I spent an entire year working myself to the bone for the Paris Avant-Garde Fashion Showcase. I almost went blind. All I wanted was to bring the last piece of art my late Grandma Evelyn left me onto the global stage. But right before the flight, Carter, my boyfriend of five years, canceled my ticket. He took the couture gown I had hand-sewn with my own blood and sweat and put it on his sob-story assistant. He said: “Chloe’s depression is flaring up again. She needs this runway show to rebuild her confidence.” “You’re the talented one, Maya. You’ll have other chances. Just do this to help her out.” He thought I would swallow my pride and step back, just like I had done for the last five years. But he didn’t know. Once you give some things away, they are gone forever. And along with that dress, my love for him was completely drained. Later, that parasite of an assistant was thoroughly ruined, and Carter’s family empire went bankrupt. He knelt in a raging blizzard, begging me to look at him. But I just held the arm of Julian Vance, the sole heir of New York’s top financial empire, and didn’t even spare Carter a glance. “Get lost, Carter. Don’t get your cheap hands on my dress.”
Three days before the start of Paris Fashion Week, I dragged my temperature-controlled case filled with couture designs to JFK Airport, dripping with sweat. Carter and I had agreed to meet at Terminal 3. I had spent countless sleepless nights on this collection, working until my retinas were bloodshot, just to win this invitation to the international showcase. But when I stood in front of the self-service kiosk, it didn’t print my boarding pass. Instead, a cold notification popped up on the screen: Flight canceled. Ticket refunded. I called Carter. His phone was off. Fifteen minutes later, I saw him through the glass wall of the VIP lounge. He was wearing the black trench coat I had personally tailored for him, leaning down to tenderly adjust a scarf around Chloe’s neck. Chloe was holding my sketchbook in her hands. Around her neck hung my official entry pass. And in the temperature-controlled case next to her feet was Grandma Evelyn’s final masterpiece, which was supposed to be in my hands! Before I could even get close, Chloe’s eyes welled up with tears, and she shrank behind Carter. “Maya, please don’t be mad. I just… I just wanted to see Paris so badly.” “My anxiety has been so terrible lately.” When Carter saw me, his gentle expression instantly hardened into a scowl. “What are you doing here?” I pointed at the case by her feet, my fingers trembling. “That’s mine.” Carter took an impatient step forward, blocking Chloe from my view. “Chloe is in a bad mental state. The doctor said she needs to travel and clear her mind.” “What’s the big deal if she borrows your dress just to take some photos outside the venue and make herself feel better?” “Then what about my plane ticket?” Carter paused, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and shoved it into my hand. “I bought you a ticket back home. You’ve been too tired lately. Go back and get some rest.” He looked down at me, his voice low, but every word stabbed like a dagger. “Paris is a shark tank. Even if you go, you’ll just be a nobody in the background.” “Chloe is different. She needs this exposure to apply to Parsons. Don’t be a party pooper.”
I looked at the ticket. A one-way, coach-class ticket back home. So, my year of sleepless nights, of almost losing my eyesight, was worth nothing more than a retreat Carter had patronizingly arranged for me. I ripped the ticket to shreds and threw them into the air. Carter’s face twisted in anger. “Maya! What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” I glared at him, my eyes burning. “My pass, my sketchbook, and my grandmother’s masterpiece are all in her hands. Why the hell should I leave?” Chloe immediately grabbed Carter’s sleeve, tears streaming down her face. “Carter, maybe I should just give everything back to Maya. I should go back to the hospital. I don’t deserve to see the show anyway…” She said she wanted to give it back, but her hands clutched the case tighter. Carter frowned at me, his eyes filled with disgust. “Chloe is literally this sick, and you’re trying to publicly humiliate her and drive her over the edge?” While he spoke, I reached into my pocket and silently turned on my backup phone. The recording app started ticking away. The airport PA system began announcing final boarding for the flight to Paris. Chloe gently tugged at Carter’s sleeve. “Carter, we have to go, or we’ll miss the flight.” Carter didn’t look at me again. With one hand around Chloe’s waist and the other dragging my case, he turned and walked into the VIP boarding lane. I stood there, watching their retreating backs. A massive tower in my heart crumbled to dust. I turned around, walked to the ticketing counter, and bought a ticket on the next budget flight to Europe. Three layovers. Thirty-six hours of travel. No checked baggage allowance. Just a single backpack. Halfway through, Carter sent me a message on SnapChat. “Chloe gets panic attacks on planes. Don’t send any messages to trigger her.” I didn’t reply. Thirty-six hours later, with swollen legs and dark circles under my eyes, I stood at the front desk of the hotel in Paris. The receptionist checked my passport, looking apologetic. “Miss Maya, the reservation was indeed paid for with your card.” “However, Mr. Carter changed the guest name to Miss Chloe.” I gripped my passport. “Who gave him permission to do that?” “I am sorry. Mr. Carter claimed he is your fiancé and showed us a screenshot of your authorization.” Ding. The elevator doors opened. Carter walked out, wearing a plush bathrobe, his hair slightly messy. When he saw me, his first words weren’t to ask how I had survived thirty-six hours of exhausting layovers. Instead, he knitted his brows and hissed, “Are you seriously stalking us all the way to Paris?” I looked at him. “Where is my room?” “Chloe just took her meds and fell asleep. Keep your voice down.” “I asked you, where is my room?!” Carter rubbed his temples, his tone incredibly dismissive. “The hotel is fully booked.” “There’s a small storage room in the basement with a cot. You can crash there for tonight.” He tossed a rusty key onto the floor at my feet. “Don’t come upstairs and make a scene. Chloe can’t handle any stress.” I looked down at the key and suddenly let out a cold laugh. “Carter, I worked night shifts for three months drawing blueprints to save up enough money to book this suite.” “I know.” His voice grew even lower, carrying a chilling indifference. “But Chloe is weak. She’s exhausted after a ten-hour flight.” “Maya, grow up. Stop being so petty about everything.” I reached into my pocket and tapped my phone. The recording was still going. This time, I didn’t swallow my tears like I used to. When I pushed open the basement storage door, a foul smell of mold and dust hit my face. Mops, bleach, and mountains of dirty laundry filled the space. My temperature-controlled case was carelessly dumped right next to a bucket of dirty water. The lock had been brutally smashed open. My blood ran cold. I lunged forward. The inside was a total mess. My sketchbook was there, and my sewing kit was there. But the heavy-embroidered couture gown, “Ethereal,” was gone. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Carter. “Chloe took the gown to try it on. She says she wants to wear it to the showcase tomorrow.” “It’s an honor for your work to be worn by her. Don’t be ungrateful.”
The next morning, the showcase committee announced that the preliminary review would take place at 10 AM at the plaza outside the Louvre. I hadn’t slept a wink. Clutching my broken case, I rushed upstairs. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I saw Chloe standing by the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hallway. She was wearing my “Ethereal.” It was a piece sewn stitch by stitch with ultra-fine silver threads, forming a stunning celestial map. But right now, Carter was holding a pair of scissors, cutting open the back hem of the gown without a second thought. His movements were so casual it made my heart turn to ice. That gown was the last piece of art Grandma Evelyn had taught me to embroider, stitch by stitch, when she was on her deathbed. Grandma had said: “Maya, when you go to the big stage, bring this sky with you. Let the world see our heritage.” I rushed over, my voice hoarse with pure fury. “Take it off!” Chloe gasped, her eyes instantly turning red. “Maya, I didn’t know this was yours…” “Carter told me he bought this couture piece for me.” Carter immediately shielded her behind him, pointing the scissors at me. “Maya, you want her to strip right here? This is a public hallway. Do you have any decency?” I stared at him. “That is my grandmother’s final legacy!” Carter’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second, but then he sneered. “The old woman has been dead for years. Are you really going to trigger Chloe’s panic attack over a piece of dead fabric?” Chloe hid behind him, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Carter immediately turned around, whispering sweet things to comfort her. “Don’t worry, babe. She’s just crazy. She’s jealous because you look prettier in it than she ever could.” At the preliminary review, Chloe, wearing the mutilated “Ethereal,” took center stage. She held my sketchbook, leaning into Carter’s chest, smiling coyly for the cameras of international media. Some peers from our college recognized Carter and cheered: “Wow, Carter! Your girlfriend’s dress is insane! It’s gorgeous!” Carter didn’t correct them. He just turned his head and gave me a cold, warning look. There was no guilt in his eyes. Only a high-and-mighty threat. After the review, Chloe held up the ruined hem of the dress and ran down to the steps by the Seine. “Carter, take some solo photos of me! I want to post them on Ins!” I marched over and grabbed her wrist. “Take the dress off and give it back to me.” Chloe struggled, pulling back. “Maya, I’m not done taking photos…” “Take. It. Off!” During the struggle, she suddenly shrieked. A sharp ripping sound echoed through the air. The delicate silk hem had snagged on the sharp iron railing of the stairs. The gorgeous silver embroidery tore open, leaving a huge, ugly gash. Chloe took the opportunity to fall straight into Carter’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. “I didn’t mean to! Why did Maya have to push me?” Carter shoved me away with brutal force. Unprepared, I fell heavily onto the stone steps. My palms scraped against the rough concrete, and blood instantly welled up. But he didn’t even look at me. He was too busy inspecting Chloe’s ankle. “Did you twist it? Does it hurt?” I looked down at the bright red blood on my hands, then at the completely ruined “Ethereal.” Carter looked back, his eyes as cold as ice. “Are you happy now, Maya? Do you have to ruin everything before you’re satisfied?” I opened my mouth, but the taste of copper filled my throat. Before I could speak, Chloe suddenly pulled a crumpled little fabric pouch from the inner pocket of the dress. “Ugh, what is this cheap junk? It was pressing against my skin the whole time.” My face drained of all color. That was the silver locket and lucky charm containing Grandma’s hair. I lunged to grab it, but Chloe let go of her hand, pretending to slip. The pouch fell straight into the rushing currents of the Seine, swallowed instantly by the dark waves. I knelt on the cold stone bank, reaching wildly into the water. But there was nothing. Only the freezing river water, chilling me to the bone. Carter stood behind me, his voice dripping with impatience. “It’s just a cheap pouch. I’ll buy you ten designer bags when we get back, okay?” I knelt on the ground, my fingers clutching the cracks in the stone so hard my nails cracked, bleeding onto the rock. At that exact moment, I finally woke up. Some people don’t hurt you because they don’t know your pain. They hurt you because to them, your entire life isn’t worth a single tear from their precious lover.
At noon, Carter sent me a text on WhatsApp. “Bring your original design sketches to the exhibition hall. Chloe needs them for her judge interview this afternoon.” I didn’t go. I sat in the damp basement storage room and opened my laptop. My cloud backup was empty. My entire life’s work from the past three years had been wiped out. The entire series of sketches titled “Rebirth” was gone. I had worked on them for three long years. Countless sleepless nights, hundreds of worn-down pencils. I wanted to show them to the world on the Paris stage. But now, they were gone. I called Carter. Before the call connected, I turned on the recording on my backup phone again. He took his time answering. In the background, I could hear the soft jazz of a high-end restaurant and the clinking of expensive cutlery. “What now?” “Where are my cloud sketches?” There was a two-second silence on the other end. “Chloe needed a headline collection to apply to Parsons. I copied your sketches for her.” “And I cleared the cloud so you wouldn’t do anything stupid and ruin her chances.” I shook so hard my teeth clattered. “Who gave you the right to steal my life’s work?” Carter’s voice turned icy, filled with the arrogant condescension of a wealthy heir. “Maya, can you stop being so selfish?” “You’re just an undergraduate. Those sketches are wasted in your hands anyway.” “Chloe is different. She actually needs them.” I let out a harsh laugh. “So my future is just a stepping stone for her?” “It’s just borrowing your name temporarily.” “Carter, that was three years of my life!” He fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was utterly heartless. “Maya, don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Without the Wilson family’s resources, do you honestly think you’d even be in Paris?” I hung up. Ten minutes later, the design community back home went into a frenzy. Chloe had posted a set of design sketches on Instagram and Twitter. The caption read: “East Coast Aesthetics: My Paris Debut.” The first slide was my main collection blueprint. The second slide was my embroidery breakdown. The third was a highly edited photo of her wearing my damaged gown. The comments below were filled with worship. “Chloe is a literal genius!” Our college dean even posted in the student group chat: “Chloe, this collection is outstanding. It’s enough to secure your early admission to Parsons. We are so proud of you.” I grabbed my coat and stormed towards the Michelin-starred restaurant they were at. I kicked the private dining room door open. Carter was leaning over, patiently cutting a steak for Chloe. He had never cut my food for me. Once, when I accidentally cut my hand while rushing a deadline and couldn’t even hold a fork, he had mocked me, saying I couldn’t even feed myself. But now, that perfectly cut steak was placed right in front of Chloe. The waiter served foie gras. Carter subconsciously said, “Maya can’t eat organ meats, it makes her sick.” My steps paused. The next second, he pushed the expensive white truffle pasta to Chloe. “You have a delicate stomach, eat this.” I felt a sudden wave of absurdity. He remembered everything. He just consciously chose to give his care to someone else. I marched over and held out my hand. “Give me the flash drive with my sketches.” Chloe’s eyes instantly turned red, looking like a frightened little deer. “Maya, I really just wanted to try my best to prove myself…” I stared at her coldly. “By stealing someone else’s work? Does that prove you’re a thief?” Carter slammed his fork onto the plate, making a sharp, metallic screech. “Maya, watch your mouth!” “If you’re so worried about being clean, maybe you shouldn’t have done something so filthy!” The room fell into a dead silence. Carter stood up, his tall frame towering over me, his face extremely dark. “Do you have to embarrass us abroad and ruin this dinner?” “You ruined my entire life!” Chloe sobbed, shaking her head. “Maya, Carter gave me the sketches. I thought you agreed to it.” “If I knew you didn’t want to, I would rather die than use them.” Carter wrapped his arm around her shoulders, glaring at me. “I gave them to her. If you have a problem, take it out on me.” I sneered. “Great. Then post a public statement right now telling the world who actually drew those sketches!” He instantly went quiet. Chloe wept even harder, clutching Carter’s shirt. “Maya, why do you have to push Carter like this?” “You already have so many great designs. Can’t you just let me have this one?” The next second, my phone screen lit up. It was an official email from our college board. “Maya, we have received a formal plagiarism report accusing you of stealing Chloe’s showcase designs.” “Your graduation portfolio review has been suspended, and your degree is being withheld.” Immediately after, an email from the top NYC design studio I had signed with popped up. “Dear Miss Maya, due to a severe academic and commercial plagiarism controversy, your employment offer has been rescinded.” I stood frozen, staring at the words on the screen. My blood turned to absolute ice. I found out later that the “formal report” had been sent by Chloe herself. She had recorded the confrontation in the private room earlier, edited it to make me look like a hysterical bully trying to steal her work, and sent it to the school and the studio. She didn’t just want to steal my designs. She wanted to brand me as a plagiarist forever, ensuring I could never work in this industry again. I didn’t have a powerful family like Carter. I didn’t have the luxury of crying to get whatever I wanted like Chloe. That job offer was my only ticket to a better life. And they had just destroyed it. Seeing my pale face, Carter frowned. “What’s wrong?” I threw my phone straight at his chest. He looked down at the screen, and for a fleeting moment, a flash of panic crossed his eyes. But Chloe quickly tugged his sleeve, her voice trembling. “Carter, I’m scared… did I do something wrong?” And just like that, his guilt vanished. He tossed the phone back onto the table and said in a patronizing, dismissive voice: “Maya, don’t blow this out of proportion.” “If you just post a statement saying you ‘inspired’ each other, Chloe is kind enough not to sue you.” I looked at this man I had loved for five years in sheer disbelief. “You want me, the actual creator, to publicly apologize to a thief?” He avoided my eyes, sounding irritated. “We need to quiet down the media first! You don’t have a backup. If you fight this, you will lose!” I threw my head back and laughed. I laughed so hard tears came out of my eyes. The designs were mine, she was the thief, he was the accomplice who handed her the knife. And yet, I was the one who had to kneel and apologize.
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