4: Who You Are And Who You Know

RHEA

“We’re here with Elara Hale—Head Designer of the wildly popular Wardrobe and wife of CEO Victor Hale. One half of New York’s favourite power couple. This week’s NYFW lineup has cemented Wardrobe as the most influential fashion brand in the world. When Wardrobe began, did you ever imagine reaching this level?”

Elara crosses her legs on-screen, polished and perfect. I button the cuffs of my shirt as I watch, sitting in an apartment that’s technically a downgrade from hell, but still better than a prison cell. The ceiling leaks, rats hold nightly concerts, the heater’s dead… but there’s a bed, a roommate who snores instead of stabs, and most days, that’s enough.

Elara smiles. “I always knew my husband was destined for success, so none of this surprises me. His vision and my designs built Wardrobe. I never doubted we’d make it.”

The interviewer beams like she’s been personally blessed. I glue the sole of my shoe back on and dig around for my bag.

“Of course. And do you have any advice for aspiring designers or fashion-school graduates who dream of working at Wardrobe?”

“Dream big. Work hard. Don’t give up. And Wardrobe will always welcome you with open arms.”

A lie so smooth it could win awards.

“You’ve heard it from Elara. Now, onto some circulating rumours: apparently the brand’s first Head Designer—Aurora, was it?—recently passed away in prison just before her scheduled release. What—”

Elara tilts her head, perfect confusion… except for the tiny twitch in her pinky. “Who?”

I sling my bag over my shoulder and stop at the mirror on my way out. I’d tortured my afro-textured curls with my roommate’s pathetic excuse for a straightener. Added a bit of blush so my brown skin didn’t look as tired as I felt. Red lipstick. Clothes and a handbag I stitched myself on a second-hand sewing machine I could barely afford.

And yet. I look far more expensive than I am.

I look like a woman ready to walk out of Voss Atelier as the new Creative Director.

Shame the truth is messier.

I’ve always known the story Victor and Elara chose: that I never existed. That I was no one. Prison only confirmed it. That so-called “court wedding” Victor and I had? A joke. His real wife was Elara. Has always been Elara. Four kids. The eldest is eleven—older than my relationship with him. Their little fashion prodigy.

Just like the abortion Victor planned for me. The clinic? Never existed. The doctor? Fake identity. And the hysterectomy? Not a single trace.

And Camryn…

Nothing. No records. No birth certificate. No proof she ever drew breath.

Like my baby was a ghost.

It was a perfect dead end.

They played me. Used my designs. Hid me so well the world never even knew I’d been there.

But they don’t know what they created. They don’t know the fire they lit.

And the higher they’ve climbed, the sweeter it’ll be when I drag everything they built straight to the ground.

And I will—because somewhere out there, Camryn exists. And I’m going to find her.

“Rhea! Grab takeout on your way back! And good luck on your interview—you look gorgeous!” Roofus leans out of his room with a grin.

“Tell that to your hookups. I’m not your free breakfast.”

“Oh, don’t be like tha—”

I shut the door before he can finish. He’s not terrible, honestly—especially when he remembers the walls are thin and keeps it down with both the snoring and the sex.

Which, annoyingly, sends my brain straight back to him.

The memory of last night hits so hard I almost miss a step.

God. Heat coils low in my stomach, sharp and needy. My thighs press together before I can stop them. I can still feel Christian’s hand wrapped around the back of my neck, his breath dragging slow and claiming against my ear right before he whispered, low and rough:

“Spread your legs for me, Dot.”

Dot.

The way he said it… like he’d already decided I was his. Like he knew something about me I didn’t want anyone to know.

I hadn’t planned on sleeping with him. Not even close. I’d only stolen that invitation from a drunk investor to sneak into the event, to get a glimpse of the man who would run Voss Atelier. Christian Voss was supposed to be predictable—cold, polished, money-hungry.

But then he had me pinned against that marble wall, looking at me like he could read every secret I’d ever buried—

Yeah. My plan didn’t just dissolve. It melted.

He kissed like he owned my mouth. Touched me like he was memorising every inch. Said my name as if he’d branded it onto his tongue.

And the worst part? My body still hasn’t forgiven me for walking away.

Then guilt slams into me so fast it steals the breath right out of my chest.

I can’t afford this.

Not this heat. Not this distraction. Not when I still haven’t found my little girl.

Desire is a luxury. Guilt is the reality I wake up to.

I know Christian enough to know he’d never hire someone just because he slept with them. Profit is his religion. And my designs? They’d make him rich.

In return… I think of the bills and the note I left on his nightstand and can’t help my snort.

Elara was right about one thing: Aurora Hale is dead. Erased. Forgotten.

But Rhea Ashford? She’s the woman who’ll burn the Hales to ash.

***

“Rhea Ashford?” A striking woman in a sleek pencil skirt calls out, clipboard in hand, her smile warm and assessing. “They’re ready for you. I’ll lead you to the boardroom… and can I say, I love your outfit!”

“Thank you,” I reply, letting a small, polite smile slip past my nerves. I give my binder one last reassuring squeeze and follow her.

She leads me into a glass-walled conference room. Five board members I vaguely recognise sit around a long marble table, each with a polished tablet and a carefully neutral expression like they’ve already made up their minds.

I walk in anyway.

I pretend not to notice their impressed gazes track the lines of my outfit from the structured blazer, the hand-finished seams, to the bag I constructed stitch by stitch, though warmth slips into my chest. 

“Miss Ashford,” the man at the centre says, motioning me to sit. “We’ve reviewed your portfolio. Your craftsmanship is… impressive.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly as I sit. “That means a lot.”

Another board member clears her throat. “As you know, we’re searching for a Creative Director. Someone fresh, with formal training and strong industry ties. Wardrobe’s team is young, connected, constantly tapped into trends — we need someone who can compete with that.”

I nod. Makes sense. Wardrobe is dominating fashion worldwide. Any new house would want to follow their lead. That wouldn’t be an issue, except… 

The woman continues, listing off prestigious fashion schools: “Several applicants studied at IFA, Studio Haute, the New York Institute of Design and Sty—”

I clench my fists. I can’t tell the truth. Faking my death in prison, taking on a new identity—it had cost me everything. Saying that all those schools paled in comparison to Maison Lumière in Paris would blow my cover. Maison Lumière, the best fashion school in the world, accepts only fifty students a year, and just five receive financial aid. I’d been nineteen—and on a full scholarship.

Not to mention, that’s where I met Victor. He was thirty-one. I married him at twenty and dropped out in my second year when I got pregnant with Camryn. That part of my past? Never spoken of here.

I nod, folding my hands in my lap. “I understand. I wasn’t able to afford schools like that. I trained locally, and even that ended early when the head professor passed away. Most of what I know, I learned on my own.”

She instantly turns dismissive.

The man with glasses leans forward. “And your connections? Mentors, sponsors, anyone we’d know?”

“Not really,” I admit. “I don’t come from that world.” I take a breath. “But I do understand design. And I understand people. Trends change fast, but what people want — what makes them feel something — that’s deeper. That’s what I focus on.”

They exchange bored looks.

I glance at my portfolio on the table. “Wardrobe works because they’re always ahead. Whoever you hire will need the freedom to create, not just imitate. If you only follow their formula… you’ll always be two steps behind.”

My voice is calm, not sharp. Honest, not defensive.

For a moment, no one speaks. I know I’ve hit a nerve.

I smooth my skirt, bite back a smile, and stand. “Thank you for the opportunity. Truly. I appreciate you taking the time to meet me.”

“Miss Ashford—” one of them begins, hesitant.

“It’s okay,” I say gently. “I know I’m not what you expected.”

I turn toward the door. Three… two—

“Wai—”

The door swings open, and I freeze.

He’s standing there. Christian. Piercing grey eyes locked on mine, every inch of him radiating control. His hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Stubble along his jaw—rough, tantalizing—and I remember exactly how it felt against my skin last night. Leather jacket sleeves rolled up, showing tattooed arms, a silver pendant at his collarbone. Rings glint on his fingers, his hands shoved into his pockets.

A faint, amused lift curves his mouth as he steps inside, briefly acknowledging a board member with a tilt of his finger.

The board scrambles to their feet, murmuring, flustered.

“Mr. Voss—we didn’t expect—”

He doesn’t look at them. Only at me.

My pulse hammers in my chest. His presence is electric. Every nerve in my body is alive, every memory of last night dragging me closer to a dangerous edge.

He slides into the chair at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes still on me.

“Please,” he says, slow, deliberate, and every word lands like fire. “Don’t stop on my account, Rhea Ashford.”

That voice. The same deep, commanding drawl from last night. The one that whispered in my ear: Hands on the headboard, arch your back for me, Dot.”

Heat curls low in my stomach. My thighs press together. My mouth goes dry.

Well, shit.