Chapter 4

Chloe's POV

When I returned to the marketing agency after three days of leave, I found my desk had been moved.

I was no longer by the window.

That window seat was a spot I had earned inch by inch, working my way up from an intern to a senior creative director.

Now, my plants were gone, my project drafts had been shuffled through, and even the framed photo of my mother and me at the old pier was missing from my desk.

Inside the glass conference room, Vivian was standing there. She was wearing my custom-designed forest green blazer.

That blazer was a prototype I had created for our pitch to renovate the SoHo Leather Factory. I had designed it using my mother's vintage leatherwork techniques as inspiration. I wanted to pitch turning that abandoned factory into a community exhibition space for heritage crafts.

It was a project I had poured my heart into for over eight months.

Vivian spotted me and immediately jogged out of the room. "Chloe. You're back. I thought you needed a few more days off. Mr. Davis said I should take over as the lead presenter for the SoHo project for now. Please don't be mad. I'm just stepping in to help."

I stared at the blazer on her. "Take it off."

Vivian blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"That's my custom prototype," I said, my voice cold. "It's not company property."

The chatter in the office died down instantly.

Vivian's eyes welled with tears on cue. "Chloe, I just thought this blazer matched the theme of today's pitch so well. Austin... I mean, Mr. Vance also said that you haven't been in the right headspace lately, and that it's better if you don't present."

I finally looked into the conference room.

Austin was sitting in the client's chair, Vivian's presentation slides open in front of him. Seeing me, his brows knit together. He looked at me with warning eyes, as if blaming me for making a scene.

Mr. Davis stepped out of the room, whispering, "Chloe, don't do this now. The Vance Group is the primary investor for this exhibition. Austin wants Vivian to lead this. You'll still get credit behind the scenes."

Behind the scenes.

I was the one who had made dozens of trips to the dusty factory ruins. I was the one who interviewed the retired craftsmen, archived the old leather samples, and scanned my mother's hand-drawn blueprints page by page. Now, Vivian was wearing my design, speaking my words, and stealing my spotlight.

And I was supposed to be satisfied with "behind-the-scenes credit."

Without another word, I reached out and yanked the blazer off Vivian's shoulders.

Vivian gasped, stumbling back as tears streamed down her face. "Chloe! I know you're hurting because of you and Austin, but you can't bring your personal drama into the workplace!"

Austin stood up, his chair scraping loudly. "Chloe."

I draped the blazer over my arm, keeping my voice steady and clear. "If you're going to steal my pitch, at least don't wear my clothes to do it."

Nobody dared to breathe in the open office.

Austin's face darkened. "Vivian is a junior. She needs this opportunity."

"Opportunities are built, Austin. Not stripped off my back."

Vivian sobbed louder.

I didn't give them another glance. I walked over to my new cramped desk, opened my laptop, and got to work.

I didn't cry, and I didn't quit on the spot.

Instead, I backed up every single file of the SoHo project.

The original concept drafts, the interview recordings, the licensing agreements for my mother's designs, and the prototype manufacturing records.

I had already lost my relationship.

I was not going to let them steal my life's work.

Once the backup was complete, I didn't leave immediately.

I walked into the archive room and began packing my personal belongings and my mother's vintage design books.

Seeing how quiet and methodical I was, my coworkers kept their distance.

Vivian watched me through the glass, her smugness slowly giving way to anxiety.

Mr. Davis came over to placate me. "Chloe, we're all colleagues here. No need to burn bridges. Vivian is young, she doesn't know the industry rules yet."

I looked up. "If she doesn't know the rules, why is she leading a multi-million dollar project?"

Mr. Davis choked on his words.

I packed my mother's sketches into a waterproof bag, filled out a property release form, and made the receptionist sign it.

In the past, I ran on loyalty. I never kept strict receipts because I thought of this agency as my second home.

Now I realized: a home doesn't move your desk the second you take three days off, nor does it hand your mother's legacy to another woman.

I saw Austin standing by the door of the conference room. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he ultimately remained silent.

I carried my storage box right past him, not even letting my sleeve brush against his.

A colleague next to my old desk whispered, "Do you need help, Chloe?"

I shook my head. I didn't want to drag anyone else into the mud with Austin and Vivian. But she quietly pushed an empty cardboard box toward me and whispered, "Make sure you didn't leave any original sketches behind."

That simple gesture almost made me break down.

I realized that not everyone in this office was blind.

Many saw the injustice. They were just too afraid to speak up.

I finished copying the last interview tape and placed my mother's photo at the top of the box.

Vivian could steal the spotlight on stage, but she could never fake the soul of the work.