STITCHED FOR REVENGE

Aryan Cole kept his life folded and tidy like the suits behind his desk. The office smelled of lemon polish and cold air. He liked the quiet. It made decisions easier.

"Morning," Jordan said, placing a tablet on the desk. "First round of submissions."

Aryan did not look up. Photos lit the screen-faces, fabric, plenty of hopeful noise. One file stopped him when Jordan said, "Elena Carter. Atlanta. Small shop. Two manual machines. She attached a sketch-says it's her mother's."

He turned at last. A line drawing filled the screen. Simple. Clean. The kind of cut that held a body like it had meaning. The image unsettled him more than he expected.

"Her mother's name?" Aryan asked.

"Margaret Carter," Jordan said. "She says Margaret worked for Cole once. Says someone stole a design and ruined her. Elena wants a shot to set things right."

Something cold moved in Aryan's chest. He remembered Cecilia's rules: business was clean. No softness. History made trouble. He had learned the rule and bent himself to it. Yet the sketch made a different memory come up-one he had put in a box years ago.

"Bring her in," he said. "Private audition. No cameras. No leaks. Prepare the studio."

Jordan blinked. "You want to see her? Personally?"

"Yes," Aryan said. His voice closed the door on the question.

When Jordan left, the screen stayed bright and the sketch looked small and dangerous. Attached to the file was a photograph: a woman in a doorway with a dress on a hanger, smiling like sunlight. The face fit a memory like a glove-easily, perfectly. It made the ache in him move.

He read Elena's note again: My mother was a seamstress. Her name was Margaret Carter. She worked for Cole Atelier once. She lost everything. I want my mother's name back.

Jordan had called it PR gold. Aryan thought of profit, of debt, and of a brand that needed a story to keep its place. He also saw the tool: bring her close, make her the face, keep the design inside his vault. He could do it. He had done things like it before.

He walked to the mini-fridge and took a water without thinking. The cold glass against his palm was sharp. "How many other submissions mention theft?" he asked when Jordan returned.

"Two or three," Jordan said. "A lot of people think brands took from them. Some real, some not. But her note-people will listen. Atlanta has a heart. The story will run."

Aryan tapped the screen. He thought of investors calling him in soft tones. He thought of the sales team burning midnight oil. He thought of Cecilia's voice telling him business is war. He thought of how long he had worked to make Cole an empire and how quick everything could unwind.

"Set a private slot," Aryan said. "And check our archives. Payroll. Old lists. Anything with Margaret Carter or a seamstress hired in that era."

Leah answered his private line in thirty seconds. "Got it. I'll pull the files and start the booking. Should I tell PR anything?"

"No," Aryan said. "Not yet. Keep it closed. If this is gold, we need to refine the shape before we show anyone."

There was more in him than calculation. He had not planned the way a photograph could bruise something steady inside him. As he watched the line drawing, he felt an odd curiosity about the woman who had made it. He imagined her hands-callused, patient, precise-moving over fabric on a machine that did not hum with electricity. The image lodged in him like a splinter.

A memory he had kept tidy opened just a hair. Cecilia in a blue dress, teaching a room of girls to press seams so sleeves sat proper. She had called it respect. In Aryan's childhood, respect had been currency. Soft things were dangerous. He had watched his mother slice softness out of a room with a look and felt how empty that made a life.

He closed the memory quickly. This was business. He was not a man to let memory rule moves. Still, he could use memory if it helped his aim. Bring the girl in. Make her trust. Take the design. Give her a story that made her famous and small at once.

"Jordan," he said, "I want you to watch the audition. Discreet. No interviews, no cameras. We will test her skills. If she's raw but honest, we bring her in as a limited collaborator. If she agrees, we buy the design rights. If not-" He did not finish. He did not need to.

Jordan nodded slowly. "What if she refuses?"

"Then we move on," Aryan said. He kept his face flat. It was a promise and a command.

He called Leah again. "Pull everything on Margaret Carter. Payroll, extra names, photos. If anyone filed a complaint or left a note, I want it. No one is to leak this. Archive only."

Leah's voice was steady. "On it."

He put the phone down and looked out at the city. Below, cars moved like small, patient animals. People wore their own small stories. In one of the flats, maybe in a block he could not name, a girl sewed under the light of a single bulb.

A thought arrived so clear it startled him: make her need him. Make her trust the name Cole and watch the world hand him what she thought was hers. He did not like the thought. He also liked it because it was efficient.

He stood, buttoned his jacket with a slow, careful hand, and smiled a small, practiced smile. It was a smile that said everything was under control. It was a smile that hid the bruise of a memory.

Someone knocked at the glass. His assistant's head appeared. "Mr. Cole, the caller on hold is from Atlanta. They say the applicant is at a local line."

The phone on his desk blinked again. He let it go to voicemail. He picked up his phone instead and typed: Schedule private audition. Elena Carter. No press. Then he sent it.

He watched the send icon spin, and the city below kept moving. The line drawing on the screen looked back. He had set a plan in motion.

He did not know yet that the plan would find a place to cut him.