Chapter 2: The Signature That Wasn't Mine
Two years earlier, I had woken up in a hospital bed with a scar above my eyebrow and no memory of the last eleven days.
My father was sitting beside me.
He held my hand with both of his, his wedding ring cold against my knuckles.
"You're awake," he whispered.
I tried to speak, but my throat felt like sandpaper.
"Water," I managed.
He reached for the plastic cup.
"Slowly, sweetheart.""
I took one sip.
Then another.
The room smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. A monitor beeped beside my bed, and sunlight fell through the blinds in narrow white stripes.
"What happened?"" I asked.
My father's expression tightened.
"There was an accident.""
"What kind?""
He stared at the floor.
"Your car left the road.""
I tried to remember.
Rain.
Headlights.
A sharp turn.
Then nothing.
"How long?""
"Eleven days.""
I closed my eyes.
Eleven days.
The thought was too large to hold.
My father squeezed my hand.
"Don't think about that now. You're safe.""
I believed him.
For a while, I believed everything he told me.
His name was Daniel Laurent. He had founded Laurent House from a small tailoring shop and built it into a respected fashion company with stores in New York, London, and Chicago.
My mother had died when I was nine.
For several years, it was just my father and me.
He took me to the studio on weekends. He taught me how to recognize good fabric by touch, how to judge a seam by the way it fell, and how to tell whether a design was beautiful because of its shape or because of the story behind it.
When Vanessa married him, she brought Brianna into our lives.
Brianna was three years younger than me.
She was pretty, polished, and effortlessly charming when she wanted something.
I tried to love her like a sister.
Sometimes I managed.
Sometimes I didn't.
But my father always insisted we were a family.
After the accident, Vanessa visited the hospital twice.
The first time, she brought flowers.
The second time, she brought a document.
She placed it on the blanket over my knees.
"Your father needs you to look at this," she said.
I blinked at the page.
The words swam.
"I can't read that right now.""
"It's just an administrative form.""
"Vanessa, I'm exhausted.""
She leaned closer.
"Your father has a lot to deal with. The company is struggling with the licensing agreements. He needs some things organized.""
I looked toward the door.
My father was speaking with a nurse outside.
"Can't he explain it later?""
Vanessa's smile remained in place.
"Of course. I'll tell him you refused to cooperate.""
She gathered the papers and left.
I thought nothing of it.
At the time, I could barely hold a cup of water without shaking.
My father never mentioned the document again.
Three months later, I returned to the studio.
I walked slowly at first, with a cane, but I returned.
My hands were steady enough to sketch. My eyes could follow patterns. And I was determined not to let the accident take the one thing that had always belonged to me.
I began developing a collection inspired by the stained-glass windows in the little chapel where my mother used to take me.
She had loved the way sunlight changed the colors throughout the day.
"Look at that blue," she once told me.
"It's never the same blue twice.""
I had never forgotten.
The collection became my obsession.
I wanted to create clothing that behaved like stained glass: translucent, luminous, full of movement, with every piece connected to the next.
At first, it was only sketches.
Then came fabric tests.
Then hand-cut silk panels.
Then hundreds of tiny crystals sewn into each seam.
My father visited the studio one afternoon and stood in front of the first finished bodice.
He ran a finger over the embroidered glass fragments.
"Your mother would have loved this.""
I smiled.
"You think?""
"I know.""
He kissed the top of my head.
"You're finally making something no one can imitate.""
That sentence stayed with me.
I didn't know it would eventually become the most important thing he ever said.
Six months later, Vanessa called an emergency meeting at Laurent House.
I arrived carrying a portfolio.
She was seated at the head of the boardroom table, with Brianna beside her and three executives arranged along the far wall.
My father was absent.
"Where's Dad?"" I asked.
"At home," Vanessa replied.
"He's been advised to reduce his workload.""
I set down the portfolio.
"Then I can come back another day.""
"No need. We have business to discuss.""
She pushed a folder toward me.
Inside were photographs of my stained-glass collection.
Every design.
Every sketch.
Even a close-up of the unfinished gown I had kept locked in my studio cabinet.
My stomach tightened.
"Why do you have these?""
"Because Laurent House is preparing to launch the collection.""
I looked at her.
"What?""
"Your father approved it.""
"He hasn't seen the final pieces.""
"He approved the commercial direction.""
I flipped through the photographs.
One design had already been labeled with a price.
Another had been assigned a production schedule.
A third had Brianna's name printed beneath it.
I stared at the paper.
"Why is Brianna listed as the collection's creative director?""
Brianna crossed her legs.
"Mom thought it would be a good opportunity.""
"An opportunity for what?""
"To bring a younger perspective to the brand.""
I looked at Vanessa.
"This is my collection.""
"Your collection is a Laurent House asset.""
"No. The company manufactured some of the fabric tests. I designed everything.""
Vanessa folded her hands.
"You should be grateful that the company is giving your work a platform.""
"I don't need a platform. I need you to stop using my designs without permission.""
She gave me a patient look.
"Camille, your father has already settled this.""
"Then let me speak to him.""
"He's tired.""
"Then I'll call him.""
"You won't need to.""
She pushed another document across the table.
My name was typed at the bottom.
Camille Laurent.
The same signature I had seen on the agreement two years later.
My skin prickled.
"What is this?""
"A transfer of intellectual property rights.""
I didn't touch it.
"I haven't agreed to that.""
Vanessa's voice sharpened.
"You already did.""
"When?""
"After your accident.""
I stared at her.
"That wasn't a conversation. I was in a hospital.""
"You were perfectly capable of understanding a document.""
"No, I wasn't.""
Brianna exhaled loudly.
"Can we please stop pretending Camille is the only person who has ever worked hard in this family?""
I turned to her.
"What does that have to do with my designs?""
"Everything is always yours. Dad's attention. The company.
The studio. The special treatment.""
"My studio was built with my own work.""
"Which Dad paid for.""
I looked back at Vanessa.
"Where is the original document?""
"At the company's legal office.""
"Then I want a copy.""
"Your lawyer can request one.""
I gathered my portfolio.
"I'll do that.""
Vanessa stood.
"Camille, you're making a mistake.""
I stopped at the door.
"Then I suppose I'll have to live with it.""
Three days later, I received a letter from Laurent House's legal department.
It stated that I had already transferred all intellectual property rights to the company and had no legal authority to reproduce, distribute, or display any of the designs.
I read it twice.
Then I called my lawyer.
He asked me to send the agreement.
When I did, he went quiet.
"Camille, do you recognize this signature?""
"No.""
"Not even the initials?""
"No.""
"Then we need the original.""
He spent weeks requesting it.
Vanessa's lawyers delayed.
They claimed the company had archived the document.
They claimed the archive was being reorganized.
They claimed the original had been damaged during a storage relocation.
Every excuse sounded reasonable until I lined them up beside one another.
Then they sounded like a plan.
I refused to give up.
I started tracing the agreement's notarization.
The name on the stamp was Margaret Bell.
I remembered her immediately.
She had notarized the lease for my first studio.
My lawyer contacted her office.
The first response was that she had retired.
The second was that she could not comment without seeing the document.
The third came six weeks later.
A handwritten letter.
Miss Laurent, I do not recall witnessing your signature on the agreement provided by Laurent House. I have requested a copy of my retired journal records. Please contact me directly.
I read the letter in my kitchen at two in the morning.
Outside, rain tapped against the windows.
I called the number at the bottom.
Margaret answered on the second ring.
"Mrs. Bell?""
"Yes?""
"My name is Camille Laurent. You sent me a letter.""
There was a pause.
"I wondered whether you would call.""
"Do you remember notarizing the transfer?""
"I remember the date.""
"Did I sign it?""
"No.""
My breath caught.
"You're sure?""
"I'm sure I never saw you that day.""
I closed my eyes.
"Then who did?""
"I don't know yet. But there is something else.""
I gripped the phone.
"What?""
"The document bears my notary seal. The impression is genuine.""
"So someone used your seal?""
"Someone had access to it. Or had a duplicate made.""
"Can you prove that?""
"Not without my journal.""
"Where is it?""
"At my home. I've kept my records since retirement.""
I leaned against the counter.
"Could you check?""
"I already have.""
My heart started pounding.
"And?""
"The entry is missing.""
I went still.
"Missing?""
"Someone removed the page.""
"Who would have been able to do that?""
"Someone who knew which page to take.""
I stared at the dark kitchen window.
For a moment, I could see my reflection.
My tired eyes.
My scar.
The woman who had spent two years believing her father had protected her from the accident, from the company, from the world.
"Mrs. Bell," I whispered, "I need to know who did this.""
"Then come to my house tomorrow morning.""
I arrived at nine.
Her home was small, warm, and filled with books. A brass clock ticked in the hallway. On the dining table sat the old leather journal.
Margaret had placed a magnifying glass beside it.
She opened the cover.
"Look here.""
The pages were numbered.
September fourteenth was listed in the index.
But the page itself had been cut out.
Not torn.
Not accidentally detached.
Cut.
The edges were too clean.
Margaret pointed to the binding.
"Someone used a blade.""
I swallowed.
"Could the record have been transferred somewhere else?""
"No. I always entered a notation before closing each day's records.""
She turned to a page near the back.
There was a handwritten note.
Special handling requested. D. Laurent. Original signature page delivered by courier.
I stared.
D. Laurent.
My father.
Margaret saw my face.
"Do you recognize the initials?""
I nodded slowly.
"Yes.""
"Was your father involved with this agreement?""
"I don't know.""
She closed the book.
"Camille, I need you to understand something. Someone didn't simply copy your signature. They built a trail around it. They used my seal, removed a journal page, and made sure the company's copy looked official.""
"Why?""
"That is what we need to find out.""
She opened a drawer and took out a photograph.
It showed her old office, several years earlier.
On the desk sat a small metal stamp case.
Beside it was a man whose face I knew better than my own.
Daniel Laurent.
My father.
"He came to see me the week before the document was dated," Margaret said.
"Why?""
"He said he needed advice about a sensitive family matter.""
I couldn't speak.
Margaret touched the photograph.
"He asked what would happen if someone submitted a signed page that the signer had never personally acknowledged.""
My mouth went dry.
"And what did you tell him?""
"I told him that would be fraud.""
She paused.
"Then he asked me whether a notary could ever be held responsible for a document she hadn't witnessed.""
I looked at the picture again.
My father was smiling.
Not the warm smile I remembered from the hospital.
This one was smaller.
More deliberate.
Margaret returned the photograph to its envelope.
"I didn't think much of that conversation at the time.""
"What do you think now?""
She looked at me for a long moment.
"I think somebody knew exactly what they were doing.""
Before I left, Margaret promised to prepare an affidavit and preserve her journal as evidence.
I walked to my car in a daze.
My phone rang.
Vanessa.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
"Camille," she said, "I heard you've been visiting Margaret Bell.""
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Who told you?""
"That doesn't matter.""
"It matters to me.""
She gave a little laugh.
"You need to stop digging. You're upsetting people who have done nothing but help you.""
"Did my father give you my signature?""
Silence.
Then Vanessa said, "You should be careful what you accuse people of.""
"Did you forge the agreement?""
"Your father handled those matters.""
The words were quiet.
Too quiet.
I stopped beside my car.
"What did you say?""
"I said your father understood the business far better than you do.""
"That's not an answer.""
"Camille, listen to me. Brianna's wedding is tomorrow. The collection is being announced.
There are investors watching. Do not destroy your sister's future because you can't accept that your father made a decision.""
"My father didn't make me sign anything.""
"You don't remember what happened in that hospital.""
The world seemed to tilt.
"What?""
"You're not the only person who remembers those weeks, Camille.""
I stared at the screen.
Vanessa ended the call.
For a long time, I stood there with the phone against my ear.
Then I opened the car door, sat behind the wheel, and looked at the envelope Margaret had given me.
Inside were copies of the notary journal, her written statement, and a request for medical records.
My medical records.
The ones from the days surrounding September fourteenth.
I hadn't thought about them in years.
I didn't know what they would show.
But I knew one thing.
May you like
Vanessa was frightened.
And she had just made the mistake of telling me exactly where to look.
