Chapter 3 Private Thread

Elena woke before the sun because the idea of it sitting in her chest would not let her sleep. The shop was quiet when she walked in, the two machines waiting like old relatives. She made instant coffee, not because she liked it but because the smell steadied her hands. Caleb was at school. Emily was still asleep. The shop was theirs and it felt heavy with possible change.

Zara arrived with a bag and a grin that would not quit. "You look like you're about to meet a king," she said, because she loved a good line.

"It's an audition," Elena said. The word sounded small in her mouth.

Zara set down a roll of muslin and a few pins. "They'll see your work. That's all. You sew like your mother, Ellie. Just do that."

Elena touched the corner of the sketch that had been in the application. Her mother's lines were blunt and honest. They did not try to be clever. They fit a body the way a promise fits a hand. Elena folded the fabric and pressed it with her palm until it lay flat. She dressed in a plain blouse and jeans. She braided her hair back because it got in her way.

The ride to the studio felt like a vein of glass through the city. Zara talked and Elena listened. People passed the window with to-go cups. She looked away. The studio was in a building with a glass door and a man who checked names at a desk. When they said Elena Carter, he looked at a paper and nodded like this was all usual.

The room they led her into was light and smelled like new fabric and lemon. A long table sat in the middle with a row of chairs. A rack of clothes hung against the far wall-clean, quiet, perfect. The lights were soft, not harsh. Someone handed her a clipboard with a form. She read it while her fingers twitched.

A woman with sharp glasses and a calm voice introduced herself as the evaluator. "We'll test your technique and your fit. Then a private reviewer will decide if we proceed to collaboration. You'll have an hour."

Elena nodded. One hour. Her stomach pushed against her ribs like it wanted to run. She set her things down and smoothed a piece of muslin until the fabric looked obedient. The evaluator set a model in front of her. The model was small and still and smelled faintly of citrus. The fabric they gave her was not what she expected. It was silk-cheap silk by couture standards-and the scissors they offered were new and sharp with a small warning label.

Zara squeezed her hand once and then left with a promise to wait. "You got this," she said. The door closed. The quiet of the room wrapped around Elena like a sheet.

She began to cut. Her hands knew how to hold the cloth. The scissors felt strange and true. Her cuts were small and safe, then bolder as she moved. She pinned the fabric on the model, sewed by hand where the machine would have been, and then used a small electric needle they provided to finish a seam. It hummed. It was foreign and fast. Her heart kept time with it.

Halfway through, the evaluator called a pause. "Mr. Cole would like to see the progress," she said.

Elena's breath tightened. She had been told not to expect him. She had been told private. She smoothed her hands over the pinned fabric and walked toward the open doorway to see who would come.

He stepped in like a quiet storm. Tall, in a black suit that hugged him right, hair neat. Even in a room of neutral light, he looked made. His eyes moved across the work and then landed on her like someone surprised by color. There was a small line at the corner of his mouth that could have been a smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Ms. Carter," he said. His voice was a thing that fit rooms. "You've been kept busy."

She said his name once and it was heavy on her tongue. "Mr. Cole."

He walked slowly to the table and stopped at the seam of the piece she was working on. He looked at the pins, the cut, the way the cloth lay. Then he reached out and touched the fabric where her fingers had been. The contact was brief, polite, nothing a stranger should do, and it made the heat climb the back of her neck.

"You have a steady hand," he said. "Your mother was precise."

Her breath hitched. "How-?"

He pulled back like he had moved too close. His face smoothed. "Family records," he said, with a correctness that was not an answer. "Old ties. It's possible we overlapped."

Something in Elena went quiet and then loud again. Her heart felt like someone had turned a dial. "My mother worked here?" The words were small, careful.

"It's complicated," Aryan said. He looked at her then, not at the cloth. "Margaret Carter was known in some circles. She left. There were... problems."

Problems. The word landed like a stone. Elena thought of the whispering at the market. The way her mother had stopped coming home once. The way the shop had held its breath after.

Aryan's hand moved again, this time to the sketch lying on the clipboard. He picked it up and studied it. He traced a line with his finger and then tapped it. "This line here," he said softly, "is good. It makes the shoulder look like it can hold someone's story."

His voice was softer than she expected. It made her want to be honest and lie at once. She closed her mouth and kept her shoulders even.

"Do you want credit?" he asked.

The question was sharp and simple. Elena felt a flood of things that were not names-anger, hunger, shame. "I want my mother's name back," she said.

He nodded. "That is what we will discuss."

They talked for a while in small sentences. He asked little things about technique. He asked where she learned to press seam. He asked about the two machines and the name on the shop. Zara watched from the doorway, her face unreadable. Jordan did not come in. No cameras. Private, like he had promised.

When the evaluator took the clipboard, Aryan stood and smoothed his jacket with two fingers the way a man smooths paper before signing. "We will present an offer if the studio likes the final fit," he said. "If you accept, it will be a limited collaboration. Credit will be determined."

Elena kept the words in both hands like hot coins. She wanted to say everything at once. She wanted to tell him how the name had been sprayed across whispers. She wanted to spit the truth in his face and not care. Instead she folded the cloth and held it to her chest like something small and living.

As they walked her to the elevator, Aryan's suit brushed her arm for a second. The touch was light, almost accidental. The skin at her wrist woke up from tiredness. He did not look at her while the lift closed and the doors glided up. The building hummed around them.

When the elevator stopped and the door opened, a woman stood waiting-Victoria Lane, tall and pale, perfect hair, eyes like glass. She smiled with teeth and did not speak. Aryan's hand tightened near his side for a half second and then relaxed.

Elena saw the way the two of them measured each other like men and women used to do when there was a war between houses. Victoria stepped forward and her shoes clicked and the sound was sharp.

"Mr. Cole," she said, and her voice made the air colder. "Everything on schedule?"

Aryan looked at her and for a moment the patrol of his chest changed. He turned to Elena. "I'll be in touch," he said.

"You will," Elena answered, not sure if she was promising or warning.

The doors closed and the elevator moved. Between floors the light blinked and for a second Elena saw a memory that was not hers: a woman behind the glass, a dress on a hanger, a name called out and taken.

When the doors opened again, Zara was waiting with a face that had stopped a laugh. "?" she started, then closed her mouth. She took Elena's hand and squeezed. "How did it go?"

Elena had a dozen answers and only one that sounded honest. "He knows the name," she said. Her voice trembled and she steadied it. "He knows the name and he touched the cloth."

Zara looked at the roll of muslin like it might bite. "So now what?"

Elena stared at the elevator door, the mirror in it promising a thousand small shapes. "Now," she said, "we wait."

A text came through then on her phone from an unknown number: Private offer pending. Meet Mr. Cole at his office. Tonight. 8 PM. The message was short, flat, and it smelled like a trap.

Elena's thumb hovered over the screen. Her heart beat like a machine pedal. She could say no. She could walk away and keep the shop and the two machines and the small life she knew. Or she could go into a glass tower and stand under lights that would find every seam.

She looked at Zara, at the cloth in her hands, at the scar on her thumb. The city hummed around them. The message waited like a dare.

Elena swallowed. "Tonight," she said. "I'll go."