Chapter 5 - The Stolen Blueprint
The terrace was dead silent except for the distant hum of traffic below. The blue diamond caught the ambient glow of the city lights, sparkling with an impossible brilliance. My throat tightened so hard I could barely draw breath.
For three years, the narrative in my head had been simple: Vincent was cruel, Vincent loved another woman, Vincent discarded me when I became an inconvenience. To hear that my entire tragedy had been forged by corporate greed, paranoia, and catastrophic miscommunication shook the very foundation of my identity.
""Why didn't you look for me sooner?"" I choked out, refusing to touch the bracelet. ""If you had all the resources in the world, why did it take three years?""
Vincent’s jaw tightened, an old rage flashing across his features. ""Someone was actively feeding my security team false leads. Every time an investigator found a trail in New York, a tip would come in claiming you had moved to London. Marcus went to federal prison eighteen months ago, but his remnants still operated within my ranks. It wasn't until three weeks ago that I realized Sophia had been paying off my chief of security to bury the reports pointing to Chicago.""
I took a sharp step back. ""Sophia knew where I was?""
""She knew you were apprenticing under Julian Vance under your maiden name,"" Vincent said darkly. ""She kept you hidden from me because she knew that the moment I found you, whatever delusions she had of taking your place would burn to ash. And tonight, when she realized Julian had brought you as the headlining designer for the Grand Prix, she panicked.""
Before I could answer, the glass door to the terrace swung open with a bang.
Hannah Dupont stood there, pale and breathless, clutching her phone to her chest. ""Claire! You need to come inside right now! There’s a massive scandal unfolding in the main hall—the judging panel has paused the awards!""
My stomach plummeted. I instantly forgot about the bracelet, forgot about Vincent, and pushed past Hannah into the ballroom.
A crowd had formed around the central glass display where my competition masterpiece—a sprawling collar necklace crafted from interlocking rose gold petals and suspended uncut rubies named The Phoenix Awakening—was supposed to be unveiled.
Standing in front of the empty velvet bust was Sophia Reynolds, flanked by the lead judge, an austere French jeweler named Henri Blanc.
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""I am simply doing my duty as a patron of the arts,"" Sophia was declaring loudly, gesturing toward a digital tablet in Henri’s hands. ""Claire Moretti did not design this piece. The design blueprints were registered to my family's heritage line four years ago! She stole the concept while she was still living under Vincent’s roof and submitted it under Julian Vance’s label to revive her ruined life!""
Murmurs of disgust rippled through the gathered critics. In the world of high jewelry, plagiarism was a death sentence.
