Chapter 2 - The Ashes of Ashcombe
The night rain in Bellmare was relentless. It slicked the cobblestones of Harbor Row and turned the yellow streetlights into blurred halos.
I sat in my car for twenty minutes, the engine idling, the heat blasting, staring at the white velvet garment bag hanging in the salon window across the street. Through the glass, I could see Sienna standing red-faced while my mother frantically motioned to Margot. Graham was on his phone, likely calling his legal team or drafting an email to spin the narrative before I could speak to anyone.
My hands were shaking violently on the steering wheel.
For eleven months, I had been the dutiful daughter, the quiet artisan, the patient fiancée. When my father died six years ago, he left the family estate and the primary trust to my mother, with instructions that she administer it fairly. But 'fairly' in Eleanor Hale's mind meant ensuring Sienna lived in luxury while I earned every single dollar through my independent textile design studio.
I drove straight to my studio in the Historic Mill District.
The studio was my sanctuary. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, cutting tables stacked with imported silks, antique spools of French thread, and my grandmothers old heavy cast-iron Singer sewing machine sitting in the corner under a velvet dust cover.
I threw my coat onto the cutting table, grabbed a pair of heavy tailor shears, and laid the cathedral veil flat under the bright LED studio lamps.
My chest heaved. The tears finally spilled over—hot, angry, scalding tears.
I looked at the delicate lily-of-the-valley embroidery along the edge of the veil. Nana Rose had taught me that every stitch carried an intention. “When you sew for love, Little Bird, you double knot it so it never unravels. When you sew with hatred, the thread snaps on its own.”
I raised the heavy iron shears.
CLACK.
The steel blades sliced clean through the delicate tulle, cutting right through the first cluster of embroidered lilies.
CLACK. CLACK.
I didn't destroy the whole veil. I cut with surgical precision. I severed every single lily-of-the-valley cluster away from the main tulle structure, leaving small, isolated lace medallions. If Sienna wanted my work, she would have to collect the scraps off my floor.
My phone rang. The screen displayed: GRAHAM.
I answered on the fourth ring and set it on speaker while I kept cutting.
"Juliet," Graham's voice was tight, irritated. "Where are you? Your mother is hysterical. Sienna is crying. You completely ruined what was supposed to be a peaceful transition."
"A peaceful transition?" I echoed, letting out a cold laugh. "Graham, you are sleeping with my sister."
"We haven't slept together!" he snapped defensive. "We've been talking. We realized we had feelings for each other six weeks ago during the charity gala planning. We were going to tell you next week after the final fittings were settled."
"How generous of you. To wait until the dress was finished."
"Don't do this, Jules. You're thirty-four years old. You're an adult. Acting out like this is only going to alienate your mother and make things awkward in Bellmare society. You know how important my promotion to senior partner is next month. The firm’s partners are attending the June 7th wedding."
"Then I suggest you buy Sienna a dress off the rack at a department store," I said, my voice ice. "Because my gown stays in my possession."
"Your mother paid the salon balance, Juliet," Graham’s tone turned cold, lawyerly, menacing. "Technically, the physical garment belongs to the person who cleared the invoice. If you try to remove that gown from Atelier Fontaine, or if you interfere with the reservation at Ashcombe Glasshouse, I will personally file an injunction against you for tortious interference and property theft."
I stopped cutting. The shears rested on the hard maple table.
"You're threatening to sue me?" I asked softly.
"I'm protecting my future, Juliet. You should protect yours. Leave the dress at the salon. We’ll reimburse you twenty thousand dollars for your labor hours. Consider it a commercial commission. Let's handle this like adults."
I picked up the phone. "Graham?"
"Yes?"
"Go to hell."
I hung up, blocked his number, and immediately called my attorney and closest friend, Clara Vance.
Clara answered on the second ring. "Jules? It's almost 9 PM, aren't you supposed to be—"
"Graham is sleeping with Sienna," I said flatly. "My mother paid off Margot at Atelier Fontaine to transfer my bridal gown and my June 7th wedding reservation at Ashcombe Glasshouse into Sienna's name. Graham just threatened to slap me with an injunction if I take my dress back."
There was a five-second silence on the line. Then I heard the sharp click of Clara's laptop opening.
"Repeat that," Clara said, her voice dropping all friendliness and instantly switching into lethal attorney mode. "Did you say Eleanor signed the alteration transfer?"
"Yes. She paid the fifteen thousand dollar balance on the gown using her own card."
"Did you sign any document transferring ownership of your custom embroidery or the original design layout to Atelier Fontaine or your mother?"
May you like
"No," I said. "The original contract with Atelier Fontaine was for construction and assembly using my raw materials. I bought the silk crepe myself from Lyons last autumn. I have the customs receipts and wire transfers. The hand embroidery was done entirely in my studio."
"Good," Clara purred, her keys clacking furiously in the background. "Then Graham Montgomery just made the biggest legal mistake of his arrogant little life. Meet me at my office in thirty minutes, Juliet. We aren't just getting your dress back. We're going to tear their entire June 7th fantasy to shred."
