Chapter 3 - The Dress Nobody Was Supposed to See
“I'm going with you.”
“No.”
Lena stood in Adrian's office with the metal key clenched inside her fist.
“You don't even know what it opens.”
“I do.”
“Then I'm definitely going.”
Adrian looked toward Marco.
Marco pretended to be very interested in the wall.
The freight terminal sat on the South Side near a row of abandoned industrial buildings Moretti Freight had stopped using years earlier. Adrian's father had closed the property months before Thomas Hart died.
After Salvatore's own death, Adrian never reopened it.
He had no reason to.
Until now.
“It's not safe,” Adrian said.
Lena laughed once.
“Someone broke into my apartment.”
“Which is why you're not going.”
“My father left the key to me.”
“Eleven years ago.”
“Exactly.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“You're making my argument.”
“No. I'm making mine.”
He studied her.
She looked exhausted.
Afraid.
Angry.
But not intimidated.
It was becoming a pattern.
“What do you think is there?” she asked.
“I don't know.”
“Do you think my father did something illegal?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you think your father did?”
Adrian said nothing.
Lena understood.
“That one you do know.”
“My father was complicated.”
“That is rich-man language for yes.”
Adrian looked at her.
“He did things I spent the last twelve years undoing.”
“Did those things get my father killed?”
The room became silent.
Even Marco looked away.
Adrian answered carefully.
“I don't know.”
Lena swallowed.
“But you're wondering.”
“Yes.”
That honesty changed something.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But perhaps the possibility of it.
Adrian arranged for her to stay temporarily in an apartment owned by one of his companies. Lena refused twice, then accepted only after Marco reminded her that her own door had been broken.
“I’m paying rent.”
“No,” Adrian said.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Then I'm sleeping in my studio.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
“How much?”
“One dollar.”
She stared at him.
“Per night.”
“That is not rent.”
“It is now.”
“You are impossible.”
“I've been told.”
That evening, Lena was brought to an apartment overlooking the river.
It was larger than the building she lived in.
She walked through the living room in silence.
“This is temporary,” she said.
Adrian stood by the doorway.
“Of course.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“And I'm not accepting expensive gifts.”
“You've said that.”
“And nobody comes in without knocking.”
“Understood.”
“And I need my sewing machine.”
Adrian blinked.
“Your apartment may be compromised.”
“My machine weighs sixty pounds. If somebody steals it, they're committed.”
Marco actually laughed.
Lena looked pleased.
Adrian looked betrayed.
Two hours later, the sewing machine arrived.
So did three boxes of fabric Lena had forgotten she owned.
She spent the night working.
Designing was the only thing that quieted her mind.
At 1:10 a.m., she heard a soft knock.
Adrian stood outside with two coffees.
She looked at the clock.
“You understand coffee stops working if you never sleep.”
“I'm experimenting.”
He handed her one.
She took it.
“Why are you here?”
“I live upstairs.”
“Of course you do.”
He looked past her toward the dress form.
A partially constructed gown was pinned into place.
Deep midnight blue.
Sharp architectural folds crossed the bodice and opened into a softer skirt.
Adrian stepped closer.
“This wasn't in your portfolio.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it isn't finished.”
He studied it.
“What is it?”
“A mistake.”
“That looks expensive for a mistake.”
“I started it after my father died.”
Adrian looked at her.
She touched the fabric.
“I was sixteen. I wanted to make something he would have said was too ambitious.”
“Why didn't you finish it?”
“I kept changing.”
“The dress?”
“Me.”
Adrian looked again at the gown.
“What would you change now?”
Lena considered.
“Nothing.”
“Then finish it.”
She turned to him.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“Most things are simple.”
“Coming from a man with armed security, that's adorable.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Marco isn't armed tonight.”
Marco's voice came from the hallway.
“Yes, I am.”
Lena laughed.
Adrian shook his head.
For a few minutes, they stood together beside the unfinished dress.
No threats.
No strange photographs.
No dead fathers.
Just fabric.
“What did your father want you to become?” Adrian asked.
“A designer.”
“He got that.”
“I’m not sure anybody else has.”
“He was right.”
She looked at him.
“You've seen twelve sketches.”
“I know quality.”
“You know companies.”
“Same principle.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Convince me.”
So Lena did.
For twenty minutes she explained proportion, structure, movement, construction, and why a beautiful drawing could become an ugly garment if the weight of fabric was wrong.
Adrian listened.
Actually listened.
Nobody interrupted her.
Nobody checked a phone.
Nobody asked how quickly she could make something cheaper.
When she finished, he looked at the blue dress again.
“What would it cost to produce twenty pieces from your collection?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“This is where you offer money.”
“This is where I ask a question.”
“About twenty thousand, depending on materials.”
“That's all?”
“To you, probably.”
“To a retail company, yes.”
“To me, it might as well be twenty million.”
Adrian leaned against the table.
“What if I invest?”
“No.”
“You didn't think.”
“I did yesterday. No.”
“Why?”
“Because if I succeed with your money, nobody will believe I succeeded.”
“That matters?”
“To me.”
“What if it's a loan?”
“No.”
“Market rate.”
“No.”
“High interest.”
She smiled.
“Tempting.”
Adrian smiled back.
It lingered this time.
Then Lena's expression softened.
“Why are you helping me?”
He could have said because her father might have been harmed by his family.
Because she was now part of a threat against him.
Because he felt responsible.
But none of those reasons explained why he had brought coffee at one in the morning.
“I don't know.”
She looked at him.
“That might be the first answer you've given me that I completely believe.”
The next morning they went to the freight terminal.
Not the main building.
A secondary storage facility attached to it.
Marco entered first with two security men.
Adrian followed.
Lena stayed close behind him.
Inside, dust covered the floor.
Old loading charts remained bolted to the walls.
A line of metal lockers stood along the east side.
Lena held up the key.
Locker 814 was near the end.
She inserted it.
The lock turned.
Inside was a garment bag.
Nothing else.
Lena stared.
“My father hid clothes?”
She pulled the garment bag out.
Adrian unzipped it.
Inside hung a charcoal-gray men's suit.
Beautifully made.
Hand stitched.
On the inner breast pocket, a small label had been sewn.
HART & SON — BESPOKE.
Lena touched it.
“My grandfather used that label.”
She searched the pockets.
Empty.
Then she noticed something strange.
The lining had been stitched twice.
She took the sewing kit from her bag.
Adrian stared.
“You brought that?”
“I am a professional.”
With a tiny seam ripper, Lena opened three inches of the lining.
A folded piece of paper slid out.
She unfolded it.
A list of numbers.
Dates.
Names.
Payments.
Several names belonged to Moretti-owned companies.
One belonged to Vittorio Santo's father.
Another belonged to Dominic Vale.
And at the bottom was a handwritten note.
Salvatore knows.
Lena looked at Adrian.
“Your father knew what?”
He read further.
One line stopped him.
T. Hart refused transfer.
Lena whispered, “Transfer of what?”
Adrian continued scanning.
Money had been routed through Moretti Freight under fake shipping invoices.
Millions.
But Salvatore's signature wasn't on the approvals.
Someone else had used company accounts.
Dominic Vale.
Then a younger accountant working for Moretti Freight.
And Santo Logistics.
Lena saw another note.
Meeting 8/14.
“Eight fourteen,” she whispered.
The number on the key.
Adrian nodded slowly.
“It wasn't a locker number first.”
“What happened on August fourteenth?”
Marco answered from behind them.
“Thomas Hart disappeared for six hours.”
Lena turned.
“How do you know?”
“I pulled the old records.”
“Where did he go?”
“We don't know.”
Adrian looked at the ledger.
Maybe Thomas had discovered the fraud.
Maybe he threatened to expose it.
Maybe Salvatore had tried to help him.
Or maybe Salvatore was involved.
The answer could destroy everything Adrian thought he knew about his father.
Then footsteps sounded beyond the corridor.
Marco raised one hand.
Everyone stopped.
Another sound.
Metal scraping.
Adrian moved Lena behind him.
“Stay here.”
“Don't tell me—”
“Lena.”
Something in his voice silenced her.
Marco moved toward the doorway.
He checked the corridor.
Empty.
Then one of the security men called from the loading bay.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Adrian and Lena walked toward him.
A side door stood open.
It had been locked when they arrived.
On the concrete floor sat a black garment box.
Lena's face tightened.
Adrian opened it.
Inside was a dress.
Midnight blue.
Almost identical to the unfinished gown Lena had been making the previous night.
Her design.
Her private design.
A design that had never been photographed for Calder & Finch.
Never emailed.
Never posted.
Never shown to anyone except Adrian.
Lena stepped backward.
“No.”
Adrian's expression turned cold.
A card rested beneath the dress.
He picked it up.
Six words.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT HER ALONE.
Lena looked at Adrian.
“Someone was inside the apartment.”
“No.”
“They saw the dress.”
“No one entered.”
“Then how did they copy it?”
Adrian looked toward Marco.
Marco's face had changed.
“Security footage.”
“What?”
“There's one camera in Lena's workroom.”
Adrian stared at him.
“I didn't authorize that.”
“I know.”
Marco pulled out his phone.
“I just checked the system.”
“And?”
“The camera wasn't installed by us.”
Lena's face went white.
Adrian looked at the copied dress again.
Someone had been watching her.
Not for hours.
Possibly for days.
Then Marco's phone vibrated.
He opened a message.
His eyes hardened.
“What?”
Marco looked at Lena.
“The apartment camera just came back online.”
“But we're all here,” Lena said.
Marco turned the screen toward Adrian.
The live feed showed Lena's temporary studio.
Empty.
For three seconds.
Then a man stepped into frame.
Dominic Vale.
May you like
He looked directly into the hidden camera.
And held up Thomas Hart's missing folder.
