Chapter 1

The medication for Mom' s breathing wasn' t cheap.

Not with the insurance I got from my part-time barista job.

Every spare dollar, every spare minute, went to her.

It meant less fabric for my designs, fewer hours for my actual coursework at the community college.

My dream of being a fashion designer felt distant, almost impossible, looking at the bills piled on our small kitchen table in our cramped Queens apartment.

I was Ethan Miller, and this was my reality.

I sketched designs on napkins during my lunch breaks, my mind miles away in a world of silk and runways, not coffee spills and impatient customers.

My professor, Ms. Albright, told me I had talent, real talent.

She pushed me to enter the "New Vision" student showcase.

"It's a long shot, Ethan, but your work needs to be seen," she'd said.

The entry fee alone was a week's grocery money.

I sold my grandfather's old watch, the only valuable thing I owned.

It felt like selling a piece of my heart, but Mom needed her new prescription filled.

That was the sacrifice. Her health over my sentimentality.

The showcase was a blur of nerves and hopeful faces.

My collection was small, made from cheap materials I' d repurposed, but the designs were mine, born from sleepless nights.

Then she saw them.

Victoria Devereaux.

CEO of Devereaux Inc., a name that was practically a religion in the fashion world.

She walked right up to my modest display, her presence sucking all the air out of the room.

She was older, maybe late thirties, with an aura of power that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

She picked up a sketch, her eyes sharp.

"This is... innovative," she said, her voice surprisingly soft.

The next day, her assistant called.

Victoria Devereaux wanted to meet me.

In her office, which looked like a museum of modern art, she offered me an internship.

Not just any internship. A paid one, with a salary that made my head spin.

"I see something in you, Ethan," she said, a warm smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes.

But I was too overwhelmed to notice.

She started inviting me to dinners, to exclusive parties.

She bought me expensive sketchbooks, fabrics I' d only dreamed of touching.

She listened to my ideas, praised my ambition.

It felt like a dream. She was beautiful, powerful, and she believed in me.

I started to fall for her, hard.

She made me feel seen, valued.

The small apartment, the bills, Mom's worried face – it all started to fade into the background.

This was it, I thought. My life was finally starting.

I was too naive, too grateful to see the strings.

Then Marcus Thorne appeared.

He found me at a cafe Victoria frequented, a place I now felt comfortable in.

He was charming, dressed impeccably, around Victoria's age.

He slid into the seat opposite me, uninvited.

"Ethan Miller, I presume?" he said, his smile a little too wide.

"Victoria talks about you. Her new prodigy."

There was an edge to his voice.

"I'm Marcus Thorne," he continued, extending a hand I reluctantly shook. "An old friend of Victoria's. Very old."

He leaned in, his voice dropping.

"She has a type, you know. Young, talented, a little lost. Easy to mold."

My stomach tightened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Marcus chuckled. "Don't you? Look, kid, I like you. You've got spirit. So here's some friendly advice."

He pulled out a checkbook.

"Victoria's world... it chews people up. Especially people like us. I can help you. A grant, let's call it. Enough to set you up, get you into a real design school, away from all this."

He wrote a figure that made me gasp.

"Just walk away from Victoria. For your own good," he finished, sliding the check across the table.

I stared at it, then at him. "She cares about me."

Marcus' s smile faded. "Does she? Or does she care about what you represent?"

A few weeks later, the test came. I didn' t know it was a test then.

Marcus had been around more, "reconnecting" with Victoria, he said.

She seemed... different when he was there. More on edge, but also strangely alive.

One evening, my phone buzzed. A text from Victoria.

Marcus. Minor car trouble across town. Silly man. Going to see if he needs help. X V

Almost simultaneously, another text. This one from a number I didn' t recognize, but the message made my blood run cold.

Ethan, this is your neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez. There' s water pouring from under your apartment door! I think a pipe burst! You need to get here NOW!

My apartment. Mom. Her medication. My sketches.

I called Victoria immediately, my voice frantic.

"Victoria, my apartment, there's a flood, I need to..."

"Ethan?" Her voice was distracted. "Oh, darling, can it wait? I'm just on my way to help Marcus with a flat tire. He' s being dramatic, of course."

"But Victoria, it's an emergency! My mother..."

A pause. I could hear Marcus' s voice in the background, laughing.

"Look, Ethan, I'm sure it's not that bad. Call your superintendent. I' ll check in later, okay? Marcus is waiting."

She hung up.

Just like that.

I raced to my apartment, my heart pounding.

There was no flood. Mrs. Rodriguez looked confused when I banged on her door.

"Flood? No, dear. Everything is fine."

Then I saw him. Marcus Thorne, leaning against his perfectly fine sports car down the street, a smirk on his face.

He strolled over. "She chose, Ethan. See?"

He wasn't done.

"Those grand gestures?" Marcus said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "The pop-up show she funded for you? She did that for me, years ago, when I was starting out."

My mind reeled.

"That trip to Iceland to see the Northern Lights? Our special place. She always wanted to recreate it."

Each word was a blow. I was a ghost, a stand-in.

"She's just reliving her past with you, kid. Or trying to fix it."

The beautiful illusion shattered.

I felt sick. Used.

"I'll leave," I choked out, the words bitter in my mouth. "I'll take your money. I just want out."

Marcus' s eyes gleamed. "Wise decision."

He handed me the check again. This time, I took it.

My hands were shaking.

As I turned to walk away, defeated, Marcus called out.

"Oh, Ethan?"

I stopped, not looking back.

"You might want to get that coffee stain off your portfolio. Presentation is everything in this business, right?"

I looked down. A large, dark stain was spreading across the corner of my best sketchbook, the one Victoria had given me.

He must have spilled his coffee on it when he' d "accidentally" bumped my table as I left the cafe earlier, the one where he offered the buy-off.

It wasn' t an accident. It was a final, petty twist of the knife.

I didn' t say anything. I just walked away, the city lights blurring through my tears.

The money felt dirty in my pocket.

But as I walked, a new resolve hardened within me.

Paris.

Chloe Davis, my childhood friend, was there, studying music.

She' d always believed in me, before Victoria, before New York.

I would go to Paris. I would study design at a real conservatory, on my own terms.

I would become someone Victoria Devereaux couldn' t touch, and Marcus Thorne couldn' t break.

This wasn' t just an escape. It was a reclamation.