Chapter 8 - The Seventy-Five-Thousand-Dollar Lie
I didn't meet Derek alone.
I didn't meet him at my apartment.
And I certainly didn't tell him where my inventory was stored.
Instead, I forwarded his messages to Rachel.
She called me at seven the next morning.
"Do you want to hear what he has to say?"
"Yes."
"Then we can arrange a meeting at my office."
Derek agreed immediately.
That frightened me more than his threats.
For three years, he'd refused to do anything that inconvenienced him.
Now he was willing to drive downtown on a Saturday morning.
Something had gone terribly wrong for him.
When I entered Rachel's conference room, Derek was already there.
He looked awful.
His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was greasy. A bruise darkened his jaw.
He was wearing the same black T-shirt I'd seen him put on after leaving Harper's apartment.
For a moment, my old instincts returned.
Had he eaten?
Was he sleeping?
Did he need money?
I hated that those questions still existed inside me.
Then I remembered the eighty dollars.
The towel.
My mother's designs hanging in Harper's showroom.
I sat down across from him.
Rachel took the chair beside me.
Derek stared at my face.
"You look different."
"Get to the point."
He flinched.
Then he pulled a folder from his backpack.
"Harper screwed me."
I didn't speak.
"She said I'd get thirty percent of Harlow House if I brought in the investment."
"Whose investment?" I asked.
He looked down.
I waited.
"Mine, Derek?"
He rubbed his face.
"She told me the money would come back before you noticed."
I stared at him.
"Eighteen thousand four hundred dollars."
"I know."
"Three years of savings."
"I know."
"Then say it."
He looked up.
"What?"
"Say what you did."
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Finally, he whispered, "I transferred your money."
"Our joint money," I corrected. "Money I earned and deposited. You sent it to her company without telling me."
He nodded.
"And the fake website?"
Derek swallowed.
"That was her idea."
"Did you help?"
He looked at Rachel.
She said nothing.
Derek stared at the table.
"Yes."
My stomach twisted.
He continued.
"Harper said your customers were loyal. She wanted to redirect the traffic before the grand opening. I gave her access to the photos, the customer mailing information I could reach, and your old product descriptions."
I felt physically cold.
"You gave her my customers' information?"
He nodded.
I turned toward Rachel.
She was writing notes.
"Keep going," she told him.
Derek's voice cracked.
"She said it was going to be a partnership."
"Did you tell her I agreed?"
"Yes."
"Did you sign my name on that contract?"
He hesitated.
Then he nodded again.
Something inside me went very still.
I had spent days imagining the truth.
Hearing it from his mouth was worse.
"You forged my signature."
He rubbed his forehead.
"She told me it was just paperwork. She said you'd sign the real agreement once you saw how much money we made."
I stared at him.
"You signed away my mother's collection for one dollar."
His eyes filled with tears.
"I messed up, Mia."
I didn't respond.
He leaned forward.
"Please. You know me."
That sentence almost made me laugh.
Yes.
I knew him.
I knew how he liked his eggs.
I knew he hated driving in snow.
I knew his favorite whiskey, the scar on his knee, and the way he talked in his sleep.
I knew the sound of his footsteps coming home after midnight.
But I hadn't known he could sit across from me and explain how he'd dismantled my livelihood.
I hadn't known him at all.
Derek opened the folder.
Inside were copies of invoices, messages, and a draft partnership agreement showing the promised seventy-five-thousand-dollar payment.
Rachel examined the documents.
"How did you obtain these?"
"They're mine. I was copied on the emails."
"Are the original messages still in your account?"
"Yes."
"Preserve them. Don't alter or delete anything."
He nodded quickly.
Then he pointed to a printed message.
"She told the manufacturer I owned Second Stitch."
I read it.
The email represented Derek as a founding partner and authorized representative of my business.
The recipient had asked for proof of authorization.
Harper had replied with the design transfer agreement.
The agreement bearing my forged signature.
Another email confirmed that Harlow House had received the eighteen-thousand-four-hundred-dollar transfer as an initial capital contribution.
Derek had been promised a substantial payment after the first major wholesale shipment.
And according to the latest messages, Harper had changed her mind.
She was keeping the money.
All of it.
Derek looked at me with desperate eyes.
"She cut me out. She said I was never a partner."
I folded my hands.
"So you came to me."
"Because she's using us both!"
"No, Derek."
He stopped.
"You helped her use me. Now she's using you."
His face crumpled.
"Mia, I loved you."
I felt that sentence land somewhere far away.
Maybe he had loved me.
Maybe he'd loved the rent I paid.
The groceries.
The clean laundry.
The security of knowing there would always be someone to rescue him.
I no longer cared which version was true.
"Did you love me when you ordered me out of her apartment?"
He looked away.
"Did you love me when you called me embarrassing?"
"Mia—"
"Did you love me when you gave her my mother's designs?"
Tears rolled down his face.
I didn't move.
Rachel asked Derek whether he was willing to have his attorney coordinate the proper transfer and preservation of the records.
He nodded.
She made no promises about what might happen to him.
Neither did I.
Before leaving, Derek approached me.
"Can we talk for one minute? Just us?"
I looked at Rachel.
She stood a few feet away, remaining within sight.
Derek lowered his voice.
"I miss you."
My stomach tightened.
"Don't."
"I miss coming home to you. I miss your cooking. I miss hearing you talk about your orders."
He wiped his face.
"Harper's not like you."
I stared at him.
"You're right."
Hope flickered across his face.
I continued.
"She doesn't want to support you while you drink and lie. She wants to use you for money. Apparently, you two have a lot in common."
He looked wounded.
It was almost funny.
Then he reached into his pocket.
He held out my old apartment key.
"I want to come home."
I looked at the key.
For three years, I'd mistaken needing someone for loving them.
I'd mistaken rescuing Derek for being important to him.
I'd spent so much time protecting his feelings that I'd forgotten I had feelings of my own.
"No."
He blinked.
"Mia, please."
"No, Derek. I'm not your backup plan."
I accepted the key without pretending that it resolved our shared lease.
Rachel had already begun helping me work through that separately.
Derek started crying again.
I walked away.
When I reached the community hall, Tasha was hanging a large paper sign above the entrance.
SECOND STITCH BY MIA — THE ORIGINAL ROSE COLLECTION.
Mrs. Alvarez was arranging dresses.
Noah was checking the payment terminals.
Everything looked beautiful.
Simple.
Honest.
Mine.
Tasha climbed down from the ladder.
"Well?"
"He admitted it."
Her eyes widened.
"All of it?"
"Enough that Rachel has a lot more to investigate."
She hugged me.
"How do you feel?"
I looked around the hall.
At the clothes.
The people.
The little table holding my mother's photograph.
"Strange."
"Strange how?"
"Like I've been carrying a suitcase full of rocks, and I finally put it down."
Tasha smiled.
"Good."
Then Noah approached.
"The doors open in forty minutes."
I nodded.
"Okay."
He looked at my face.
"You all right?"
I took a slow breath.
"Not completely."
He smiled.
"That's allowed."
I glanced toward the entrance.
A woman was already waiting outside.
Then another.
And another.
I walked to the window.
There were nearly thirty people on the sidewalk.
Some held coffee.
Some carried shopping bags.
One woman had brought a little girl wearing a yellow dress.
My eyes filled with tears.
Then a black luxury SUV pulled into the parking lot.
The door opened.
Harper Lane stepped out.
She was wearing a cream-colored suit and enormous sunglasses.
She looked directly at the sign above the entrance.
May you like
Then she smiled.
And I knew she hadn't come to shop.
