Chapter 3 - The Atelier in the Shadows
Within forty-eight hours, Dominic converted the entire top floor of the Esplanade mansion into a high-end fashion atelier. Industrial sewing machines, dress forms, bolts of organic linen, recycled silks, and heavy wools were delivered under the cover of night.
Dominic didn't just supply raw materials; he brought in three master seamstresses—older women from the Bywater district who had spent decades tailoring garments for New Orleans elite—and put them under Evelyn's direct command.
"If you are going to destroy Mercer Renewal," Dominic told her as they stood amidst the rolls of emerald and navy fabric, "you cannot just prove he stole your work. You must make his stolen version look like cheap, imitation trash compared to the real thing."
For three weeks, Evelyn lived in a storm of creative obsession. She barely slept. She sketched, cut, pinned, and stitched from dawn until midnight. The pain in her ribs faded, replaced by an electric, furious momentum.
Dominic was a constant, quiet presence. He would appear in the late evenings, standing silently near the doorway, watching her work under the warm overhead lamps. He brought her tea, reviewed financial reports beside her cutting table, and listened intently as she explained the technical details of garment construction.
"Why do you care so much about the hidden seams?" Dominic asked one evening, picking up a jacket liner she had just completed.
"Because anyone can make the outside of a dress look expensive," Evelyn said, taking the jacket from his hands, her fingers briefly brushing against his. "But the inside—the hidden stitching—that’s what gives the garment its structure. That’s what keeps it from falling apart when the pressure comes. My mother taught me that."
Dominic looked from the jacket to Evelyn's face. His expression softened, a rare, genuine warmth breaking through his usual icy demeanor. "Your mother was a wise woman. And you are far stronger than Adrian Mercer ever gave you credit for."
Meanwhile, three thousand miles away in San Diego, Adrian was spiraling.
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He had hired two private investigation firms to locate Evelyn, terrified that she might speak to reporters before the New Orleans municipal contract was signed. But every lead went cold. It was as if Evelyn Hart had vanished off the face of the earth.
"It doesn't matter," Sloane told Adrian during a televised interview in Los Angeles, resting her hand possessively on his arm. "She's an uneducated ghost. The designs are legally ours now. Next stop: New Orleans."
