Chapter 5

Lucy's POV

Wendy's phone screen glows between us like a loaded weapon. The design sketch is good—professional execution, clean lines—but the similarities to my submission are superficial. Same silhouette, yes, but the underlying psychology is completely different.

"I don't see the resemblance," I say carefully, buying time to think. Around us, the design floor has gone silent, everyone's attention locked on this confrontation like spectators at a car crash. Nathan Brooks is half-risen from his desk, expression unreadable.

Wendy's smile sharpens. "Really? The asymmetric panel structure? The contrast detail at the shoulder? The exact same proportions?" She swipes to another image—her original sketch, timestamped March 15th. "I uploaded this to the shared folder three weeks before your submission. Everyone can verify the metadata."

My pulse spikes, but I force myself to stay calm.

"I never accessed that folder," I say. "I can show you my access logs—"

"Access logs can be deleted." Wendy's voice rises just enough to ensure everyone hears. "Look, I'm not saying you did this maliciously. Maybe you saw the sketch and forgot, and it influenced you subconsciously? It happens. I just think we should talk to Nathan about proper attribution before this design goes into production."

The trap clicks shut. If I defend myself too aggressively, I look guilty and defensive. If I don't defend myself, I accept the accusation by silence. Either way, Wendy wins—she gets to position herself as the magnanimous victim, and I become the designer who "borrows" ideas.

But there's a third option.

"You're right," I say quietly. "We should talk to Nathan. In fact, we should talk to Mr. Reid."

Wendy's confidence flickers. "That's not necessary—"

"If you're accusing me of intellectual property theft, this is a legal issue, not a creative disagreement. Mr. Reid should be informed." I pull out my phone, open the message thread I created less than twenty minutes ago. Wendy Foster is accusing me of design theft. She wants to take this to Nathan. I think you should be involved.

The response is immediate: Send her up. You come with her.

I show Wendy the screen. "Mr. Reid wants to see us both. Now."

The color drains from her face. "Lucy, I don't think we need to bother the CEO with—"

"You said this was serious enough to discuss in front of the entire department. If it's that serious, it's serious enough for executive review." I stand, gathering my tablet and the physical sketchbook I always keep at my desk—the one filled with psychological observations disguised as design notes. "Unless you'd like to retract the accusation?"

Wendy's jaw tightens. She's cornered now, and she knows it. Backing down means admitting she was bluffing. Going forward means facing Ethan Reid's scrutiny. But she's too committed to the performance, too confident in her family's business relationship with Aegis.

"Fine. Let's go."

The elevator ride is excruciating. Wendy keeps glancing at me, trying to read my expression, but I've locked down every tell. This is the part of psychology training that fashion school doesn't teach—how to control your own stress responses while cataloging everyone else's. Her breathing has accelerated. She's touching her phone repeatedly, probably texting her father. The confidence from five minutes ago is cracking around the edges.

Good. Let her doubt.

Sean is waiting when the doors open on 45. His expression is perfectly neutral, but there's something sharp in his eyes when he looks at Wendy. "Mr. Reid is expecting you both. Ms. Lowe, you'll go in first. Ms. Foster, please wait here."

Wendy's protest dies when Sean's expression doesn't change. I follow him to Ethan's office, where the door is already open.

Ethan is standing at his desk, reviewing something on his tablet. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment I see the man from this morning—vulnerable, uncertain, asking me to let him protect me. Then the mask slides back into place, and he's the CEO again.

"Close the door," he says. "Walk me through what happened."

I do, keeping my voice steady and factual. Wendy's accusation, the public performance, the metadata timestamp. Ethan listens without interrupting, but I see his jaw tighten when I describe how she made sure everyone on the floor was watching.

"Do you have your original sketches?" he asks.

"Physical and digital. The physical ones are in my personal sketchbook, dated entries going back six months. The digital files have creation timestamps that predate her shared folder upload."

"Show me."

I open my tablet, pull up the design file. The metadata is clear—created February 28th, last modified March 10th, five days before Wendy's upload. Then I open my physical sketchbook to the page where I first worked out the concept, dated February 23rd in my own handwriting.

But it's what's around the sketch that makes Ethan pause. My notes aren't about fabric or construction—they're psychological observations.

Target demographic: professional women 28-35, middle management.Goal: create visual authority without aggressive masculinity. Asymmetric panels create cognitive disruption—viewer's eye forced to process unusual geometry, reads as "intelligent" rather than "decorative." Contrast detail at shoulder draws eye upward, increases perceived height and confidence.

"This isn't a fashion sketch," Ethan says quietly. "This is a psychological intervention disguised as clothing."

My throat tightens. I've just exposed exactly what I've been hiding for a year—that I don't design clothes, I design solutions to emotional problems. That every piece I create is rooted in consumer psychology, visual perception theory, and behavioral modification techniques.

"I study what makes people feel powerful," I say carefully. "And then I design garments that create those feelings."

Ethan's expression shifts—not exploitation, but something closer to respect. "This is why your designs consistently outperform everyone else's. " He sets down the tablet. "Send Wendy in. And Lucy? Don't leave the building."

I find Wendy pacing in the waiting area, phone pressed to her ear. She cuts off mid-sentence when she sees me. "Your turn," I say.

She straightens her Gucci blazer, rebuilds her confidence like armor, and walks into Ethan's office. The door closes behind her.

Sean gestures to the leather sofa. "Have a seat. This might take a while."

Through the glass wall, I can see Ethan's silhouette. He's standing, not sitting—a power move. Wendy is gesturing, explaining, performing. But Ethan's posture doesn't change.

My phone buzzes: Whatever happens in there, you're not taking the fall for this. Trust me.

Fifteen minutes later, Wendy emerges, face pale, lips pressed into a thin line. She doesn't look at me, just stabs the elevator button repeatedly until the doors open.

Sean's phone chimes. He reads the message, then looks at me. "You're up."

Ethan is at the windows again, hands in pockets. When he turns, his expression is carefully neutral. "Sit down, please."

I perch on the edge of the chair across from his desk, spine straight, ready for whatever comes next.

"I reviewed both designs," he says. "The metadata on your files predates hers by seventeen days. Your physical sketches predate hers by twenty. The similarities are superficial—same silhouette, but completely different construction methodology and psychological intent. Her design is aesthetically pleasing. Yours is engineered to modify the wearer's emotional state and the observer's perception." He pauses. "She admitted she saw your physical sketchbook on your desk two weeks ago."

My stomach drops. "She looked through my personal notebook?"

"She claims she was looking for a pen and it was open to that page. But security footage shows her at your desk when you were in a meeting with Nathan. She photographed multiple pages."

The violation makes my hands shake. That notebook contains a year's worth of psychological observations, consumer behavior analysis, design theory rooted in neuroscience. If she'd understood what she was looking at—

"She didn't understand it," Ethan says, reading my expression. "She saw a sketch she liked and copied the surface elements without grasping the underlying framework. Which is why her version looks similar but lacks the psychological sophistication that makes yours effective."

"What happens now?"

"She's being transferred to the supply chain division. Effective immediately." His voice is cold, executive. "Foster Textiles' contract with Aegis is under review. I've made it clear that intellectual property theft isn't tolerated, regardless of family connections."

Relief and guilt war in my chest. "Her father's company supplies fifty million in materials annually—"

"And if we let her behavior slide because of that relationship, we create a culture where theft is acceptable if you have the right connections." He moves closer，expression easy and confident. "That's not how I run my company."

He sits on the edge of his desk, close enough that I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the faint tremor in his fingers as he rotates the heart rate monitor on his wrist—the same watch that tracked his PTSD episode Friday night, the same watch that now tracks every moment of stress between us.

"About the iMessage proposal," he says quietly, and the sudden shift makes my breath catch. "I need your answer."