Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Wanted Me Humiliated
Veronica did not arrive alone.
Women like Veronica rarely did.
She entered with two friends, a personal assistant, and enough perfume to leave a trail from Michigan Avenue.
Emma saw her first.
“Oh no.”
I was at the cutting table.
“Don’t say that where customers can hear.”
“She isn’t a customer.”
Veronica approached.
“That can change.”
I looked up.
“Good afternoon.”
She placed a garment bag on the counter.
“I need this altered.”
I unzipped it.
Gold evening gown.
French beading.
Hand-finished interior.
Beautiful work.
“It needs to be taken in through the waist and adjusted at the bust.”
“I know.”
“When do you need it?”
“Tomorrow.”
I zipped it closed.
“No.”
One friend blinked.
Veronica smiled.
“I’m willing to pay rush fees.”
“The embroidery alone requires six hours if I don’t want it looking like somebody attacked it with office scissors.”
“I assumed you were talented.”
Emma sucked in air behind me.
I met Veronica’s eyes.
“I am. That’s why I said no.”
One of her friends suddenly became interested in a scarf.
Veronica rested her manicured fingers on the counter.
“I’ve heard your schedule has become quite full.”
“It has.”
“Adrien Moretti is good advertising.”
There it was.
I leaned back.
“My customers were here before Adrien.”
“Not these customers.”
“What exactly do you want, Veronica?”
She smiled.
“A dress altered.”
“No.”
“And perhaps to offer advice.”
“Also no.”
She ignored me.
“This kind of attention doesn’t last.”
“I’m aware.”
“People are curious because Adrien rarely gives anyone personal attention.”
“He bought suits.”
“You know that isn’t how people see it.”
“How people see my business is not my problem.”
“It becomes your problem when they stop caring.”
I studied her.
Under the confidence, I saw something I hadn’t at the benefit.
Fear.
Not fear of me.
Fear of becoming irrelevant.
That didn’t excuse cruelty.
But it explained some of it.
“You thought you and Adrien would marry,” I said.
Veronica’s expression snapped closed.
Emma looked at me as though I had just stepped onto a freeway.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You know nothing about our relationship.”
“True.”
“Then don’t pretend you do.”
“I’m not.”
I pushed the garment bag back toward her.
“I’m saying this has nothing to do with tailoring.”
She stared at me.
“You think he’s interested in you?”
“I think you’re asking the wrong woman.”
That hit.
Her face changed.
She took the bag.
Before leaving, she said quietly, “Be careful, Claire. Adrien makes people feel important without meaning to.”
I almost replied.
Then I stopped.
Because it was the first thing Veronica had said that sounded less like an insult and more like experience.
The bell closed behind her.
Emma approached slowly.
“Should I lock the door?”
“No.”
“Should I call Niko?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Should I call Adrien?”
“Why would you?”
“Because I enjoy being alive.”
I rolled my eyes.
But the next week made Veronica’s warning harder to dismiss.
My business exploded.
Orders doubled.
Then tripled.
Women who had never answered my emails suddenly asked for consultations.
A lifestyle magazine wanted photographs.
A morning television show requested an interview.
Three influencers offered to “collaborate,” which turned out to mean they wanted dresses for free.
I said no to all three.
Then reviews started appearing online.
One star.
Too expensive.
Rude owner.
Poor quality.
Several reviewers had never visited my shop.
One complained that I had ruined her wedding gown on a date when I had been in Wisconsin attending my cousin’s funeral.
Emma sat at the desk staring at the screen.
“This is deliberate.”
“I know.”
“Veronica?”
“We don’t know.”
“We absolutely know.”
“No. We suspect.”
“Claire.”
“If I accuse someone publicly without proof, I become the story.”
“So what do we do?”
“We work.”
And we did.
For three days.
Then my landlord called.
He wanted to discuss “new opportunities” for the building.
That phrase never meant anything good.
Mr. Cole had owned the building for nineteen years.
My lease had eight months remaining.
He had always been fair.
Now he sounded nervous.
“A development group contacted me.”
“For what?”
“They’re interested in purchasing the block.”
My stomach tightened.
“My lease?”
“Legally protected until expiration.”
“After?”
Silence.
“Claire, nothing is final.”
That meant something was.
I hung up.
Five minutes later, the bell rang.
Adrien entered.
He was wearing the midnight-blue suit.
It looked annoyingly good.
He took one look at my face.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bad at lying.”
“I tailor. Different skill set.”
He placed a paper coffee cup on my counter.
“For you.”
I stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Coffee.”
“I understand the concept.”
“Niko said you drink oat milk.”
“Niko talks too much.”
“We agree.”
I took it anyway.
Adrien noticed Emma sitting silently at the desk.
“What happened?”
She looked at me.
I shook my head.
She immediately betrayed me.
“Someone is posting fake reviews, and a development company is trying to buy the building.”
“Emma.”
“What?”
Adrien’s expression changed.
Not anger.
Focus.
“What development company?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can find out.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do. You were going to make a phone call in that frighteningly calm voice, and somewhere a man would suddenly reconsider his life choices.”
Niko, entering behind him, said, “That is remarkably accurate.”
Adrien ignored him.
“You’re being targeted.”
“We don’t know that.”
“The reviews began after the Hartwell event?”
“Yes.”
“The property inquiry?”
“Yesterday.”
Adrien looked toward Niko.
“No.”
I stepped between them.
Both men stared at me.
“No what?” Adrien asked.
“No whatever just happened silently between your eyebrows.”
Niko looked offended.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You absolutely did.”
Adrien lowered his voice.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Someone is interfering with your business.”
“And it’s my business.”
“I can help.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
He went still.
I knew that sounded harsh.
I didn’t care.
Not because I was ungrateful.
Because I had spent fourteen years building Hart & Hem from a rented room above a laundromat.
I had sewn bridesmaid dresses at two in the morning.
Altered prom gowns for free when families couldn’t afford them.
Worked through holidays.
Skipped vacations.
Taken loans.
Paid them back.
I would not become successful because Adrien Moretti walked through my door.
And I would not survive because Adrien Moretti stepped in front of me.
“If you fix this,” I said, “every person watching will say exactly what Veronica already thinks. That anything I have is because you gave it to me.”
Adrien stared at me.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Doesn’t make it less real.”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“I do when they’re my customers.”
Silence.
Then he nodded.
Once.
“What can I do?”
The question surprised me.
Not I’ll handle it.
Not Move aside.
What can I do?
“Nothing yet.”
His jaw tightened.
“But if I need something, I’ll ask.”
“You won’t.”
“That’s possible.”
“Claire.”
“Adrien.”
Niko whispered, “This is better than television.”
We both turned toward him.
He lifted his hands.
“I’m leaving.”
Adrien stayed.
Before he walked out, he looked at me.
“If someone is deliberately hurting your business, independence does not require suffering alone.”
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then left.
That night I stayed until almost midnight repairing a bridal veil.
At 11:43, the lights flickered.
Then the entire shop went dark.
I froze.
The sewing machine stopped.
The street outside still had power.
Every neighboring storefront remained lit.
Only mine was black.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then the line disconnected.
For the first time since Adrien Moretti entered my life, I wondered whether I had mistaken stubbornness for strength.
May you like
And the following morning, Niko would tell me something that made the fake reviews seem almost harmless.
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