The Billionaire's Regret: My Hidden Wife

The next morning, the atmosphere at S.W. Studios was toxic. Eric Koch had set up a temporary command center in the glass-walled conference room. He was ostensibly there to oversee the transition, but everyone knew he was hunting. He was looking for security leaks. He was looking for the thief. Aislinn sat at her tiny desk in the corner, wearing her grey cardigan and thick glasses. She was invisible again. "Coffee, Reese!" Deann barked, slamming a file on Aislinn's desk. Deann was back, looking pale but vengeful. "And if you put anything in it this time, I'll fire you." Aislinn didn't flinch. "Yes, Ms. Padilla." "And take these to the shredder. They're garbage." Aislinn looked at the pile. It was Deann's sketches for "Project Phoenix," the new initiative Eric had launched to revitalize the brand. Aislinn took the pile to the shredder room. But she didn't shred them. She looked at the top sketch. It was a gown that was supposed to look like a rising phoenix, but Deann had drawn it with heavy, clunky lines that made it look like a dying chicken. It was an insult to the fabric. Aislinn looked around. The room was empty. She pulled a red marker from her pocket. She couldn't help herself. It was a compulsion. She couldn't let bad design exist in the world. Slash. Slash. Curve. In three seconds, she altered the waistline, changed the neckline to an asymmetrical plunge, and added notes on structural boning. The dying chicken became a soaring bird. She heard footsteps. She dropped the marker and the paper on a side table and scurried out, grabbing a stack of blank paper to look busy. Eric walked past her. He didn't see her. He walked into the shredder room, looking for a quiet place to take a call. He saw the sketch on the table. The red ink was still wet. He picked it up. His eyes widened. This was it. This was the genius he had bought. The lines were aggressive, confident. They had movement. More importantly, they were nothing like Deann's heavy-handed style. The base drawing was Deann's-he recognized the clumsy signature at the bottom-but the red corrections were the work of a master. "Rose," he murmured. "She's in the building." He walked out, holding the sketch like a holy relic. He marched straight to Deann's office. "Did you draw this?" he demanded, slamming the paper onto her desk. Deann looked at the sketch. She recognized her own base drawing, but the red lines... they were brilliant. She didn't know who did it, but she saw an opportunity. "Yes," Deann lied smoothly. "I was just... revising it. I didn't think it was ready to show you yet." Eric stared at her. He looked at the drawing, then at Deann. He knew she was lying. Deann couldn't draw a circle without assistance. But if Rose was hiding, she was using Deann as a shield. The only way to flush her out was to pressure the shield. "It's excellent," Eric said, his voice devoid of warmth but full of professional approval. "This is the centerpiece of the collection. I want a prototype. Fabric and form. Friday." "Friday?" Deann choked. "That's in three days." "Is that a problem?" Eric raised an eyebrow. "Rose could do it in two." "No! No problem," Deann squeaked. Eric left. Deann slumped in her chair, panic setting in. She couldn't sew. She couldn't drape. She couldn't even understand the structural notes the red marker had made. Her eyes landed on Aislinn, who was quietly filing papers nearby. "Reese!" Deann hissed. Aislinn walked over. "Yes?" "You went to design school, didn't you? Before you became a nobody?" "I... took some classes," Aislinn lied. She had a Masters from Parsons and had apprenticed in Milan. "Good. You're going to help me. I need this dress made. I'll supervise, you do the manual labor. It's a great learning opportunity for you." Aislinn looked at the sketch she had corrected. She looked at Deann's desperate, greedy face. "Okay," Aislinn said meekly. Inside, she was smiling. Trap set. Later that afternoon, Eric walked by Aislinn's desk. He stopped. "What is your name again?" he asked. Aislinn froze. "Aislinn. Aislinn Reese." "Reese," Eric rolled the name around his mouth. "My ex-wife was a Reese." Aislinn's heart hammered. "Oh?" "Yeah," Eric said, looking at her grey sweater with disdain. "She was quiet, too. Unremarkable. I suppose it's a common name for common people." He walked away. Aislinn watched him go. The insult stung, but it was also a shield. As long as he thought she was common, she was safe. "Just you wait, Eric," she whispered. "You're going to eat those words."