Chapter 1 - Eve
The silk catches the light like liquid silver, and I can't help but smile. This is what I live for—the moment when a design transcends the sketch and becomes something real, something that makes a woman feel like she can conquer the world.
"It's perfect," Rachel Shields breathes, turning slowly in front of the mirror. The dress moves with her, hugging her curves before flowing into a dramatic train. "Eve, you're a genius."
My throat tightens with emotion. It never gets old, this moment.
Seeing a woman light up when she realizes she's beautiful, powerful, worthy.
"The neckline needs to come down just a fraction," I say softly, stepping closer to adjust the drape at her shoulder.
My fingers work carefully, reverently even. "Lucy, make a note."
Lucy's fingers fly across her tablet. "Got it. The samples for the rest of the line arrive on Thursday. We're still on schedule for the show."
"Good." I step back, studying the dress with a critical eye, but also with pride. Every stitch, every seam is a testament to the empire I built from nothing. Well, not nothing—from grief and rage and the desperate need to prove that I was more than what he left behind.
More than the "chunky little sister" Alex used to tease me about before wrapping me in bear hugs that made everything okay.
God, I miss those hugs. More than the girl who learned to armor herself in black clothing and sharp wit because the fashion industry wasn't made for bodies like mine.
More than the woman who spent years perfecting her designs for other women because she was too afraid to stand in front of a camera herself.
I built Sinclair Designs on the premise that every woman deserves to feel powerful in her clothes, regardless of her size. That beauty isn't a number on a scale. It's a radical idea in an industry that still worships at the altar of sample sizes, and it's made me both celebrated and controversial.
And God, how I love proving them all wrong. It's not about revenge—though there's a little of that, I'll admit. It's about giving women what I needed when I was younger: the knowledge that they're enough, exactly as they are.
Rachel catches my eye in the mirror, and there are tears shining in hers. "Seriously, Eve. This collection is going to make fashion week. I'm honored to be wearing it. You've made me feel... I don't know how to explain it. Like I matter."
My own eyes prickle with tears, but I blink them back. "You do matter, Rachel. You always did. The dress just helps you see it."
The praise settles warmly in my chest, but I'm already cataloging the adjustments needed.
The hem needs to be taken up a quarter inch on the left side.
The beading on the bodice could be more dense near the waist. Perfection is in the details, and I've spent sixteen years learning that the details matter.
Lucy walks Rachel out, chattering about the photo shoot schedule, and I'm left in the quiet of my office.
The late afternoon light streams through the windows, painting everything gold.
I move to my desk and sink into the chair, suddenly exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally.
These fittings take everything out of me in the best way.
My desk is organized—not obsessively, just... organized. Pens in their holder, sketchbook nearby, coffee cup that I keep meaning to take to the kitchen. I glance at my calendar and see the red circle around next week's date.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the accident that took Alex.
The familiar ache blooms in my chest, sharp and relentless even after all this time.
I pick up the photo on my desk—the only personal item I keep here.
Alex, at seventeen, grinning at the camera, his arm around my shoulders.
I was fifteen in that photo, still soft and uncertain, not yet hardened into the woman I'd become.
We're at some family barbecue, and he's making me laugh about something I can't remember now.
What I'd give to remember that joke. What I'd give for one more laugh with him.
"I miss you," I whisper to the frozen image, my voice cracking. "Every single day. You'd be so proud of what I've built. At least, I hope you would be."
But he doesn't answer. He never does. The dead stay silent while the living try to move forward and pretend the hole in their heart isn't still bleeding.
I set the photo down gently, like it might break, and gather my things. My routine for leaving is simple—laptop in bag, phone checked, lights off, door locked. Nothing unusual. Just the habits of someone who lives alone and likes things tidy.
Well, maybe a little more than tidy. But who doesn't appreciate coming home to order after a chaotic day?
The drive home is peaceful. I keep the radio on low, some jazz station that doesn't require thought. The city blurs past my windows, all glass and steel and the golden hour light that makes everything look like a dream. I let myself breathe, really breathe, for the first time all day.
I'm already thinking about my evening. A cup of tea. That salmon I prepped this morning. A bath if I'm not too tired. Some sketching before bed. Simple pleasures that help me unwind. Maybe I'll call Lucy later, just to chat. She's been worried about me lately, keeps saying I work too much.
She's probably right.
When I push open my apartment door, the familiar scent of my home wraps around me—lavender from the diffuser, and something that's just..
. mine. I slip off my heels with a grateful sigh.
God, that feels good. I love beautiful shoes, but they're murder on my feet after a long day, especially carrying the extra weight I do.
The apartment looks exactly as I left it this morning. Of course it does—I live alone, and I kind of love it that way. No one to leave dishes in the sink or move my things. Just me and my space and my carefully curated peace.
Though sometimes, late at night, the silence gets a little too loud. A little too empty.
I push the thought away. I'm fine. I chose this life.
I hang my coat on the hook by the door, set my bag on the entry table, and head toward the kitchen. But something makes me pause in the living room.
My favorite art book—a beautiful collection of Modigliani's portraits—sits on the coffee table. But something's off. The corner isn't quite aligned with the edge of the table. It's shifted maybe an inch to the left.
I stop, frowning. That's... odd. I always leave it flush with the corner. It's just a habit, the way I arrange things. But maybe I was distracted this morning? Maybe I grabbed it last night and didn't put it back quite right?
A flutter of unease moves through my stomach. I approach the table and adjust the book, lining it up properly. There. Better.
But the wrongness lingers. I'm not obsessive about these things—not really—but I do notice when something's off. And this is definitely off.
I shake my head and move toward the kitchen, trying to laugh at myself. I'm probably just tired. The fashion show is coming up, and I've been working long hours. Stress makes people see things that aren't there.
Right?
I fill the kettle and set it to boil, going through the familiar ritual of making tea. Earl Grey, steeped for four minutes. It's soothing, this routine. Comforting. A small piece of control in a world that often feels chaotic.
But as I wait for the water, I find myself glancing back at the coffee table. The book is perfect now, exactly where it should be. But I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Stop it, Eve. You're being paranoid. That's all. Just paranoid.
The kettle whistles, and I pour my tea, trying to let the anxiety go. Trying to breathe through it as my therapist taught me.
***
I stand in my walk-in closet, changing out of my work clothes. The closet is organized by color and season—not because I'm a control freak, but because it's easier to find things that way. Practical. Plus, it calms me. There's something soothing about order, about knowing where everything belongs.
I slip out of my work dress—one of my own designs from last season. Structured black silk that drapes rather than clings. I designed it for women like me, women who understand that power comes not from showing everything but from suggesting it.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and pause. Some days I see the woman I've become—strong, successful, confident. Other days, I see the insecure fifteen-year-old who lost her brother and never quite figured out how to fill the space he left behind.
Today, I'm somewhere in between.
I reach for my signature perfume—the bottle I've used for three years. It's become such a part of my routine that I don't even think about it anymore. Jasmine and amber with a hint of citrus. Elegant. Understated.
I spray it on my wrist and bring it to my nose.
And freeze.
The scent is wrong.
It's still jasmine and amber, still recognizably my perfume. But underneath, there's something else. Something that wasn't there before. A note of sandalwood—warm, masculine, completely foreign.
My heart begins to pound, hard and fast, the way it did when I got the call about Alex. That same primal fear.
I spray it again, certain I'm mistaken. Please let me be mistaken. But no. The sandalwood is there, subtle but unmistakable.
My hands start to tremble.
How is this possible? The cleaning service wouldn't touch my personal items—they barely move anything at all. No one else has been in my apartment. No one has access.
So, how is my perfume different?
A chill runs down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms. Someone has been in here. In my closet. In my most private space. Someone has touched my things, altered something so personal, so connected to my body.
The violation makes my skin crawl. Makes me want to scrub myself raw, to burn every piece of clothing in this closet.
I set the bottle down, my hands shaking badly now, and back out of the closet. My apartment, my sanctuary, suddenly feels compromised. The silence isn't peaceful anymore—it's threatening. Watching.
I'm not safe here. The one place I'm supposed to be safe, and I'm not.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Lucy's number. But what would I say? That my perfume smells different? That a book was moved? She'd tell me I'm working too hard, that I need a vacation, that stress does strange things to people.
She'd think I'm losing it.
Maybe I am crazy.
I pace my bedroom, trying to think logically, trying to calm the panic rising in my throat. Maybe the perfume company changed their formula. Maybe I'm misremembering the scent. Maybe the stress is making me imagine things.
But I've spent my entire career developing my sense of smell for perfumes and fabrics. I know scents the way a musician knows notes. This isn't imagination.
This is real.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
I move through the apartment, checking windows, testing locks. Everything seems normal. The door is secure. The windows are latched. Nothing is missing. Nothing else seems disturbed.
But the wrongness persists, crawling under my skin like insects.
I end up in the kitchen, gripping the counter so hard my knuckles turn white, forcing myself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The breathing exercises my therapist taught me after Alex died, when panic attacks were a daily occurrence.
Someone is in my life. Moving through my space like a ghost. Touching my things. Leaving traces I can feel but can't prove.
The thought is terrifying. Paralyzing.
But underneath the fear, there's something else. Something I don't want to name because naming it feels like admitting I'm broken. A tiny spark of... curiosity.
Who would do this? Why? What do they want from me?
My thoughts flick to my ex, who still has difficulty letting me go. But no, this is too subtle for Bryce. It has to be someone else.
The questions circle in my mind as I stand in my kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of my carefully constructed safety, and realize that someone has shattered it without me even knowing when or how.
I'm alone. Truly, terrifyingly alone.
And someone out there knows it.