Caroline heard echoes of Willow’s story coming through. Although it was about a marriage, not a job, there were similarities—letting a man chip away at things that were rightfully hers. Accepting injustice because a fight seemed too hard. Shrinking from confrontation instead of standing up for oneself. These were all matters she’d heard at the Oysterville Sewing Circle. Now she had to ask herself—what had she learned, really?

“I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” she said.

Caroline walked into the Mick Taylor headquarters. It felt strange, being back here, where she had spent so many hours creating designs. She used to feel a sense of wonder, even a sort of reverence, that she had a coveted job here.

Now she felt the clean, sharp edge of anger as she climbed the main stairs, strode past his bullshit mission statement written, Basquiat-style, on a long wall, passed by a protesting receptionist, and found Mick in his sleek glass-walled office. A small team was in the adjacent conference room, having a meeting with the design director.

Mick looked up from his computer screen and regarded her with a slight frown. “Do you need something?”

She couldn’t tell whether or not his ignorance was feigned. “Caroline Shelby. You know, the one whose designs you stole.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “Sorry, what?”

Rilla Stein came into the office. Caroline’s onetime mentor didn’t even acknowledge her. She leaned over and muttered something to Mick. Something that sounded like “I’ll call security.”

“Ah, now I recall,” Mick said, offering his charming favorite-uncle grin. He dismissed Rilla with a wave. “Go back to your meeting,” he said. “I got this.”

Rilla hesitated, her gaze darting at Caroline. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “Close the door behind you.”

After she left, he regarded Caroline with a long, measuring gaze. “Hey, I thought we put that trouble to rest.”

“I thought you were going to quit stealing from me, but you’re using my nautilus logo on a line of bags for Eau Sauvage,” Caroline snapped. “Who’d you steal those from? Need anything else, Mick? Some ideas for your next fall collection, maybe? My firstborn child?”

He seemed startled by her, maybe because she was not the cowed and powerless young designer who had fled New York with her tail between her legs. His expression hardened and he leaned forward in his chair. “The people at Eau Sauvage know you used to work for me. They know you were laughed out of the business because you copied my designs.”

“And yet I’m making a deal with them.” He blinked, and she could tell she’d startled him again. “Say what you will,” she added. “And so will I. I’ll tell them the truth.”

“You should leave now,” said Mick. “And it’ll be easier if you’d also walk away from whatever you think you have going on with Eau Sauvage.” Once again, he offered her his mild-mannered smile, a smile she now knew concealed a pit viper. With a relaxed air, he leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk.

As she regarded his posture, something niggled at her. A memory flitted through her mind and disappeared. Then it flitted back, hardening into sickening suspicion. “You came to my apartment the day Angelique died.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “And now it really is time for you to leave.”

Caroline stood her ground. “She died of an overdose in my home.”

Mick got up and came out from behind the desk. “A tragedy that has nothing to do with me.” He strode to the door and gestured for her to exit. “Find your way out. Now.”

She noticed tiny beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip. She noticed his hand-tailored untucked shirt and his ultracool couture half boots from the Apiary Shoe Company. The tread on all their shoes had a honeycomb design. On the day Angelique died, Caroline had seen a piece of mail with the imprint of that distinctive shoe tread, a detail only someone in the fashion world might recognize. “You were the one who abused her,” she said, her voice low and trembling from the stunning realization. “After you got out of rehab. I saw what you did to her.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes like shards of ice, and she felt a moment of panic. She flashed on Angelique’s bruises. He grabbed the door handle. Those hands, thought Caroline. Were those the hands that had battered her friend? Was that the anger that had sent Angelique fleeing in the night?

“Get the fuck out.” The low command dug into her nerves.

“Oh, I will,” she said. “I’m going to make a report.”

“To whom? About what? You’re a liar, bitter against your employer. Who are they going to believe? Jesus, the whole city knows me. I’m Mick fucking Taylor.”

He was too close now, crowding her against the door. “And I’m your worst nightmare. I said that before, but then I walked away. I’m not going to walk away this time.”

He smiled—the mild-mannered smile of the Mick Taylor everyone knew and loved. “You do not want to fuck with me,” he continued in a friendly, conversational tone. “Try it, and you’ll be so fucking sorry—”

“What are you going to do?” she demanded. “Hit me, too?”

Daria greeted Caroline with a “Shhh—the baby’s asleep,” followed by a hug and a pantomimed squeal. “Oh my gosh, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said. “I can’t wait to catch up!”

“You look amazing. Motherhood agrees with you,” Caroline said. Daria wore a Chrysalis tunic, one of the prototypes from Caroline’s ruined collection. The shimmery fabric encased her now-slender figure like a cocoon, and the nautilus shell detail on the shoulder concealed a fastener for nursing access.

“I love it,” Daria said. “I’m exhausted all the time, but I couldn’t be happier.” She brought Caroline over to the tiny kitchen bar, which was cluttered with teething toys, packets of wipes, boxes of organic baby snack food, and stacks of unopened mail. “I have bottled water or . . . bottled water. Sorry, Layton’s out of town and I haven’t been to the store.”

“In that case, bottled water.”

“At least it’s the bubbly kind.” Daria poured while Caroline gave her some little gifts for the baby.

“A rain fly jacket and her own superhero T-shirt.” Caroline held up the shirt. “She’ll grow into it soon enough.”

“These are wonderful. I wish I had a superpower of my own—the ability to clean the house while I sleep.” She lifted her glass of bubbly water. “To you, my friend. I’ve been following C-Shell Rainwear online. No surprise that it’s fabulous. That piece that ran in Vogue—Cat Willoughby. Come on.”

“Yeah, that was such a lucky break. Now we’re scrambling to get the garments made as fast as they’re being ordered.” She told her about the deal with Eau Sauvage, earning a quiet high five from her friend.

“Take that, Mick Taylor,” said Daria. “You know, I never worked for him again after what he did to you.”

“Funny you should bring him up,” Caroline said. “He has a collaboration with Eau Sauvage, too. Bags he claims he designed, but who knows? One of the things about laboring in obscurity and being under the radar is that he thought I was gone. And he can’t steal what he can’t see.”