“Angelique was my friend,” Caroline said. “She died in my home. I wish I knew how it happened. I feel so guilty not knowing that she was struggling with addiction. God, how could I not know?”

“With a high-functioning addict, you can set aside what you think of when you think of an addict,” Jody said. “You won’t find them pushing shopping carts along the sidewalk, sleeping in recycled clothing bins, shooting up in alleyways. In fact, some of them seem incredibly successful. Maybe because they have to work overtime to keep up appearances and feed their habit.”

A new picture of Angelique emerged. She was able to hide her demons from everyone—even herself. For a while, at least. Unfortunately, maintaining her facade came at a great price. It was dangerous. She was trying to stay clean for the sake of her kids, but something pushed her back into using. Caroline again remembered razor blades missing from her sewing box and running out of foil. One time, she’d noticed tiny orange caps in the trash but never paused to wonder where they came from. Now they were puzzle pieces, falling into place.

“I wish I could have helped,” she said, her voice rough with tears. “So her kids are doing really well. She never told me who their father was. Did she ever tell you?”

They didn’t know any more about the situation than she did—Angelique had Flick at seventeen and Addie at eighteen, when she lived in Haiti. There were still so many unanswered questions, but the new glimpses into Angelique’s secret life filled in a few blanks.

After leaving the church, she walked a few blocks to her former apartment building. She tried the door code in case it might be the same.

It was the same. She looked around the foyer. There was the clanking radiator that used to steam and overheat the place in winter. The usual litter of junk mail on the floor. The pervasive smell of soup. The day she’d found Angelique dead came rushing back at her—the urgent phone call from the school. The dropped Con Ed bill marked with the tread of a shoe. The unlocked door, the preternatural stillness of the apartment when Caroline stepped inside.

The next day, as the elevator in the Eau Sauvage headquarters whisked them skyward, Caroline felt giddy. “I used to fantasize about this moment,” she said to Willow. “I even had it all planned out in my head—discussing my work with a major firm, making a plan for a partnership. Now that it’s actually happening, I’m either nervous as hell or insane from sleep deprivation.”

“It’s going to be fabulous,” Willow assured her. “Look at us.” She gestured at their images in the polished elevator mirror. They both wore C-Shell jackets, which were beaded with raindrops. “We’re fabulous.”

She had sent off her samples, hopes, and dreams to the offices of Eau Sauvage. All that was left was to meet the team and discuss the launch. The conference room was filled with creative energy as the marketing team laid out their plans. They wanted to know about the journey that had brought her to this point. She talked about Oysterville and her struggle to launch her designs, and then she explained the Sewing Circle.

“We love your story,” said one of the marketing experts. “A woman-owned business, helping other women.”

She glanced at Willow and felt an unexpected surge of emotion. “Those women helped me just as much. I could never have done this without them.”

There was a presentation of her designs on a big screen in the conference room. When a picture came up showing the nautilus shell detail, someone—a junior associate—said, “You used to work for Mick Taylor, isn’t that right?”

Her stomach knotted. “I did contract work for his design house, yes. Why do you ask?”

The associate, a young woman with cat’s-eye glasses and three smartphones, said, “It’s just . . .”

Jeanine, the product developer who was running the meeting, stepped in. “We’re going to need to remove the shell logo,” she said. “We’re launching a line of Mick Taylor bags, and the nautilus shell is too similar. It’s a minor detail. Just to avoid confusion.”

Caroline had heard the expression a head full of steam before, but she’d never actually experienced it until this moment, as she stared at a series of pictures of couture handbags featuring her logo. The pressure built as her thoughts raced. It was not enough that Mick had stolen her designs and accused her of copying him. Apparently he’d appropriated her logo as well. The sense of violation washed over her, as fresh as it had been the first time. She forced herself to take a breath. Looked at Willow, who was scratching notes on a yellow legal pad. Like Jeanine said, it was a small detail. But it was her logo. Her logo. A part of her identity. Her brand. And they wanted her to change it.

“We have some ideas,” the junior associate said, clicking to the next slide. “It’s totally up to you, of course, but here’s an inspiration board.”

Caroline could feel the color draining from her face. It took all her self-restraint not to go ballistic, trash the deal, and walk out. Somehow she managed to hold her tongue. Willow was the consummate professional, telling the group they’d be in touch about the final details.

Caroline managed to contain herself until she and Willow left the building together. Then she blasted out her anger. “He took my career away, and now this?” she fumed.

“That sucks,” Willow agreed. “Is keeping the logo a deal-breaker for you?”

“I wish I could say yes, but this is still a huge opportunity for me. For us. When I look at the bigger picture, I have to think of Flick and Addie. They depend on me. And then all of us who work at C-Shell—we need our jobs. And then I think about all the effort I poured into this enterprise. My precarious bank balance. The truth is, I need this opportunity more than I need to keep a little detail on my garments. If I have to change the logo, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

Willow regarded her thoughtfully. “This is how it starts. We settle. We make compromises. We let them whittle away, bit by bit, and don’t really notice the erosion, or we rationalize it away. We tell ourselves it’s for the greater good.”

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.”