Chapter 2 - THE INK ON THE CONTRACT
“The first copies have already shipped.”
Julian’s words hung in the dining room, heavy and suffocating. The twenty-eight guests at the engagement dinner were completely silent, their eyes darting between Julian’s glowing phone screen and Bianca’s rigid posture.
I stared at the digital cover of the book. The Women Who Raised Me. By Bianca Hale.
My mother’s face. My grandmother’s hands. My life, packaged and sold under the name of a woman who had never known a day of calluses or minimum wage.
“Julian, stop being dramatic,” Bianca said. Her voice was remarkably steady, though a faint flush crept up her neck. She reached for her wine glass, took a delicate sip, and forced a laugh. “It’s a conceptual art piece. I curated the collection. Rose was compensated for her raw materials.”
“Raw materials?” I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “They are my family.”
Dante Romano didn’t look at his fiancée. His dark eyes were fixed on the phone in his hand. “Curated,” he said softly. “Is that what you call putting your name on another woman’s soul?”
“Dante, please. We can discuss the legalities in private.” Bianca reached for his arm, but he stepped back, leaving her hand hovering in the empty air.
Julian ran a hand over his face. He looked physically ill. “There are no legalities to discuss, Bianca. You signed a standard warranty of original authorship. You told me these were your relatives. The PR campaign launches on Tuesday. We’ve sent advance copies to morning shows.”
“Then we lean into the collaboration angle,” Bianca said quickly. Her eyes flicked toward me, calculating. “Rose, I can write you a check right now. Ten thousand dollars. You can quit cleaning houses.”
Ten thousand dollars. To a maid, it was a fortune. To a woman buying her own history, it was pocket change.
“I don’t want your money,” I said, clutching the framed portrait of my mother tighter against my chest. “I want you to stop the book.”
“I can’t stop a shipment of twenty thousand books!” Julian said, his voice cracking. “The financial loss would ruin my publishing house. We’re independent. We leveraged everything on this release.”
A new kind of guilt twisted in my stomach. Julian hadn’t known. He was a victim of her lie, just like me.
“Let me see your purse, Bianca,” Dante said suddenly.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Excuse me?” Bianca’s poised mask finally slipped, revealing a flash of genuine panic.
“The leather tote you brought from my office today,” Dante said, his voice dangerously calm. “You told me you needed to finalize some vendor payments for the wedding. But you were printing documents. Let me see it.”
“I will not be humiliated at my own engagement dinner,” she snapped, grabbing the expensive cream-colored bag from the back of her chair.
But as she yanked it up, the brass clasp gave way. The contents spilled onto the Persian rug. Lipstick, a compact, mints, and a thick manila envelope that slid open.
Dante knelt before she could stop him. He pulled a stack of papers from the envelope.
I held my breath.
“What is this?” Dante asked, his eyes scanning the top page. He stood up and handed it to Julian.
Julian’s face went from pale to gray. “It’s a release form. A full transfer of copyright for the sketchbook.” He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “Rose… this has your signature on it. Dated three weeks ago.”
The room spun. “I never signed anything.”
Julian stepped closer, holding out the paper. I looked at the bottom line. It was my signature. The exact loop of the ‘R’, the slight slant of the ‘T’. It was perfect.
“I told you,” Bianca said, her confidence returning in a rush. She smoothed her silk dress. “She’s having seller’s remorse now that she sees the final product. She signed the rights away for five hundred dollars cash.”
I stared at the ink. It was my handwriting. But how?
Then, my eyes fell to the floor. Among the spilled contents of Bianca’s purse was a small, worn object. A tarnished silver thimble.
It was my mother’s thimble. The one she’d lost at the dry cleaner’s a month ago. The one she had cried over, because it had belonged to her grandmother in Italy.
I pointed a trembling finger at the rug. “Where did you get that?”
Bianca looked down, and for the first time all night, she looked truly terrified.
“Answer her,” Dante commanded.
May you like
Bianca took a step back. “I found it.”
“No,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears. “You didn’t just steal my sketchbook. You’ve been in my mother’s house.”
