The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

The movers were downstairs with the last of her boxes. Cristina ran back into the apartment, her heels clicking on the marble. She reached the study and grabbed the black sketchbook from the desk. She clutched it to her chest, relief washing over her. Then, the front door beeped. Beep. Beep. Beep. Click. The code was entered. Cristina's eyes widened. She looked around frantically. There was no way to the exit without passing the foyer. She dove behind the heavy velvet curtains that covered the French windows in the study. She pressed herself against the cold glass, making herself as flat as possible. "I don't care what she took!" Jackson's voice was booming. He sounded stressed. He walked into the living room, followed by the heavy tread of another man. Harrison Wells, the family lawyer. "The press is going to eat us alive if the stock drops," Harrison said. His voice was calm, pragmatic. "Davida needs a narrative, Jackson. 'Sick heiress' isn't enough anymore. People are calling her a homewrecker." "She's not a homewrecker," Jackson growled. "She's a victim." "The public sees a trophy wife kicked out for a stepsister," Harrison said. "We need to show Davida brings value to the company. Tangible value." Jackson sighed. Cristina heard the rustle of fabric as he sat on the leather sofa. "Put her on speaker." The phone rang. Davida picked up. She was crying. "Jack? They're laughing at me on Twitter. They're saying I'm just a leech." "Shh, baby, calm down," Jackson's voice was gentle. "We have a plan." "I want the brand," Davida sniffled. "I want Sunny." Cristina stopped breathing. She pressed her hand over her mouth. "Davida," Harrison interjected. "The Sunny designs are anonymous. We don't hold the copyright directly; it's through a shell company." "Cristina is gone," Jackson said. His voice was ice cold. "She left everything. She signed the NDA. She signed the exit papers. She has no claim." "But she designed them," Harrison said softly. "No one knows that," Jackson said. "As far as the world knows, Sunny is a ghost. We just need to give the ghost a face." "My face," Davida said. Her crying stopped instantly. "We transfer the IP rights to Davida," Jackson explained. "We announce at Fashion Week that Davida has been 'Sunny' all along. That she was designing from her hospital bed. It's the perfect comeback story. The genius invalid." "It's fraud, Jackson," Harrison warned. "It's business," Jackson countered. "Cristina is out. She's probably halfway to Ohio by now. She'll never know." Cristina felt a rage so hot it almost burned her skin. They weren't just taking her husband and her home. They were stealing her mind. Her identity. "The sketches?" Davida asked. "Do you have the new book? The Spring Collection?" "It should be in the study," Jackson said. "She left everything else." Footsteps. They were coming toward the study. Cristina squeezed her eyes shut. She held the sketchbook so tight her knuckles turned white. The door to the study creaked open. "I don't see it on the desk," Harrison said. "Check the drawers," Jackson ordered. Cristina heard drawers sliding open and slamming shut. They were feet away from her. Buzz. Buzz. The intercom on the wall rang loudly. "Mr. Floyd?" The doorman's voice. "The movers are asking if they can clear the loading dock. They're waiting for Mrs. Floyd... uh, Ms. Powell." Jackson groaned. "Get rid of them. Tell them she's gone." "I'll handle it," Harrison said. "I need to get the paperwork for the transfer anyway." "Fine," Jackson said. "I'll get some water." The footsteps retreated. The study door was left ajar. Cristina waited five seconds. Ten. She heard the refrigerator door open in the kitchen down the hall. She slipped out from behind the curtain. She kicked off her heels, holding them in one hand and the sketchbook in the other. She ran. She moved like a ghost across the carpet. She reached the front door. She opened it slowly, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak. She slipped into the hallway and let the door click shut. She didn't wait for the elevator. She ran for the stairs. She sprinted down three flights before collapsing against the railing, gasping for air. She looked at the sketchbook in her hand. "You want a war?" she whispered to the empty stairwell. "I'll give you a war."