POV: Ethan Sterling
I'm racing through the city at ninety miles per hour when Sofia's call comes through.
"Tell me you found her," I answer, not bothering with hello.
"Richard shot Linda's thug. Both of them are in surgery. But Ethan—" Sofia's voice cracks. "Vivian's gone. The police searched the area and found two more bodies in the van. Dead. Shot by someone professional."
My hands tighten on the wheel. "What do you mean, someone professional?"
"I mean these weren't random thugs. These were trained killers. And whoever took them out knew exactly what they were doing."
"Where's Vivian?"
"I don't know. She's not answering her phone. The police found her phone on the ground with blood on it, but—"
"Blood?" My vision goes red. "How much blood?"
"Not enough to be fatal. But Ethan, whoever saved her also took her. And I can't find any trace of either of them."
I pull over so hard the tires screech. "Track her. Use every resource we have. Satellites, street cameras, witnesses—"
"Already doing it. But Ethan? There's something else."
"What?"
"Before all this happened, before the attack—the Chen Fashion House board called an emergency meeting. Tomorrow morning. They're voting on whether to remove Vivian as Creative Director."
"On what grounds?"
"Design theft. Claire filed a formal complaint three days ago, claiming Vivian stole designs from Chen Fashion House archives."
I slam my fist against the dashboard. "That's insane. Those are Vivian's original designs! Claire's the one who's been stealing!"
"I know that. You know that. But the board doesn't. And with Vivian missing, with Richard in surgery confessing to murder—" Sofia pauses. "They're going to vote her out. Strip her of everything her mother built."
"Like hell they are." I throw the car back into drive. "What time is the meeting?"
"Nine AM."
"Then I'll be there at eight forty-five. And Sofia? Find Vivian. I don't care what it takes. Find her."
The next morning, I walk into Chen Fashion House looking like I've been through a war.
Because I have.
I spent all night searching for Vivian. Every park, every street, every place she might have gone. Nothing.
It's like she vanished into thin air.
The board members are already gathering in the conference room. I recognize most of them—old money families who've been on this board since Elena Chen founded the company.
They look at me with suspicion. I'm the enemy. The CEO who tried to acquire their company six years ago.
"Mr. Sterling," the board chairman says coldly. "This is a closed meeting. Chen Fashion House business only."
"I'm here on behalf of Vivian Chen." I take a seat at the head of the table, the chair meant for the Creative Director. "Since she can't be here herself."
"Ms. Chen was invited," a woman says primly. "Her absence speaks volumes about her commitment to this company."
"Her absence," I say through clenched teeth, "is because she was attacked last night by hired killers. She's missing. The police are searching for her as we speak."
Murmurs around the table. Some look genuinely concerned. Others look calculating, like they're already dividing up her territory.
"Regardless," the chairman continues, "we're here to address serious allegations. Claire Chen has provided evidence that Vivian has been stealing designs from company archives."
"Claire Chen is in jail," I remind them. "Awaiting trial for kidnapping, conspiracy, and attempted murder."
"That doesn't change the evidence." He nods to his assistant, who pulls up images on the screen.
Beautiful sketches. Evening gowns, business suits, casual wear. All signed "C. Chen" and dated three years ago.
Then, beside them, nearly identical sketches. These are signed "V.C. Laurent" and dated six months ago—from Vivian's recent Milan collection.
The designs are identical. Every line, every detail, every flourish.
"As you can see," the chairman says, "the evidence is clear. Ms. Vivian Chen has been passing off Chen Fashion House designs as her own work under her alias."
"That's not what happened," I say.
"Then what is your explanation?"
I stand up, walking to the screen. "The explanation is simple. Claire Chen is a liar and a thief. These designs aren't hers. They never were."
"The signatures—"
"Are forged." I pull out my phone, sending a file to the conference room display. "Sofia, if you would?"
Sofia appears on the video screen from her office. "Good morning, board members. What you're looking at now is a forensic analysis of the signatures on Claire's supposed original designs."
The screen splits, showing close-ups of the signatures.
"Notice anything?" Sofia asks.
The board members lean forward, squinting.
"The pressure," one woman says slowly. "It's too even. Like it was—"
"Traced," Sofia confirms. "These signatures were created using a digital pen that mimics handwriting. The original sketches exist, yes. But they're not from three years ago. They're from six years ago. And they're not signed by Claire Chen."
She clicks to another image. The same sketches, but older, more worn. And signed with a different name.
"Elena Chen," I say quietly. "Vivian's mother. These are her original designs from before she died. Claire didn't create anything. She stole Elena's old work, forged new signatures, and backdated them to make it look like Vivian was the thief."
The board erupts into arguments. Some defending Claire, others demanding to see more proof.
"There's more," Sofia continues. "We accessed Chen Fashion House's secure servers last night. With proper authorization," she adds quickly. "What we found was a systematic pattern of theft going back three years."
She displays a spreadsheet. Hundreds of designs, all listed under Claire's name.
"Every single one of these designs," Sofia says, "can be traced back to either Elena Chen's original work or to sketches Vivian created while in Milan. Claire Chen has never created a single original design. She's been stealing from her dead stepmother and her step-sister for years."
"This is... this is fraud," the chairman breathes. "On a massive scale."
"It's theft," I correct. "Intellectual property theft. And if you vote to remove Vivian based on Claire's accusations, you'll be accomplices to that theft."
Silence falls over the room.
Then an older man at the end of the table stands. I recognize him—Henry Wu, one of Elena Chen's original investors.
"I was there when Elena founded this company," he says, his voice shaking with age and anger. "I watched her pour her heart into every design. And I watched Richard Chen let that woman Linda destroy everything Elena built." He looks around the table. "If we vote against Vivian today, we're finishing what Linda started. We're erasing Elena's legacy forever."
"But Vivian isn't here to defend herself," someone argues.
"I'll defend her." The voice comes from the doorway.
Everyone turns.
Vivian stands there, looking like she's been through hell. Her arm is bandaged, her clothes are dirty, and there's a bruise forming on her cheek.
But her eyes are fire.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, walking to the front of the room. "I was busy being kidnapped and watching my father shoot someone."
She doesn't sit. She stands, commanding the room like the queen she is.
"Claire Chen has been stealing from this company for three years," Vivian says clearly. "She stole my mother's designs. She stole my designs. She stole your trust and your money. And now she's trying to steal my position as Creative Director by making you believe I'm the thief."
She pulls out a tablet, connecting it to the display.
"This is every design I created in Milan over the past six years. Every sketch, every pattern, every idea. All dated, all authenticated by international fashion houses, all signed with my V.C. Laurent name."
She scrolls through hundreds of images. Beautiful, original work that takes my breath away.
"And this," she says, pulling up another file, "is every design Claire claimed as her own. Watch carefully."
She overlays the two sets of designs.
Perfect matches. Every single one.
"Claire didn't just steal some of my work," Vivian says. "She stole all of it. She's been copying everything I've created for years, waiting for me to come back to Sterling City so she could claim I stole from her."
The board stares in shock.
"Motion to remove Vivian Chen as Creative Director," the chairman says weakly. "All in favor?"
Silence.
"All opposed?"
Every hand goes up.
"Motion denied." The chairman looks at Vivian with something like respect. "Ms. Chen, I apologize on behalf of this board. We should have investigated more thoroughly before calling this meeting."
"Yes, you should have." Vivian's voice is cold. "But you didn't. You were ready to throw me out based on lies from a woman who's currently in jail. That tells me everything I need to know about this board's loyalty."
"Ms. Chen—"
"I'm not finished." She walks to the window, looking out at the city. "My mother built this company from nothing. She worked sixteen-hour days, sacrificed time with her family, poured her soul into every design. And when she died, my father let Linda and Claire destroy everything she'd created."
She turns back to the board.
"I'm taking back control. Effective immediately, I'm invoking my rights as majority shareholder to dissolve this board and appoint new members. People who actually care about Chen Fashion House. People who won't betray my mother's legacy."
"You can't—" someone starts.
"I can." Vivian's smile is sharp as a blade. "Check the company bylaws. Elena Chen's original contract gave her and her heirs full control in the event of board corruption. And this?" She gestures around the room. "This is corruption."
The chairman's face goes white. "Ms. Chen, please. Be reasonable—"
"Reasonable?" Vivian laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I've been reasonable for six years. I've been patient, forgiving, understanding. Where did that get me? My father helped murder my mother. My step-sister tried to destroy my life. And this board was ready to hand her everything based on forged documents."
She gathers her tablet. "You're all fired. Security will escort you out. Your severance packages will be sent within thirty days."
"You'll regret this," someone threatens.
"No," Vivian says quietly. "You'll regret not standing up for what was right when you had the chance."
She walks toward the door, then pauses, looking back.
"Oh, and one more thing. The Chen family name is being removed from the company. From now on, we'll be known as Laurent Fashion House. In honor of my mother's maiden name, and in honor of the six years I spent building my career alone."
She leaves, her head held high.
I follow her out into the hallway.
"That was incredible," I say.
But Vivian's hands are shaking. The adrenaline is wearing off, and I can see the trauma from last night catching up to her.
"I fired an entire board," she whispers. "I just— God, what did I do?"
"You took back control." I pull her close, not caring who sees. "You protected your mother's legacy. You were brilliant."
"I was terrified." She looks up at me. "Ethan, last night—those men were going to kill me. And then someone else killed them first. I don't know who. I don't know why. I just woke up in an alley with no memory of how I got there."
"What?"
"I remember running. The knife. Your father shooting that man. Then nothing." Her voice shakes. "I woke up at dawn in an alley three blocks away. Alone. My arm was bandaged professionally, but I don't know who did it."
A chill runs down my spine. "Someone's protecting you."
"Or watching me." Vivian pulls away. "Ethan, this isn't over. Linda and Claire and James are gone, but someone else is out there. Someone who has the skills to kill trained assassins and the access to find me anywhere in the city."
"Then we find them first."
"How? We don't even know who—"
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
I open it, and my blood turns to ice.
The message contains a photo. A woman, beautiful and familiar, standing next to Elena Chen in what looks like an old photograph.
Below it, a text: "You want to know who's been pulling the strings? Meet me tonight. Midnight. The place where Elena Chen died. Come alone, or Vivian discovers a truth that will destroy her. —H.C."
H.C.
I stare at the photo, at the woman standing next to Elena.
And I realize with growing horror that I recognize her.
"Ethan?" Vivian touches my arm. "What's wrong? Who sent that?"
I look at her, at her tired face and scared eyes, and I make a decision.
"Nothing," I lie. "Just spam."
But it's not spam.
It's a message from someone who's been dead for six years.
Someone who, apparently, has been alive this whole time.
Vivian's mother.
Elena Chen.