codes at six this morning," Marcus said quietly, his voice laced with a tense, awkward pity. "Director Raymond's office issued a security override. All entry to Studio 4B is restricted until after the ten o’clock executive review."

"Restricted?" The word tasted like copper on my tongue. "My work is in there! My entire collection is sitting on those racks!"

"I'm just following orders, Viv," Marcus whispered, stepping back as if he was afraid my panic might rub off on him. "Look... Zara’s team came in with the morning crew at seven. They were moving garment bags out to the main executive showroom on the ninth floor."

A sudden, sharp ringing filled my ears. The hallway seemed to narrow, the walls closing in on me.

"Zara’s team?" I choked out.

Without waiting for an answer, I shoved past Marcus, ignoring his quiet call for me to stop. I sprinted toward the service elevators at the end of the hall, the ones reserved for heavy garment racks and executive transports. I slapped the call button repeatedly, my hand shaking so wildly I could barely hit the brass plate.

When the doors slid open, I threw myself inside and jammed my thumb onto the button for Floor 9—The Director's Suite.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity, a slow, agonizing ascent toward a execution an execution block. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored walls. I looked hysterical. Eyes bloodshot, skin sallow, hands clutched over my stomach as if I were about to be physically sick.

No, I begged whatever universe was listening. Please. Not everything. Leave me something.

The elevator doors parted on the ninth floor. Here, the floor was covered in plush, navy velvet carpet that swallowed all sound. High-end art prints lined the walls, and the air smelled of floor wax and corporate money.

At the end of the long hallway, the double doors of the Master Gallery were wide open.

I walked toward them like a woman marching toward a cliff edge.

As I stepped across the threshold into the expansive, sunlit room, my knees almost gave out entirely.

The twenty-five garments of the Celestial Dawn collection were there. They stood in a perfect, elegant semi-circle under the bright, gallery-grade spotlights. The hand-dyed ivory silk caught the morning sun, shimmering like liquid light. The drop-waist seams I had bled over, the hand-stitched beaded trim, the dramatic diagonal sashes—everything was laid out in breathtaking, absolute perfection.

Standing in the center of the room, wearing a flawless tailored charcoal suit, was Director Raymond. Beside him, holding a slim leather tablet, was Zara.

She looked radiant. Her hair was styled in sleek, razor-sharp waves, her makeup flawless, her posture radiating calm, quiet authority. She was leaning in toward Raymond, pointing at the flagship gown—my flagship gown—with a poised, professional smile.

"...and here, Director," Zara was saying, her voice carrying smoothly across the silent gallery, "I chose a hand-forged golden needle brooch to anchor the sash. It symbolizes the delicate thread between ancient elegance and modern power. It took me three weeks to get the weight of the drape just right."

A high-pitched, piercing noise rang in my head.

"Zara," I breathed.

The word wasn't loud, but in the quiet gallery, it carried like a gunshot.

Director Raymond turned around first, his sharp gray eyebrows knitting together in immediate disapproval as his gaze swept over my disheveled, rain-soaked appearance. Zara turned a second later. For a fraction of a second, her eyes widened in a flicker of cold annoyance, but it was gone so quickly I almost thought I imagined it. An expression of deep, tragic sympathy instantly replaced it.

"Vivian," Zara said softly, stepping forward, her hand reaching out as if to comfort a crazed animal. "Oh, sweetie... what are you doing here? You look exhausted. We told you to stay home and rest today."

"Get your hands off me," I rasped, stepping back from her as if her touch were poisonous. My eyes darted frantically between the dresses and Director Raymond. "Director Raymond... please. You have to listen to me. She stole these. These are my designs. Every single piece in this room—"

"Vivian, please, don't do this to yourself," Zara interrupted, her voice cracking with a perfectly practiced, emotional tremble. She turned to Raymond, her eyes shining with fake tears. "I was afraid of this, Director. I tried to tell you last night... Vivian has been under immense stress. The burnout... she's been having delusions about ownership over the team project."

"Team project?" I screamed, the sound echoing off the high glass ceilings. "I wrote the specs! I spent six months in 4B alone! You stole my portfolio from my desk last night! You and Leo!"

Director Raymond raised a single, heavy hand. The silence that followed was suffocating. He walked slowly over to the glass conference table in the corner of the gallery.

Sitting on the sleek black glass was a heavy, brushed-leather master portfolio.

My heart leaped into my throat. The portfolio.

"Vivian," Raymond said, his tone icy, flat, and devoid of a single drop of warmth. "I don't appreciate scenes in my gallery. If you are claiming these designs belong to you, perhaps you can explain why Miss Zara’s official corporate watermark and digital signature are embedded into the physical blueprints inside this binder?"

He turned the portfolio toward me and flipped open the heavy leather cover.

I took a desperate step forward to look at the front page—my master draft. My eyes scanned the thick paper, and my blood turned to pure ice.

Stamped neatly in the bottom right corner of every single original sketch, covering up my small, hand-penciled initials, was a glowing, permanent corporate notary seal:

PROPERTY OF ZARA CHEN - CHIEF DESIGN LEAD.

And pinned right beside the title page was an official internal disciplinary document bearing my name, already signed by human resources.

"What... what is that?" I whispered, my vision blurring.

"It is your termination notice," Director Raymond said coldly.