Chapter 17

Emily's POV

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the display case. That strawberry mousse cake with its delicate pink frosting and tiny sugar flowers was practically calling my name. My stomach gave a traitorous little growl, and I found myself leaning closer to the glass despite Stefan's earlier dismissal about my "bird appetite."

"It's just cake," I whispered to myself, trying to peel my gaze away. "Don't be ridiculous."

When I finally managed to straighten up and turn around, I nearly bumped into Stefan. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read—something halfway between annoyance and curiosity. I prepared for another cutting remark about wasting time.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "We can go now."

To my surprise, Stefan didn't respond. Instead, he stepped around me and approached the counter, pointing directly at the strawberry mousse cake.

"I'll take that one," he said to the clerk. Then, to my further astonishment, he continued, "And that chocolate one. The tiramisu. The lemon tart. And the cheesecake."

My jaw nearly hit the floor. I hurried to his side.

"That's way too much," I whispered urgently. "I can't possibly eat all of that. I really was just looking."

Stefan didn't even glance at me. "You can buy ten and take one bite out of each for all I care," he said, voice still cold but words unexpectedly considerate. "They won't go to waste."

Something warm unfurled in my chest, and before I could stop myself, I smiled up at him—a genuine smile, not the practiced, timid one I usually wore. I felt my eyes crinkle at the corners.

Stefan's hand froze mid-air as he pointed at another pastry. For half a second, he just stared at me, something flickering in his eyes that I couldn't identify. Then he seemed to recover himself.

"Cut that out," he muttered, turning back to the clerk. "That stupid face doesn't work on me."

But I noticed his voice had lost some of its usual edge.

While Stefan paid, I wandered over to a nearby tasting station where tiny bite-sized desserts were arranged on elegant silver platters. A small sample of cheesecake caught my eye, and I carefully picked up one of the tiny forks, sliding it into the creamy confection. When I took a bite, the rich, velvety texture made me close my eyes in pure pleasure.

When was the last time I ate something just because I wanted to, not because it was measured and monitored? At the Summers' house, even food had been a controlled privilege, doled out with comments about my "delicate health" and the expense of "special diets."

"You look like you're having a religious experience over cheesecake."

My eyes flew open. Stefan stood a few feet away, several bakery boxes balanced in his arms, watching me with what almost looked like amusement.

"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, quickly putting down the fork. "I just wanted to try—"

"I paid," he interrupted, surprisingly without any mockery in his tone. "Let's go."

As I followed him out, I noticed he grabbed a few boxes of the samples I'd been trying. Something tugged at the corners of my heart—a dangerous feeling of warmth I couldn't afford to indulge.

Don't get confused, Emily. This is still the man you're using. A few cakes don't change anything.

---

"Wait here," Stefan instructed, leaving me on a bench outside the mall while he went to retrieve the car. "Don't move."

The afternoon was growing chilly, but the winter sun still cast a pleasant glow. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself and watched shoppers bustle past with their bags and packages. A large digital screen above the mall entrance cycled through advertisements and news.

My attention snapped into focus when a familiar face appeared on the screen. My cousin Kate. The headline beneath her photo made my pulse quicken:

"JEWELRY DESIGN PRODIGY KATE SUMMERS ACCUSED OF PLAGIARISM"

I leaned forward, straining to hear the audio over the noise of the crowd.

"The design submitted to the International Design Competition bears striking similarities to a piece created three years ago by renowned designer Aurora," said a woman identified as Joanna Harper, an international design critic. "The structural elements and thematic approach are nearly identical."

The screen split to show side-by-side images of two jewelry pieces—one I recognized immediately as the design I had created for Kate. The other was undeniably similar, with the same flowing curves and distinctive gemstone placement.

Perfect.

My heart raced, but not from fear. I had deliberately incorporated elements from Aurora's distinctive style into the design I'd created for Kate. I knew the similarity would eventually be noticed—that was the point. But I hadn't expected it to happen so quickly or so publicly.

The news anchor continued: "This scandal could potentially damage the Summers family's reputation in the jewelry industry, particularly with their upcoming showcase at the Winter Exhibition."

My fingers tightened around my purse. Phase one was unfolding exactly as planned. But I kept my face carefully neutral in case anyone was watching.

My phone rang, the screen flashing Kate's name. Right on schedule. I took a deep breath and answered.

"Hello?"

"You backstabbing little bitch!" Kate's voice was so shrill I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "You did this on purpose! You knew that design would be recognized as a copy!"

I maintained my soft, confused tone. "Kate, I don't understand. I just did what you asked me to—"

"Don't play innocent with me!" she screamed. "You've been jealous of me since we were children. You've always wanted to ruin me!"

My fingers gripped the phone tighter, but I kept my voice steady. "How could I possibly know about another designer's work? I study psychology, not jewelry design."

"You lying whore! My father won't let this slide. You'll regret this!"

I closed my eyes briefly, counting to three. "Kate, please calm down. We can figure this out—"

"Go to hell!" she spat, and the line went dead.

Without hesitation, I added her number to my block list. The storm was just beginning, and I needed to prepare for the next wave. Within seconds, my phone rang again—this time showing Uncle Richard's number.

I took a steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and answered.

"Hello, Uncle Richard."

"Are you feeling proud of yourself?" His voice was ice cold, the tone I'd heard so many times before—usually right before he took something else away from me.

"I don't know what you mean," I replied, keeping my voice small and confused.

"Don't play games with me, Emily. You deliberately gave Kate a plagiarized design. You're trying to destroy her career and embarrass our family."

I tightened my grip on the phone, feeling my nails dig into my palm. "Uncle, I study psychology, not jewelry design. How would I know what constitutes plagiarism in that field?"

I heard Kate's voice in the background: "She did it on purpose! She's always been jealous because I'm more talented and prettier than her!"

"Listen carefully, Emily," Uncle Richard's voice dropped even lower. "Remember that you have no one in this city except us. We can withdraw all support anytime we choose."

I swallowed hard, letting my voice quiver just enough. "I'll always be grateful for everything you've done for me these past ten years, Uncle."

There was a pause, as if my response had surprised him. When he spoke again, his voice held a note of suspicion. "Don't do anything foolish, Emily."

The call ended, and I slowly lowered the phone to my lap. I stared at the traffic passing by, people going about their normal lives, completely unaware of the wheels I had just set in motion.

"This is just the beginning, Uncle," I whispered to myself, my face transforming from vulnerable to coldly determined in an instant. No one was watching now.

I barely had time to compose my features back into their usual mask of fragility before Stefan's car pulled up at the curb. As I slid into the passenger seat, he glanced at me sharply.

"What's wrong with you? You look pale."

"It's nothing," I said, forcing a small smile. "Just a little tired. I'd like to go home and rest if that's okay."

His eyes narrowed, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Who were you talking to on the phone just now?"

"A patient," I lied smoothly, looking down at my hands.

Stefan didn't respond, but I could feel his gaze lingering on me as he pulled away from the curb. We drove in silence for several minutes before my phone vibrated with an email notification.

The message was short and unsigned: "Anonymous tip submitted to the prosecutors' office."

A tiny smile touched my lips before I could stop it. The evidence of Uncle Richard's financial crimes would now be in the hands of authorities. The dominoes were beginning to fall, one by one.