Victoria’s gaze darted from the contract on the crate to my unyielding face. Her usual tactics—the feigned disappointment, the patronizing lectures, the thinly veiled threats—were failing. The old Maya would have buckled, would have apologized for her audacity. But that Maya was gone.
A muscle twitched in her jaw. She took a deep breath, visibly shifting gears.
“Fine,” she said, her voice now dangerously smooth, completely devoid of its earlier venom. “Let’s be pragmatic, Maya.”
She pulled out her phone, her thumb tapping quickly. “This little… incident… has caused some disruption. But we can manage it. Damage control.”
I watched her, my expression unwavering. I knew what was coming.
“The House of St. Cyr values talent,” she continued, her eyes not meeting mine, fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. “Especially *your* talent, Maya. It’s undeniable.”
The sudden praise, after years of dismissal, felt like a poisoned gift.
“Let’s put this behind us,” she said, finally looking at me, a calculated sincerity in her eyes. “You clearly deserve more recognition. More compensation.”
She named a figure, a sum that made my breath catch in my throat.
“One point five million dollars,” she stated, her voice even. “For your silence. For the designs, to be legally assigned to the House of St. Cyr, under my label. We’ll ensure you get a generous percentage of future profits, a junior designer credit. A very comfortable life, Maya.”
One point five million dollars. Enough to buy my own studio, to launch my own line, to never work for anyone again. The temptation, for a fleeting moment, was almost overwhelming. It was more money than I had ever dreamed of.
But then I thought of Great-Aunt Evelyn, her calloused hands tracing the ancient patterns. I thought of Chloe and the models, their faces alight with pride in the lobby. I thought of the stories woven into every thread of my Gullah-Geechee fabrics, stories Victoria had sought to erase and claim as her own.
My artistic heritage. My freedom. For sale? Under *her* label?
“No,” I said, the word emerging clear and steady, surprising even myself with its conviction.
Victoria’s carefully constructed calm shattered. “No?” she repeated, her voice incredulous. “Are you mad? This is your chance, Maya! More money than you’ll ever see in your life!”
“It’s not about the money, Victoria,” I replied, my gaze firm. “My designs, my heritage, my name… they are not for sale under the St. Cyr label. Not anymore. Not for any price.”
A flicker of genuine shock crossed her face. She had expected me to be bought, just like everyone else in her world. My refusal was an act she couldn’t comprehend, a defiance that defied her very understanding of power.
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