50 My mother, Lena, passed away twenty years ago, yet the scholarship gala that night still bore her name. She had done something my father didn't know about: a dress my mother had started before she died—and my father recognized the stitching on the silk fabric she had been working on.

I retreated into the alcove near the courtyard doors, pulling my dark velvet wrap tightly around my upper body to hide the shredded silk seam. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Tears tracked down my cheeks, burning against my skin.

Just stay here until the speeches are over, I told myself, clutching the torn fabric. Don't make a scene. Don't ruin Dad's night any further.

"Claire?"

I froze. My father was walking down the side corridor, accompanied by Marcus Vance and two elderly ladies who were major benefactors of the scholarship.

"Claire, there you are!" my father said, a genuine, warm smile on his face. "Marcus was just telling me about the studio archives. He was saying how much he remembers about—Claire, what’s wrong?"

He stopped in his tracks as he got closer. He saw my face, pale and wet with tears. He saw the way I was clutching my right shoulder, hunched over as if protecting a wound.

"Claire, are you okay?" he asked, stepping away from the donors and coming straight to my side.

Before I could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall. Evelyn and Madison appeared from the bar entrance. Madison was adjusting her bracelet, looking completely calm, while Evelyn wore a face of deep, theatrical concern.

"Oh, Thomas!" Evelyn called out, her voice loud enough to attract the attention of several nearby guests. "There you are. We were looking for you. Madison had a small misunderstanding with Claire, but we’re trying to resolve it quietly."

My father’s eyes narrowed. "A misunderstanding?"

"It was nothing, Dad," Madison said smoothly, stepping forward with a practiced, innocent smile. "Claire got a bit emotional about the logo change. I tried to comfort her and check on her dress, but I think she overreacted. She’s just feeling overwhelmed tonight."

She reached out her hand toward my shoulder—toward the dark velvet wrap covering the tear—with an air of condescending affection. "See? I just wanted to touch the patch she was so proud of..."

"Don't touch me!" I flinched back.

As I pulled away, the wrap slipped from my right arm.

The ruined shoulder of the midnight-blue dress spilled into the bright gallery light. The silver embroidery was torn to shreds, raw silk threads hanging in tangled wisps down my arm, the side seam completely ripped open.

The breath went out of my father.

He stared at the torn fabric. His face drained of all color, going from confused to utterly pale, and then to a shade of deep, thunderous red I had never seen on him in my entire life.

"Who..." my father’s voice was barely a whisper, vibrating with a rage so terrifying that even Marcus Vance stepped back. "Who did this?"

Evelyn immediately moved in front of Madison, her hands up in a soothing gesture. "Thomas, please, calm down. It was an accident! Madison accidentally caught her bracelet on the seam when she reached out to—"

"I didn't catch my bracelet," I interrupted, my voice clear and cutting through the hall. "She grabbed it and yanked it off my shoulder. She told me I was just a seamstress wearing a dead woman’s dress."

My father slowly turned his gaze from my ruined shoulder to Madison, and then to Evelyn.