Stealing the Heart of Mr. Steele

[Cordelia]

I stare after him for several minutes, unsure of what to do.

Yes, Atlas just gave me a moment of intense pleasure but I don't know if I want anything more from him. Our last marriage was a disaster, and my sister is still in the picture. I'm starting my career and I'm finally feeling like my own woman.

What if I don't want to get married again? Maybe it would be better for me to remain single while I figure out what I want with my life. I don't need to jump into anything. Just because he wants to take things more swiftly doesn't mean I need to let him push me. Or am I reading more into this than I need to? It wasn't a proposal, not technically.

Although it did feel like one.

The rest of the afternoon was awkward. I was expecting to see Atlas in the lounge with Angelica and the bridesmaids, having suddenly "arrived" while I was getting dressed, but somehow he snuck out. Instead, Atlas called Angelica, bowing out of lunch claiming to have "too much" work to do.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

And yet, when I arrived back at Steele Industries, there was no sign of him.

Feeling deflated, I decided to put my nose to the grindstone and work the rest of the afternoon into the evening. My first production line was set to be finalized and the sewing staff was staying late to finish the production line so that we could mail them off to our customers in Boston via express.

If all goes perfectly, we'll have to pay a bit more for shipping but save significantly over what it would have cost if this order had arrived late.

"You should go home and go to sleep," Theo advises when she comes into the office at around 9 pm to find me drooling. "You have the imprint of your keyboard on your cheek."

"I need to see this through," yawning I rub my cheek groggily. "This is more important than my comfort."

"You are pregnant," she insists, "and you need your rest. You can't keep going like this, burning yourself at both ends. It won't do you, your baby, or any of us," she draws a circle in the air to imply her and the rest of the staff, "any good if you end up in the hospital." "I just need some coffee," I jump up and down.

Theo shakes her head but leaves me to my work. I put some fast rock music on my computer and get back to work emailing clients and apologizing for the late orders I cannot avoid. The fire cost me more than just all of my prototypes, it also threatened to cost my reputation as a serious designer. Nobody wants to work with someone who can't make production deadlines.

There are no excuses in fashion. Only success and failure.

I didn't realize I had fallen asleep again until the sunshine coming through my large picture windows alerted me to the fact that it was at least an hour past dawn.

"Shit," I curse springing to my feet.

Pulling open the door to my office, the sound of my feet echoes through the mostly empty production

floor as I rush downstairs.

The rest of the production crew left hours ago. They likely won't be back until sometime around noon. Shipping arrived sometime while I was still asleep and has already packaged up most of the order. I take a deep sigh of relief. Theo was right. It is all going exactly as planned. Taking a deep sigh of relief, I begin my slow march back to my office satisfied at a job well done.

Until I see a flash of lime green dangling from the edge of one of the sewing machines.

Wait a minute. Nothing in my collection is that particular shade of green. This order was for one of my more elegant work to evening suit dresses and the trim and fabric were supposed to be a soft gold. "Give me a box cutter," I hold out my hand expectantly and slice open the box nearest to me. With a swift motion, I slice the top open with a jagged pull.

When I remove one of the black garment bags, proudly emblazed with my new company logo, I tear open the zipper.

It is all wrong. The cut, the trim, everything. There is no way to salvage it. Even if I had enough time to have it remade, there is no way I could use the garments as they are to make the necessary changes. should have come down to supervise, but I fell asleep. If only I had gone home and taken that nap I had planned in the afternoon instead of shopping with Angelica, I might have been awake to notice. "Stop packaging these!" I shout. "Do NOT send any of these out."

"Miss Greyson, the delivery truck already..."

"I don't care!" I shout. "Call them back! We need to reclaim all of these boxes!

How did this happen? I left very clear instructions. I even went over everything by hand three times.

Marching over to one of the workstations, I take a look at the nearby sketch.

Someone had modified it, with a bright red Sharpie. They crossed out my trim, the cut of the neckline, and the length of the skirt. They changed colors and removed details.

I wanted to cry. Why would someone do this to me? I thought my work would be safe here, that working with Atlas would make all this stress worth it to make sure my collection reached market on time.

If any of these boxes make it to customers I will be ruined. Not only will the name Cordelia Louise be associated with late deliveries, but also poor craftsmanship. Worse, changes of this level would be seen as a breach of contract with most stores who would then be in their full rights to demand a full refund.

If I had gone home as Theo had suggested, I would have gone to bed under the false assumption that everything was done and would be okay.

The worst part is, someone did this to me intentionally. Someone took a red pen to my work and altered it without my knowledge. That means that someone in my production team cannot be trusted. But who?

Flipping over the design, I see it is signed with a large, red A.