Page 25

Jules was building something. Claiming space. Proving she didn’t need anyone to open a door for her—she’d find the damn blueprints and build her own entrance.
Hell, she was more knowledgeable than I was.
My phone buzzed with a reminder, but I didn’t move.
Then her laptop chimed—a new message. She clicked it open and tilted the screen toward herself, so I didn’t catch the whole thing. Just the sender:Brickell Collector.
And the first line of the email:Can’t wait to show you the full collection :-)
The wink wasn’t necessary.
The little knot in my jaw? Also unnecessary—but very, very real.
I had no right to be annoyed. None.
But I was.
Not because I thought she owed me exclusivity. Not even because I thought the guy had a chance. But because, for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was central to her world anymore, or just orbiting somewhere on the edge, hoping gravity would pull me back in.
She smiled at the screen. Small. Brief.
Then she went back to her notes.
Yet, I just stood there in the hallway like a man trying to figure out when the hell everything changed.
I shut the door to my office with more force than necessary. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just final. A quiet little slam that said: no interruptions.
The click echoed in the space, which was filled with glass, stone, and polished steel. Everything inside Vérité was designed to look modern, minimal, and under control—just like me.
Or so I’d always pretended.
I paced once, twice, then stopped in front of the window that overlooked the courtyard. My reflection stared back at me in the glass—tie loosened, shirt collar askew, eyes too tired for mid-afternoon.
I pulled up my inbox. Nothing yet.
But I could feel it.
The silence wasn’t safety—it was a warning. A lull. Like the half-second before the wave breaks, when all the tension pulls back, dragging everything with it.
The bankruptcy was now a public record. The business trades hadn’t picked it up yet, but they would soon. When it did, the headline wouldn’t read:Designer Accessory Line Quietly Dissolves Amid Changing Trends.
It would read:Vérité Foundation Co-Founder Linked to Financial Collapse.
I didn’t have the luxury of waiting. I grabbed my phone and hit the contact I’d flagged months before: Thatcher – PR.
He picked up on the third ring. Always professional. Always calm.
“Damian. How bad?”
I walked behind my desk and sat, the leather chair too stiff, like even the furniture didn’t want to offer comfort today.
“It’s not live yet,” I said. “But it’s coming. I want a statement drafted.”
“Standard positioning?”
“No.” I exhaled. “If something aboutThe Cut of Her Jibhits the trades,I want to be first in the inbox. Not last on the apology tour.”
There was a pause. A few keystrokes. Then: “Understood. What about Vérité?”