Chapter 111

Chapter 111
My phone rang so abruptly it felt like a needle scratching across vinyl in my brain. The sound cut through the low hum of the room, startling me enough that I fumbled it before catching it against my palm.
“I—excuse me a moment,” I murmured to Mike, already stepping away, my pulse doing strange staccato beats.
The name flashing on the screen made my gut twist. Nadia – Atelier Assistant. She never called unless it was important.
“Ma’am—” Her voice was high, choppy with panic. “The atelier—your atelier—it’s on fire.”
The words punched the air out of my lungs.
“What?”
“Fire—smoke everywhere—the fire service is here but—” She sounded breathless, frantic. Somewhere behind her, I could hear the hiss of water, shouting, metal scraping.
I didn’t remember ending the call. I didn’t remember the polite murmurs from whoever I’d just been speaking to. One moment I was standing in that quiet, carpeted room, and the next I was moving—too fast, the edges of my vision sharp, and narrowed.
I must have said I have to go to someone. Or maybe I didn’t. All I knew was my legs were carrying me, my phone clamped in my hand so tightly my fingers ached.
My designs. My jewelry. My sketches. Years of work, months of sleepless nights, beads sorted into trays by color, fabric sourced from markets I had crossed oceans to find.
I was outside before I realized I’d moved, yanking open a taxi door so hard the driver startled.
“Please—the Atelier Éloise on Fifth. Now.” My voice didn’t even sound like mine.
He must have seen something in my face because he didn’t ask questions. We lurched into motion, weaving between cars, my knee bouncing uncontrollably as my mind raced ahead of us.
I tried to text Mike, my fingers flying, missing letters, the autocorrect turning my words into gibberish. Take Max home was all I wanted to say, but I couldn’t even tell if I sent it or deleted it.
Outside, the city blurred, flashes of storefronts, puddles reflecting distorted neon, pedestrians who turned their heads at the sound of our horn. My chest felt too tight to take in enough air.
When the taxi jerked to a stop, I threw bills at the driver and bolted, the air tasting wrong before I even saw the building.
Smoke. Acrid, metallic, clinging to the back of my throat.
The atelier’s windows gaped black-mouthed, smoke curling from them. Red and blue lights strobed against the walls, fire trucks hulking at the curb, hoses snaking across the wet pavement.
I ran. My heels slapped the ground, splashing through shallow water. I forgot the elevator existed, my brain only knew up. The stairwell was hot, the smell stronger, a thick wool blanket pressing into my nose and mouth. My lungs burned, each breath pulling in something heavy and chemical.
By the time I reached my floor, I was dizzy, the world a shade too bright.
Nadia was there, hair frizzed from the heat, her apron streaked with ash, eyes wide and shimmering. “Ma’am! You can’t—” She tried to block me, but I pushed past, into the open space where my life’s work had stood.
The fire service was everywhere, men and women in heavy suits and helmets, their boots clanging against the floor, their hoses spraying down the last stubborn tongues of flame. The air was wet and smoky, the floor scattered with damp fabric, warped frames, beads rolling aimlessly.
I froze, taking in the ruin. My workstation, half of it was blackened, the surface curling in on itself like burnt paper. A rack of dresses sagged against the wall, the silk shrunken and puckered, some pieces only skeletal outlines of what they’d been.
A lump rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down hard.
“Was anyone hurt?” My voice scraped like it was coming from somewhere far away.
“No,” Nadia said quickly, her hands twisting in her apron. “No, we got out. They came so fast—” She gestured to the firefighters. “I tried to save what I could—some jewelry, some sketches—but…” Her voice broke, and she looked away.
I moved carefully through the wreckage, my shoes sticking slightly to the damp floor. My jewelry cases were on a table near the back, some still intact. The gold caught what little light there was, dull and wet, but whole. My sketchbooks, some were salvageable, though the edges were singed, curling like autumn leaves.
Someone—a firefighter—approached, his helmet under one arm. “Ms. Sinclair?”
“Yes.” My hands curled into fists at my sides.
“We’ve contained it. Damage is significant to the workstations and storage area, but the structural integrity is okay. No injuries reported.”
“What caused it?” I asked immediately.
He hesitated, just for a second, but enough for me to notice. “Too early to say. Could be electrical. We’ll know more after the inspection.”
Electrical. But the atelier was practically new. The wiring had been redone just last year, I’d seen the reports myself. Something cold trickled down my spine.
I glanced at Nadia, who was chewing her lip, eyes darting everywhere but mine.
“Where did it start?” I asked.
The firefighter shifted his weight. “Near the back storage area.”
Where the most expensive fabrics were kept. The bolts I’d hand-selected from a Parisian market, worth thousands each.
I inhaled slowly, forcing myself to nod. “I see.”
A crack sounded behind me, just wood collapsing, but my heart jumped like it had been a gunshot.
“Ma’am…” Nadia’s voice was small, and when I turned, I realized her hands were trembling.
“What is it?”
She opened her mouth, closed it again. “I—it’s nothing. Just glad you’re okay.”
It wasn’t nothing. But this wasn’t the moment to pry.
The firefighters continued their work, spraying down corners that still smoldered. Water pooled on the floor, soaking into fabric and paper alike. The smell of burnt silk was sickly-sweet, clinging to my hair, my clothes, my skin.
Some of my dresses had survived—singed, yes, but repairable. The beadwork on one gown had melted, the glass turning cloudy, fused together. Another piece, my centerpiece for the upcoming show—was gone entirely, nothing left but a twisted hanger.
I crouched beside what used to be my cutting table, my fingertips brushing the warped wood. My breath stuttered.
Every instinct in me screamed that this wasn’t an accident. The fire hadn’t started in some random corner, it had started in the one place that would hurt the most.
I stood, brushing damp ash from my hands. “Nadia,” I said quietly, “were you here when it started?”
Her eyes flickered. “I was in the front, arranging the new display. Then… smoke. Fast. Too fast.”
Too fast. Electrical fires didn’t spread that quickly in an open space unless there was fuel.
I looked around, mentally mapping the atelier’s layout, the proximity of the storage room to the main floor. The fire’s reach didn’t make sense.
A firefighter passed, nodding politely, and I caught the faintest scent beneath the smoke, something chemical, not from fabric or wiring. Something deliberate.
I didn’t let my expression change.
Instead, I said, “We’ll get through this. Just inventory what we saved for now.”
She nodded, relief softening her face, but the unease in her eyes stayed.
When the last of the flames died, the firefighters began packing up, their heavy boots leaving wet prints. The building was quieter now, except for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling.
I walked to the window, looking down at the street below, crowds had gathered, cameras flashing, curious voices rising and falling.
Somewhere in that sea of faces, I wondered if there was someone watching not out of concern, but satisfaction.
I’d built this atelier from nothing, brick by brick, bead by bead. And someone had just tried to burn it down.
Not just my work, me.