CHAPTER 14 — THE BLOGGER WAR

The elevator dinged.

Lorenzo did not knock. Marcus was with him, two men in private suits ,no uniform, exactly like he promised for 68 Greene Street.

"What happened?" Lorenzo said. He saw the dresses first.

Three dresses cut. Clean, from shoulder to waist. The opening looks for Paris.

He saw my scissors in my hand. "Aria"

"S cut them," I said. "Or someone who brushed my coat this morning in your boardroom."

His jaw tightened. He knew who.

Rhys stepped forward. "We have two more problems."

He showed Lorenzo his phone. The blogger post. 1,000 comments now.

*BAD MOM? Aria Sinclair left her son alone in London council flat for 6 months to chase Vogue.*

Then the second phone. The Daily Mail draft photo. Leo in the park, grey eyes clear, red toy car t-shirt.

Lorenzo looked at Leo sleeping on the bed, clutching his car, then at the photo.

His face changed. That cold CEO face he uses when someone touches Blackwood Global.

"Who took this?" His voice was low.

"White dress lady," Leo mumbled in his sleep. "Said she knows dad."

Lorenzo's hands fisted.

"Upstairs," I said, cold. "S is handling this. Not Mrs. Blackwood. S."

I picked up my phone and called London.

It was 5:15 PM in London. Mrs. Patel answered on the third ring, her kitchen noisy.

"My girl!" she shouted. "My Aria! You left your soup pot!"

"Mrs. Patel, I need you to say the truth on video. One minute. For Leo."

I put her on speaker. Rhys recorded.

"Mrs. Patel, when Aria was in London with Leo, did she ever leave him alone?"

Mrs. Patel made a noise. "Leave him alone? That girl? She sewed with that baby on her back! She sewed bedsheets into dresses while that boy slept on her chest! I brought soup every day because she would not eat, only feed him! CPS? I called no CPS! I called my sister to bring more soup!"

She held up a photo on video — me on her cracked floor in Shoreditch, Leo on my back in a wrap, sewing.

"She was a queen even with no money," Mrs. Patel said, crying now. "Tell them."

I ended the video. 47 seconds.

I posted it on Atelier S official account. No caption. Just the video. And the photo of me sewing with Leo on my back.

Caption: *Bedsheets. Soup. A baby on my back. That is how Atelier S was made. Not abandonment. - S*

Then I called Vogue PR.

"Do not run the bad mom story," I said. "Run this."

Within ten minutes, Vogue reposted my video. Then two more fashion pages.

The blogger's comments turned.

Wait, she sewed with baby on back?"

That is not bad mom, that is super mom."

"Who paid that blogger?"

The blogger deleted his post at 1:03 PM. Replaced with: _"Post removed pending verification."_

Second attack — down.

Rhys handled the third.

He called his friend at Daily Mail London.

"Tom, UK law," Rhys said on speaker. "Child under four, privacy law. You cannot publish grey-eyed boy photo without mother's consent. Especially if child is not public figure. You publish at 6 PM, Atelier S and Blackwood Legal will sue in London at 6:01 PM."

Silence on the other side. Then: "We have source saying it's Blackwood heir"

"Source is a woman who was questioned by police yesterday for fraud," Rhys said. "You want to stake Daily Mail on her?"

The draft article disappeared from the internal system at 1:18 PM. Email from Vogue PR: "Daily Mail killed the photo. No publication."

Third attack — down.

But the first attack was still on the floor. Three cut dresses.

Lorenzo knelt down and touched the silk. "Can you fix them?"

I looked at him. For the first time since The Pierre, my cold mask slipped a little.

"I will not fix them," I said. "I will make them better from the cut."

I took the scissors and cut more. On purpose this time. The shoulder that was sliced, I cut completely off. Made it one-shoulder. The waist cut, I turned into a slit with pearl stitching — the 40-hour pearls I learned to sew when I had nothing.

Rhys watched. "You are making it look intentional."

"Let her cut," I said, my hands steady now. "I made three dresses from bedsheets when I had nothing. Three cuts will not stop me from doing Paris."

Lorenzo watched my hands. The same hands that sketched on his kitchen island three years ago while he was on calls. The same hands he held when I was four weeks pregnant and said nothing.

"Marcus," Lorenzo said, standing up, voice CEO again. "Effective immediately, Seraphina Vale is banned from all Blackwood buildings, Blackwood events, and The Pierre. Send it to board, legal, and security. Reason: sabotage of Atelier S property."

Marcus nodded. "And The Pierre suite?"

"Ms. Sinclair's suite is now under Blackwood security, but billed to Atelier S," Lorenzo said, looking at me. "Not as wife. As client. As S."

I nodded. CEO, not wife. That was the deal.

He walked to Leo's bed and did not touch him. Just looked. Grey eyes closed, red toy car in hand.

"At 6 AM, the white car will come back," Lorenzo said quietly, more to Rhys than to me. "With press again. I will have Marcus here at 5:30 AM."

Rhys did not argue this time. Two men guarding one boy again. Where three can be three.

Lorenzo left. At the door, he turned.

"Aria, the blogger was paid 2k from an account that traces to Seraphina's assistant. We have proof now."

"Save it," I said. "For the lawyers. And for when the board asks for proof."

He nodded.

I went back to sewing.

At 2:00 PM, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.

A text: Photo of my new one-shoulder cut dress, taken from outside The Pierre with a long lens.

Caption: *Cute fix. But can you fix Paris? I have front row ticket. - S*

She was not done. Paris was next.

But on the rack, the three cut dresses now looked better than before. One-shoulder, pearl slit, stronger.

I picked up Leo's drawing — mama as queen with crown — and pinned it to the best dress.

Let her come to Paris.