The design

Six months after the idea was stolen, the company held its annual shareholders’ meeting at the Sofitel Hotel on the banks of the Rhône, the most important event of the year, attended by fashion press and major investors.

I had been given to understand that I would be nominated for the position of Vice President of Creative Direction — a seat left vacant since my predecessor’s retirement, and one I had quietly prepared for over the past two years through my own merit.

Delphine, perhaps out of guilt, had murmured to me a few days before the event: “The board thinks very highly of your performance report from this past year, Cécile. I think things will turn out well.”

I wore a simple navy suit that day, my hair pulled back neatly, feeling as though I were about to step into the first moment of my life when I would be recognized for everything I’d put in.

My father stood at the podium, his voice carrying across the packed conference hall.

“Today, I’m pleased to announce an important decision for the future of the Armand Group,” he said, and I felt my heart beat faster.

“We are appointing Maxime Armand to the position of Vice President of Creative Direction, in recognition of his outstanding contributions, particularly the breakthrough concept for our centennial collection.”

Applause rang through the room.

I sat there, feeling as though my blood had frozen solid in my veins.

Maxime walked up to the podium, took my father’s arm, bowed his thanks, his eyes flicking toward me for exactly half a second — a glance I couldn’t tell was accidental or triumphant.

After the event, my father found me in the hotel corridor.

“Cécile, I know you contributed to that project too,” he said, his voice trying to soothe.

“You’ll keep working under Maxime in the creative department, supporting him in running the team.”

“I report to Maxime?” I asked, my own voice sounding foreign even to me.

“It’s the most sensible arrangement for now,” my father replied.

“You’re young, you have time. Maxime needs you by his side.”

I looked at my father, the man who had once wept in a church and promised he’d never let me want for anything, now standing before me, treating the idea of me serving under the man who had stolen my work as something “sensible.”

“Do you know that concept was mine?” I asked outright, no longer able to hold my composure.

My father hesitated for a second, something flickering in his eyes.

“Delphine did mention something along those lines,” he said slowly.

“But Maxime insists he developed it independently, that it was simply a case of similar thinking to yours. I believe him, Cécile.”

“You believe him over your own daughter?” I asked, my voice breaking.

Silence stretched between us in that elegant hotel corridor, the sound of music drifting faintly from the reception hall.

“Cécile,” my father finally said, his voice more weary than firm, “you’ve always known how to stand on your own, ever since you were small. I need Maxime to learn that too, and the only way is to put him in a position where he has no choice but to carry the weight. I’m asking you for just a little more time.”

I didn’t answer.

I simply turned and walked away, leaving my father standing alone in that corridor, and for the first time in my life, I felt some door inside me close for good.

I ran into Ophélie in the hotel parking lot right after, as she waited for her driver to bring the car around.

“Cécile,” she called out, her voice sweet as ever.

“You shouldn’t be upset about the position. Maxime needed it more than you — he’s still trying to prove himself to your father, you know, his starting point was so much harder than yours.”

“His starting point was harder than mine?” I asked back, unable to hide the sarcasm.

“He moved into my house, took my mother’s room, and now sits in the seat I spent six years earning.”

Ophélie laughed softly, a laugh so cold it made me shiver.

“You still think everything’s that simple, don’t you? Life isn’t fair, Cécile. The wise ones are the ones who know how to adapt, not the ones who keep insisting on what they think they deserve.”

“I’m not insisting on anything,” I replied.

“I just want to be treated fairly in my own family.”

“Your family?” She repeated the word, her voice sharpening for a moment before she regained her composure.

“You should remember, family is something people build. It isn’t something you’re simply owed because you happen to share the same blood.”

Her car arrived, and she stepped in, leaving me standing alone in the dark parking lot, her final words echoing in my head like the most naked confession she’d ever made.