I gripped the rolled-up swatches of Gullah-Geechee fabric so tightly my knuckles ached. The cool Manhattan rain lashed against the windshield as I drove, each drop a tiny accusation.
Victoria’s words still echoed, cold and sharp: “Your apprentice contract grants total ownership… speaking out will destroy you.”
But I hadn’t given in. I had walked out, past the murmuring stylists and the oblivious models, into the stormy night.
Now, my old sedan hummed through Harlem, the familiar brownstones a comforting sight. Great-Aunt Evelyn’s porch light glowed, a beacon in the darkness.
She opened the door before I could knock, her eyes sharp behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She didn’t say anything about my disheveled hair or the panic etched on my face. She just stepped aside.
“Come in, child,” she said, her voice raspy but warm.
Her living room smelled of aged cedar and herbal tea. Family photos covered every surface, generations of St. Cyrs looking back at me.
I laid the fabric swatches on her antique coffee table. “She stole it, Evie. My entire collection.”
Great-Aunt Evelyn picked up a swatch, her calloused fingers tracing the intricate geometric pattern. “This is St. Cyr work, Maya. From our hands, our blood.”
I explained Victoria’s claim, the “apprentice contract” she’d waved in my face.
“She said I signed away everything,” I whispered, the old fear creeping back.
Big Evie nodded slowly. “We’ll see about that.”
She moved to a heavy mahogany cabinet, pulling out a thick, leather-bound folder. Dust motes danced in the lamplight as she opened it, revealing brittle, yellowed papers.
“The original House of St. Cyr founding documents,” she explained. “And your apprentice agreement from five years ago. I kept copies of everything.”
Her eyes scanned the dense legal text, her lips moving silently. The only sound was the drumming of rain outside and the rustle of old paper.
Then, her hand stopped. She leaned closer, her brow furrowing.
“Here it is,” she muttered. “Clause 7B. The exclusivity clause for any designs created under initial apprenticeship.”
My breath hitched. My throat felt tight.
“It states,” she continued, her voice gaining a surprising strength, “that this clause automatically renews every five years, *unless* either party serves notice within a ninety-day window prior to expiration.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending.
“And,” she looked up, a triumphant glint in her eyes, “your five-year anniversary was exactly thirty days ago.”
My mind raced. “So…?”
“So Victoria never served notice,” she stated, tapping the faded print. “And neither did you, because you didn’t know you had to. Which means…”
She smiled, a slow, knowing smile.
“…that exclusivity clause expired. Thirty days ago. Legally, Victoria has no claim over your original patterns. Not anymore, child.”
The realization hit me like a jolt. The chill in the room seemed to lift. My designs. My work. It was all still mine.
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