Chapter 2Mending Gems Breaking Billionaires

The next morning, the studio door swung open. Lennon walked in with Gia clinging to his side.

I was bent over the workbench, carefully fusing a microscopic gold filament. I didn't look up.

Gia began wandering around my pristine studio, picking up and dropping my delicate restoration tools like they were toys. "Why is everything in here so... dusty?" she whined, pinching her nose. "It smells like an old basement."

She drifted over to the vintage mannequin. She reached a manicured hand toward the fragile Edwardian lace. It was spun from decades-old silk—incredibly delicate, irreplaceable.

I slammed my tools down. "Don't touch that!"

Startled, Gia yanked her hand back. Her elbow caught the edge of a heavy tin of industrial gilding solvent resting on the high table next to the gown. The tin tipped.

A thick, toxic amber liquid splashed violently across the immaculate white silk.

The chemicals soaked instantly into the antique threads. The intricate beadwork I had spent thousands of hours sewing melted into a hardened, ruined stain.

Instinct overrode logic. I lunged forward to push her away and save the fabric. But before my fingers even grazed Gia's shoulder, a massive force shoved me backward.

Lennon had stepped between us, shoving me violently against the mahogany workbench.

The sharp corner of the table dug ruthlessly into my lower back. I collapsed against the wood, curling in on myself as a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The pain was blinding.

"Are you insane?!" Lennon roared. "It's just a ragged old dress! If it's ruined, it's ruined! How dare you lay a hand on Gia? Do you have any idea how much her body is insured for?"

Gia shrank into Lennon’s chest, pointing a trembling finger down at the toe of her designer heels, where a single drop of solvent had landed. "Lennon... my limited-edition shoes got dirty..."

Lennon glanced down. Without a second thought, he reached over, grabbed the delicate hem of my ruined Edwardian bridal gown, and ripped it off the mannequin.

"Here, let me wipe it off."

He balled up the gown—the dress I had poured my soul into, the dress I had bled over for three years—and knelt on the floor, using it as a rag to scrub Gia's shoes.

I clutched my back, breathless, watching my life's work get dragged across the dusty floor. In Lennon’s hands, my sacred, irreplaceable history was nothing but a dirty towel.

Once the shoe was clean, Lennon casually tossed the soiled, crumpled heap of vintage silk into the corner. He dusted off his hands.

He turned to look at me, still gasping by the table, and pulled a sleek black Amex from his wallet, slapping it onto the bench.

"Enough of the dramatics. Go buy yourself a custom Vera Wang or whatever it is you want. Nobody wears vintage garbage like that anymore anyway. You’d be a laughingstock."

Gia looped her arm through his. "Exactly. That old thing was so tacky. You have such amazing taste, Lennon. Can we leave now? The fumes in here are giving me a headache."

Lennon nodded. He didn't spare me a single glance as he escorted her out of the room.

No one asked if I was hurt. No one apologized. The studio fell into a deathly, ringing silence.

I gripped the edge of the table and forced myself to stand. My legs shook as I walked over to the corner and picked up the gown. It was stiff with chemicals, stained brown, coated in floor dirt.

I picked up my heavy fabric shears. Snip. Snip.

I cut the gown into shreds. I threw the pieces into the metal fire-safe bin by the door, struck a match, and dropped it in.

The flames caught quickly, devouring the silk, reducing the lace to black ash.

I stood there, watching the fire hollow out the fabric, when my phone vibrated. A text from Lennon.

“Gia is shaken up. I’m staying at her place tonight. Use the time to reflect on your behavior. Stop acting like such a bitter, petty woman.”