Chapter 3 - THE BINDER CLIPS
The grand ballroom erupted into panicked whispers as Marisol quickly guided Billy through the service doors.
They moved through the stainless-steel labyrinth of the kitchen, away from the chaos, toward the private executive elevator. Marisol kept a steady hand on Billy’s shoulder, her face tight with worry.
“Are you crazy?” Marisol hissed once the elevator doors closed. “Why didn't you just apologize and walk away?”
“She didn't want an apology, Marisol,” Billy said quietly, staring at the blood soaking through the silk handkerchief.
“She’s Sabine Voss! She’s marrying Rafe Santangelo!” Marisol paced the small elevator. “Do you know what happens to people who cross him? He doesn't fire them. They disappear.”
Billy didn't answer. She knew exactly who Rafe Santangelo was. That was the whole point.
The elevator pinged, opening onto the top floor.
Rafe’s private office was a massive, corner suite overlooking the Boston harbor. It smelled of old leather and expensive scotch. Marisol led Billy to a leather sofa near the window and made her sit.
“Don't move. I’ll get the first aid kit while we wait for the doctor,” Marisol said, rushing out the door.
Billy sat alone in the quiet office.
She looked around. The room was pristine, exactly as a man who controlled everything would keep it.
But her eyes caught something on the massive mahogany desk.
A large, glossy magazine was lying open. It featured a ten-page spread on Sabine Voss’s new fashion line. The headline read: The Reverse-Beaded Revolution: Sabine Voss’s Genius Unveiled.
Billy stood up, ignoring the throbbing pain in her hand.
She walked over to the desk.
In the center of the spread was a close-up photograph of Sabine’s signature technique. The reverse beading.
Billy stared at the photograph.
She reached into her apron pocket with her uninjured left hand. She bypassed the notepad and the pen, her fingers searching for the small object she had carried with her every day for the last nine months.
She pulled out a small, frayed piece of fabric.
It was a scrap of black silk, no larger than a playing card.
Sewn into the silk were tiny, intricate glass beads, layered in a reverse orientation.
It was the exact same technique printed in the magazine.
But this scrap of fabric wasn't new. The edges were worn. The silk was fading.
Billy’s mother, Deardra, had sewn it four years ago.
Before the stroke. Before the medical bills. Before Sabine Voss ever became a household name.
Deardra Ror hadn't just been a seamstress. She had been a master pattern maker, employed by a small boutique design firm in the North End. Four years ago, she had invented the reverse-beading technique. She had spent months perfecting it in their small kitchen in Dorchester, working late into the night while Billy did homework at the table.
Deardra had brought the design to her employer, hoping to secure a patent and finally buy their family some financial security.
The employer was Sabine Voss.
Three days later, Deardra was fired without cause. A week after that, she suffered a massive stroke. And two years later, Sabine Voss debuted the reverse-beading technique as her own brilliant invention, catapulting herself into international fame.
Billy had spent the last four years building a file. Every original sketch, every dated fabric receipt, every piece of proof her mother had left behind. That was the thick file held together by three black binder clips in the second drawer of the sewing cabinet.
But proving Sabine stole the design wasn't enough. Sabine had lawyers. Sabine had money.
So Billy had tracked the money.
She traced Sabine’s early funding back to three shell companies. The food supplier, the laundry operator, and the waste processing company that serviced the Windmir.
All three were owned by Rafe Santangelo.
Rafe hadn't just fallen in love with a brilliant designer. He had funded her. He owned a percentage of her entire empire.
Billy hadn't taken the job at the Windmir to confront Sabine. She took the job to get close to the money. To get close to Rafe.
The office door clicked open.
Billy quickly shoved the scrap of beaded fabric back into her apron pocket and stepped away from the desk.
It wasn't the doctor.
It was Rafe.
He walked into the office, loosening his dark silk tie. He looked exhausted, the dangerous edge in his eyes tempered by a strange, quiet weariness.
He looked at Billy, standing by the window in her soaked, ruined uniform.
“Sit down,” Rafe said, pointing to the sofa.
Billy sat.
Rafe walked over to his desk. He glanced at the open magazine spread of Sabine’s dress, then closed the magazine with a sharp, dismissive motion.
He poured two glasses of water from a crystal carafe, walked over, and handed one to Billy.
“Drink,” he ordered softly.
Billy took the glass with her left hand.
“Why did she do it?” Rafe asked, sitting in the leather armchair across from her.
Billy looked down at the water. “I spilled the wine.”
“Don't lie to me, Billy,” Rafe said. His voice wasn't angry. It was a command disguised as a conversation. “I’ve watched Sabine navigate ballrooms for two years. She ignores servers. She doesn't humiliate them unless they threaten her.”
May you like
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“What did she see on your name tag?”
