Chapter 4 - THE SKETCHBOOK
Billy stared at the water in the glass. The ice clinked softly as her hand trembled.
“It doesn't matter,” Billy said quietly.
Rafe’s eyes darkened. “I just cleared three hundred guests out of my hotel, refunded half a million dollars in catering, and humiliated the woman I’m supposed to marry. Tell me why.”
“Because she knows my mother,” Billy finally said, raising her eyes to meet his.
Rafe frowned. “Who is your mother?”
“Deardra Ror. She was Sabine’s lead pattern maker four years ago.”
Rafe leaned back in his chair, processing the name. He was a man who traded in information, and Billy could see him searching his mental files.
“Sabine fired her entire design team before she launched the reverse-beading line,” Rafe noted slowly. “She said they lacked vision.”
“My mother didn't lack vision, Mr. Santangelo,” Billy said, her voice steadying. “She invented the reverse-beading technique. She spent six months perfecting it in our kitchen. Sabine stole it, fired her to keep her quiet, and claimed the patent as her own.”
The silence in the office grew heavy.
Rafe stared at her. He didn't laugh. He didn't immediately call security to throw her out for slandering his fiancée. He just watched her, analyzing every micro-expression on her face.
“That’s a very dangerous accusation, Billy,” Rafe said softly. “Sabine’s entire empire is built on that technique. If what you’re saying is true, her brand is a fraud.”
“I know,” Billy said.
“Do you have proof?”
Billy hesitated. The file was in her sewing cabinet in Dorchester. Bringing it to the mafia boss without a guarantee of safety was suicidal.
“If I show you proof, what will you do with it?” Billy asked.
Rafe raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her audacity. “You’re negotiating with me?”
“I’m protecting my mother,” Billy replied firmly. “She had a stroke a week after Sabine fired her. She requires constant care. If I give you the proof and you use it to protect your investment in Sabine’s company, my mother gets nothing, and I get fired.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpened. “You know about my investment.”
“I know about the food supplier, the laundry service, and the waste management company,” Billy said, not backing down. “I know they all trace back to you. You funded her launch.”
Rafe let out a low, humorless chuckle. “You’ve been busy for a banquet server.”
Before he could say anything else, the office door swung open.
A tall, older man with a graying beard and a medical bag entered.
“Doc,” Rafe said, standing up. “Take care of her hand.”
The doctor didn't ask questions. He walked over to Billy, examined the glass embedded in her palm, and began preparing a local anesthetic.
“I need to make a phone call,” Rafe said, walking toward the door. He stopped and looked back at Billy. “Don't leave this office until I return.”
He walked out.
The doctor worked quickly and silently. He removed the glass, stitched the deep cut with seven neat sutures, and bandaged the hand securely.
“Keep it dry,” the doctor said, packing his bag. “And don't carry any heavy trays for a week.”
He left as quickly as he had arrived.
Billy sat alone on the sofa. Her hand throbbed beneath the bandage, but her mind was racing faster than the pain. Rafe hadn't dismissed her claims. He was investigating them.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again.
It wasn't Rafe.
It was Sabine.
She had changed out of the ruined reverse-beaded gown and was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit. She looked furious, but underneath the anger, Billy saw the raw edge of panic.
“Get out,” Sabine snapped, pointing at the door.
Billy didn't move. “Mr. Santangelo told me to wait here.”
“I don't care what he told you,” Sabine hissed, crossing the room until she was standing directly over Billy. “You think you’re smart, sneaking in here? Playing the victim?”
“I’m not playing anything, Sabine,” Billy said, keeping her voice even.
Sabine grabbed Billy’s uninjured left arm, her manicured nails digging into the skin.
“Listen to me, you little rat,” Sabine whispered, her face inches from Billy’s. “Your mother was a nobody. She was a seamstress who couldn't even afford a patent lawyer. If you breathe one word about that technique to Rafe, I will make sure your mother loses her house, her caregiver, and whatever pathetic life she has left.”
Billy’s blood ran cold.
Sabine smiled cruelly. “I own the mortgage company that holds the second lien on your house in Dorchester, Billy. You really thought I wouldn't keep tabs on the people I fired?”
Billy stared at her. Her father had paid off the house. There was no mortgage.
Unless her mother had taken out a secret loan to pay for her own medical care before the stroke incapacitated her.
“Leave now,” Sabine ordered, releasing Billy’s arm. “And never come back to this hotel.”
Billy stood up. She looked at Sabine, the woman who had stolen her mother’s genius and was now threatening her home.
Billy didn't say a word. She walked out of the office, down the private elevator, and out into the freezing Boston night.
She took the two trains back to Dorchester. The ride took an hour. The entire time, her mind spun around the second lien. If Sabine foreclosed on the house, Deardra would be placed in a state-run facility. Billy couldn't let that happen.
She reached the small house at 1:15 AM.
The lights were off. The caregiver had left hours ago.
Billy crept through the hallway, avoiding the creaky floorboard, and went straight to the living room.
She didn't turn on the light. She used the flashlight on her phone.
She opened the second drawer of the sewing cabinet.
She reached for the thick file held together by three black binder clips.
Her fingers brushed the paper, but she froze.
The file felt too thin.
She pulled it out and shined the light on it.
The three black binder clips were there. But the thick stack of original sketches, the dated receipts, the patent applications her mother had filled out but never filed... they were gone.
The file was completely empty, save for a single, new piece of paper.
Billy unfolded it.
May you like
It was a handwritten note.
I told you not to play games.
