Marcus had to leave the room.
He went into the restroom.
Locked the door.
Stared at himself.
He did not cry immediately.
First came shame.
He had been exactly what Vanessa described.
Easy to approve.
Buried in meetings.
He spent years telling himself every long day was for Maya.
Building security.
Protecting the company Camille helped him start.
Creating opportunities for his daughter.
Meanwhile someone inside his house was stealing from Maya because Marcus was too busy earning more money to watch where existing money went.
He laughed once.
It sounded terrible.
Then he cried.
Afterward he washed his face.
Returned to the conference room.
“What else?”
Jonathan studied him.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
There were messages about the dress too.
Not many.
Enough.
Vanessa had texted a friend named Elise three weeks earlier:
She wants to wear Camille’s ridiculous princess gown.
Elise replied:
Let her. It’s sentimental.
Vanessa:
You don’t understand. Every camera at that gala will run photos with “late designer Camille Brooks’s daughter wears mother’s unfinished gown.” My sponsorship becomes background.
Elise:
Then maybe let the kid have her moment.
Vanessa:
I have spent two years living in that woman’s background.
Marcus closed his eyes.
Another message, the day before the dress was destroyed:
If the dress somehow becomes unwearable, she’ll have to use mine.
Elise:
Vanessa don’t.
That was all.
Premeditation.
Not an impulsive loss of patience.
Marcus looked at Jonathan.
“She planned it.”
“Yes.”
The scissors were not an accident.
The punishment was not a spontaneous argument.
Vanessa had decided.
Marcus called Camille’s mother.
“Lillian.”
“Yes?”
“Can you repair the dress?”
Silence.
“I’m trying.”
“For Saturday?”
Another pause.
“If I don’t sleep.”
“No.”
Marcus shook his head despite her not seeing.
“Don’t hurt yourself for this.”
Lillian’s voice softened.
“Marcus.”
“Yes?”
“Camille sewed through chemotherapy because she did not know how many chances she had left to make things.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“I have plenty of chances.”
“Lillian—”
“I asked whether you wanted an answer.”
Marcus smiled through tears.
“No.”
“The answer is yes.”
Saturday arrived.
The Founders Ball filled the St. Catherine’s Academy ballroom with flowers, white linen, string lights and more money than any school fundraiser needed.
Maya refused to attend until Friday night.
Then Lillian appeared at the house carrying a long white garment bag.
She hung it from Maya’s bedroom door.
“Open it.”
Maya did.
The dress was pink.
Still.
But not the same.
The damaged sections could not be restored invisibly.