Chapter 2 - THE PERSON INSIDE CARUSO
I left the gala alone.
Dominic shouted my name once.
I did not turn around.
The cold Manhattan air hit my face, and suddenly I could breathe again.
My cheek burned.
My earlobe throbbed.
But my hands were steady.
That scared me less than it should have.
I climbed into a cab and immediately called our nanny.
“Is Eli okay?”
“Sleeping.”
“Good.”
“Mrs. Caruso, are you all right?”
“No.”
I appreciated the fact that she did not pretend not to hear it.
“I’m coming home.”
Then I looked at the anonymous message again.
Someone else did.
Who?
Only Dominic had seen that wedding sketch.
At least, that was what I believed.
I typed:
Who are you?
No response.
Then:
How did you get my files?
Nothing.
By the time I reached our townhouse, I had made one decision.
I was taking Eli somewhere else tonight.
Not because Dominic would hurt him.
Despite everything, I believed he loved our son.
But I could not spend the night beneath the same roof waiting for Dominic to come home and explain why stealing from me was complicated.
I packed one suitcase.
Mine.
One small backpack.
Eli’s.
When I entered his room, he stirred.
“Mom?”
“Hey, baby.”
“Did Dad come home?”
“Not yet.”
He sat up.
“Is it still your anniversary?”
My throat tightened.
“Technically.”
He rubbed his eyes.
“I made you something.”
He reached beneath his pillow and pulled out folded paper.
Two stick figures holding hands.
One taller.
One in a blue dress.
Between them:
HAPPY 5 YEARS MOM + DAD.
I nearly broke.
Instead I kissed his forehead.
“We’re having a sleepover at Aunt Claire’s.”
“Dad too?”
“No.”
He looked at me carefully.
Children always know when adults are lying badly.
“Did he make you cry?”
I touched my swollen cheek before I could stop myself.
Eli saw.
His eyes widened.
“Did Dad do that?”
I could not lie.
“Yes.”
He went very still.
“Why?”
“He made a terrible choice.”
“Is he bad?”
That question hurt more than the slap.
“No.”
I sat beside him.
“But good people can do bad things, and being sorry doesn’t make consequences disappear.”
He nodded as if storing the sentence for later.
Then my phone buzzed.
Anonymous number.
Finally.
I can’t give you my name yet.
I typed:
Then stop messaging me.
Three dots appeared.
You need to know Vanessa has been using your designs for three years.
My stomach turned.
Three years?
I opened the flash drive on my laptop.
Four years of files.
Dozens of sketches.
I had assumed the winter collection contained three stolen pieces because those were the ones I recognized immediately.
I began comparing old sketches with Caruso collections.
One.
Then another.
Then another.
My hands started shaking.
A sleeve detail from two years ago.
Mine.
A bridal corset from last spring.
Mine.
A beaded train Vanessa had won an industry award for.
Mine.
Not exact copies.
Changed enough to hide.
But unmistakably derived from my work.
My phone buzzed again.
Dominic discovered it eighteen months ago.
I stopped breathing.
Another message.
He confronted Vanessa.
I typed:
How do you know?
The response came immediately.
Because I was in the room.
My pulse hammered.
Who are you?
This time the answer arrived.
Julian Mercer.
I knew the name.
Caruso Design’s former head of archives.
He had resigned suddenly last year.
Dominic told me Julian had stolen confidential files.
Julian sent another message.
Dominic fired me because I refused to destroy the evidence.
Then one final message:
And Nora, Vanessa didn’t steal your sketches from Dominic.
She got them from the laptop you thought was destroyed when your studio flooded.
My hands went cold.
That flood happened three years earlier.
A burst pipe.
Thousands of dollars in damage.
My original laptop ruined.
Or so I had been told.
The insurance company disposed of it.
Apparently, they hadn’t.
And only one person had arranged the cleanup.
May you like
Dominic’s younger brother.
Anthony Caruso.
