A battered green canvas sketchbook.
“But your father didn’t let you leave because he was weak,” she said, her voice breaking. “He watched you go because he had just realized what we had done. We didn’t sell this by accident. We were tricked into giving it away. And it took us more than ten years to get it back.”
I stared at the faded cover, my breath catching hard in my throat. I refused to touch it. My palms stayed flat against the marble desk.
“What kind of cruel game are you playing, Eleanor?” I asked, my voice low and sharp. “You expect me to believe there was some conspiracy behind a yard sale just so you can feel better about yourself?”
She moved closer and set the sketchbook on my desk gently, as if it might break.
“The week before you left, your father showed your drawings to his employer, Julian Sterling,” she said. “He was hoping Sterling might help you get a design apprenticeship. But Sterling saw what you could become. Instead of helping you, he decided to take your work for himself.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek.
“He knew we were desperate for money. So he sent a corporate scout to pretend to be an ordinary buyer at the garage sale. That person came straight to our house, convinced me your sketches were useless clutter, and pushed me to sell the book for two dollars so the transfer would look legal. By the time your father found out Sterling’s agent had bought it, you had already left.”
Her shoulders shook beneath the old coat.
“Julian Sterling used your childhood designs to build his own luxury fashion brand. His empire was built on your ideas, Chloe. Your father and I spent twelve years finding that scout, collecting proof, and fighting quietly to get this sketchbook back from Sterling’s private archive. It destroyed your father’s health. He died three months ago. His last wish was for you to finish what we started.”
With shaking hands, I opened the sketchbook.
