Stitched in Spite: The Ghost Designer's Revenge

Chapter 2

The elevator ride to the executive penthouse felt like ascending to an entirely different planet.

Sienna watched the digital numbers tick upward—*Floor 40, 41, 42.* Down in the basement, her team was frantically packing their personal shears, thimbles, and sketchpads. She had told them to wait for her at the diner across the street. But first, she had a score to settle.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a violent, syncopated rhythm. Five years. She had given Julian Cross five years of her life. She had overlooked his vanity, his obsessive need to be the center of attention, and his complete lack of artistic talent because he had sworn he loved her. He had sworn they were building a future together.

The $100,000 penalty notice was still clutched in her fist, crumpled and damp with sweat. It wasn't just the money. It was the absolute lack of respect. It was the realization that to Julian, she wasn't a fiancé or a partner. She was a resource to be exploited.

*Ding.*

The elevator doors slid open to reveal the sprawling, glass-walled executive suite of Julian Cross Label. The floors were polished white marble. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating oversized portraits of Julian posing broodingly in clothes he hadn't drawn a single line of.

Sienna marched past the empty receptionist desk. It was 3:15 AM. The floor should have been entirely deserted, but a sliver of warm light spilled from beneath the heavy mahogany doors of Julian's private office.

She didn't knock. She didn't pause. Sienna kicked the door open with the toe of her boot, the heavy wood slamming violently against the wall.

"Julian, we need to—"

The words died in her throat.

Julian Cross, the golden boy of the New York fashion scene, was standing frantically by his massive mahogany desk. His crisp white dress shirt was completely unbuttoned, his silk tie discarded on the floor. And scrambling up from the leather sofa, frantically pulling her tight skirt down over her thighs, was Vanessa Blair.

Sienna stopped dead in her tracks. The crumpled penalty notice in her hand felt suddenly like lead.

For a terrifyingly long moment, the only sound in the opulent office was the heavy breathing of three people. Julian's perfectly styled dark hair was messy, and a smear of cherry-red lipstick—matching Vanessa's exactly—was stained across his collarbone.

"Sienna," Julian gasped, his eyes wide with panic as his hands fumbled uselessly with his shirt buttons. "Sienna, darling, it's—"

"If you say 'it's not what it looks like', I will physically throw you out of this window," Sienna said. Her voice was terrifyingly devoid of emotion.

Vanessa, recovering her poise with sickening speed, smoothed her hair and offered a condescending little pout. "Well. I suppose the cat's out of the bag. I told you she was going to walk in on us eventually, Julian."

"Shut up, Vanessa," Julian hissed, panic making his handsome face look pathetic. He took a step toward Sienna, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Sienna, please. It's just stress. The Met Gala is in two days, the investors are breathing down my neck—"

"The investors are breathing down *your* neck?" Sienna interrupted, her voice finally cracking like a whip. She threw the crumpled penalty notice directly at his face. It bounced off his chest and fluttered to the floor. "I have been awake for forty-eight hours building your masterpiece, and you sign a document stealing a hundred thousand dollars from my team so you can sleep with your PR director on the company couch?"

"Your team was out of control!" Vanessa snapped from the background, crossing her arms. "They're eating into the profit margins!"

"I said shut up, Vanessa!" Julian barked. He looked back at Sienna, trying to deploy the charming, boyish smile that had won her over in design school. It made Sienna's stomach turn. "Darling, listen to me. The fine is just corporate restructuring. I had to show the board I was cutting costs. We can put the money back in your department next quarter. As for... this..." He gestured vaguely to his unbuttoned shirt. "It means nothing. You're the one I'm marrying."

Sienna stared at him. Really stared at him. She looked past the tailored suits and the million-dollar smile, and finally saw the hollow, insecure, entitled man underneath. He was a parasite. And he thought she was too weak to detach.

"You're deeply insecure, Julian," Sienna said quietly.

Julian's fake smile vanished. "Excuse me?"

"You can't sketch. You can't drape. You don't even know the difference between organza and chiffon," Sienna continued, her voice gaining strength, echoing off the glass walls. "You know that every ounce of your success comes from my brain. And you resent me for it. That's why you sleep with a sycophant like Vanessa. Because she worships the fake idol you've built, while I know exactly how empty you are inside."

Vanessa gasped, stepping forward. "You arrogant little bitch—"

"Don't speak to me," Sienna snapped, shooting Vanessa a look so lethal the other woman froze. Sienna turned her full attention back to Julian. "I am done, Julian. The Met Gala gown is finished, but I cut your precious label out of it. Fix the hem yourself. I quit."

Julian's face flushed a dark, ugly crimson. The panic was gone, replaced by a vicious, cornered entitlement. "You can't quit! You have a non-compete clause! You have a contract!"

"Sue me," Sienna challenged, stepping right into his personal space, refusing to be intimidated. "Take me to court, Julian. Let's enter the sketches into evidence. Let's have the forensic accountants look at the timestamps on the digital files. Let's prove to the world exactly who the ghost designer of Julian Cross really is."

Julian swallowed hard, taking a step back. He knew she was right. A public trial would ruin the illusion he had spent five years cultivating.

"You're nothing without my name, Sienna," Julian sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You're a working-class nobody from Queens. No one in Paris or Milan is going to take a meeting with a nameless seamstress. You need my brand."

"I'd rather sew burlap sacks in an alley than ever stitch your name into my art again," Sienna whispered.

She looked down at her left hand. The three-carat diamond engagement ring felt heavy, cold, and entirely fake. Without a second thought, she pulled it off her finger.

"Consider the engagement severed," Sienna said.

She dropped the ring. It hit the mahogany desk with a sharp, heavy *clack*, bouncing once before settling perfectly on top of Julian's leather-bound planner.

Julian stared at the ring, then up at Sienna, his jaw working furiously. "You'll be back, Sienna. You don't have the money to start your own label. You'll be begging for your job by Monday."

"Don't hold your breath," Sienna said.

She spun on her heel and walked out of the office, leaving the door wide open. Her boots clicked against the marble floors, the sound echoing her newfound freedom. Her heart was racing, her hands were shaking, but her spine was perfectly straight. She had no money, no studio, and a team of twelve exhausted tailors waiting for her to give them a miracle. But she had her talent. And that was the one thing Julian could never steal.

Sienna reached the elevator bank and slammed her hand against the down button.

"Come on, come on," she muttered, blinking back the hot sting of tears that threatened to fall. She refused to cry. Not here. Not on his floor.

*Ding.*

The elevator doors slid open. Sienna kept her head down, marching forward to step inside—and slammed face-first into what felt like a solid wall of expensive wool and muscle.

"Woah, careful there," a deep, resonant voice rumbled above her.

Sienna stumbled backward, gasping as a pair of strong, large hands caught her by the elbows, steadying her. She looked up, ready to apologize, but the words evaporated on her tongue.

Standing in the elevator was a man who commanded the small space entirely. He was tall—well over six feet—with sharp, aristocratic features, piercing steel-gray eyes, and dark hair swept neatly back. He was dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue suit that screamed old money and ruthless power.

Sienna recognized him instantly. Everyone in the fashion world knew Kaelen Thorne. He was the billionaire CEO of Thorne Luxury Group, the massive conglomerate that owned half of Paris and Milan. More importantly, he was Julian Cross's biggest, most vicious rival.

Kaelen looked down at her, his observant gray eyes sweeping over her blistered fingers, her taped joints, and the fierce, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. He didn't look surprised to see her. In fact, a slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his mouth.

He released her elbows and reached into the breast pocket of his suit. With a fluid, deliberate motion, he pulled out a matte-black business card with embossed gold lettering and held it out to her.

Sienna stared at it, then up at him, her chest heaving. "What is this?"

Kaelen's smile deepened, his eyes glinting with a predatory intelligence. "A blank check, Miss Vance. I heard the ghost just walked out of the graveyard."

He stepped out of the elevator, pausing right beside her shoulder.

"Call me," Kaelen murmured, his voice sending an unexpected shiver down her spine. "I've been waiting for this."