“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?” my sister said with a sneer, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light as she adjusted the Valdderee heels on her feet. “I mean, I know things are hard for you, but couldn’t you at least have made an effort?” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. I had designed this “cheap” dress myself. I owned the label on her shoes. I owned the boutique we were standing in. And one hour earlier, I had personally approved the cancellation of her modeling contract. Then my brother’s bank made the news…

Around 11:00 a.m., Vivien Chen appeared at the boutique door. I’d been expecting her since her husband’s bankruptcy had finalized Monday morning.

“Elise,” she said, her usual polish cracked around the edges. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”

“Of course not.”

She nodded gratefully, following me to the back where I kept a small seating area deliberately modest—intentionally forgettable.

“I wanted to apologize again,” she began. “And also… I have a confession.”

I kept my expression neutral, pouring oolong into delicate cups.

“I know who you are.”

I didn’t react.

“My niece works at Parsons,” she rushed on. “She was researching E. Morgan for her thesis on invisible influencers in fashion. She showed me a photo from a trade show in Milan five years ago. Someone caught you in the background—just for a second—but I recognized you.”

“I see.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” she added quickly. “And I won’t. I just wanted you to know that someone sees you. Really sees you. Your mother would be so proud.”

“What makes you think—”

“The dress you wore to the funeral,” Vivien said. “I touched it when I hugged you. That fabric doesn’t exist at retail. That construction…” She swallowed. “I spent thirty years in fashion before I married money. I know haute couture when I feel it.”

I studied her carefully—Vivien stripped of her social armor, reduced to honesty by circumstance.