Ella Carter's life had become a tapestry of secrets, each stitch pulling tighter around her heart. The photograph from the storage room—her mother, Margaret, smiling beside a younger Nathaniel Black—burned in her mind, a thread tying her past to the danger now weaving through her present. The burner phone from Agent Cooper pulsed with demands: Raven's Wing is the key. The scarf's note—Find the raven. Trust no one—was a warning she couldn't ignore, yet every step toward answers felt like a step toward a cliff. Nathaniel's offer to lead a capsule collection was a glittering lure, but after the warehouse attack, the intruder in the storage room, and the anonymous texts, Ella knew it was more than a career boost. She was in a game, and the rules were hidden.
Tuesday morning found her on the Croswell House design floor, her hands steady but her thoughts a storm. The hum of sewing machines and the clatter of pins grounded her, a fragile tether to normalcy. Her sketchbook lay open, a half-finished gown staring back—flowing silk with jagged leather accents, a reflection of her fractured mind. She hadn't slept, the photograph and Cooper's deadline keeping her awake, her apartment's walls closing in like a badly cut pattern.
Julie Simms slid into the chair beside her, coffee in hand, her eyes sharp despite the early hour. "Ella, you look like you've been wrestling a bolt of tulle all night. What's up?"
Ella forced a smile, her fingers tightening on her pencil. "Just overthinking a design. Fiona's breathing fire again."
Julie snorted, unconvinced. "You've been off since the gala. And don't give me that 'work stress' line. You're hiding something, Carter."
Ella's heart skipped. Julie was her closest ally, but telling her about the warehouse, the note, or Cooper's blackmail was too risky. The text—We know what you did—loomed like a shadow. "I'm fine," she lied, her voice thin. "Just… a lot on my plate."
Julie leaned closer, her voice low. "If it's about Nathaniel Black, blink twice."
Ella laughed despite herself, breaking the tension. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're a terrible liar," Julie shot back, but her grin softened. "I'm here when you're ready to spill."
Ella nodded, gratitude mingling with guilt. She couldn't drag Julie into this—not yet.
Midmorning, Fiona Mills swept through the design floor, her presence a gale force. "Carter!" she barked, dropping a folder onto Ella's desk. "Black's team sent specs for your capsule collection. Meeting tomorrow, his penthouse. Don't embarrass me."
Ella's stomach lurched. Nathaniel's penthouse? After the storage room discovery, the idea of being alone with him felt like stepping onto a runway with a half-stitched gown. "Tomorrow?" she echoed, her voice steadier than she felt.
Fiona's eyes narrowed. "Problem?"
"No," Ella said quickly. "I'll be ready."
Fiona strode off, leaving Ella with the folder and a rising pulse. She flipped it open: fabric budgets, production timelines, mood boards. Nathaniel's handwriting scrawled in the margins—Push the boundaries. Make it unforgettable. The words were a challenge, but they carried an edge, as if he was testing more than her design skills.
Madeline Vance, the senior designer with a knack for venom, paused by Ella's desk, her smile sharp as a seam ripper. "Moving up fast, Carter. Hope you don't trip again."
Ella met her gaze, unflinching. "I'll save my stumbles for the runway, Mads."
Madeline's smirk faltered, and she sauntered off. Julie, overhearing, whispered, "You're gonna need a bigger burn book for her."
Ella managed a grin, but her thoughts were on Nathaniel. The photograph proved he'd known her mother, worked with her on the Raven's Wing gala. Why hadn't he told her? Was his offer a way to keep her close—or to control her?
Ella spent her lunch break in a quiet corner of the Croswell library, a dusty archive of fashion history tucked beneath the design floor. She needed answers about Raven's Wing, something to satisfy Cooper without tipping her hand. The library's silence was a balm, its shelves heavy with old binders and yellowed clippings.
She pulled a binder labeled "Croswell Events, 2000-2010," her fingers trembling as she flipped to the Raven's Wing gala. Articles detailed its success: millions raised, elite guests, a showcase of Margaret Carter's designs. One clipping included a quote from Nathaniel, then a rising entrepreneur: "Raven's Wing is about legacy—building futures, honoring the past." Her mother was mentioned as the gala's lead seamstress, her gowns praised for their "timeless courage."
Ella's throat tightened. Legacy. Was that why Nathaniel sought her out? Did he see her mother in her designs—or something more?
A second article caught her eye, buried in the back: a brief mention of a scandal. Funds from Raven's Wing had been flagged for "irregularities," with whispers of money laundering. The investigation fizzled, no charges filed, but Nathaniel's name was tied to the foundation's board. Ella's pulse quickened. Was this what Cooper meant by Raven's Wing is the key? Was Nathaniel hiding a criminal past?
She snapped photos of the articles with her phone, her mind racing. The scandal explained Cooper's interest—but not her mother's note. Find the raven. Had Margaret known about the irregularities? Was she warning Ella about Nathaniel—or someone else?
As she closed the binder, a faint creak came from the stacks. Ella froze, her hand slipping to the fabric shears in her bag—a reflex since the storage room. "Hello?" she called, her voice echoing.
No answer. But the air felt heavier, watched. She stood, shears in hand, and moved toward the sound. A shadow flickered at the aisle's end, too quick to identify. Her heart pounded, but when she reached the spot, it was empty—just a tipped-over book on the floor: The Art of Deception.
Ella's breath hitched. A coincidence? Or a message?
She left the library, her skin prickling, the articles' weight heavier than the binder.
That evening, Ella met Julie for drinks at a dive bar in Queens, needing a break from the shadows chasing her. The bar's neon buzz and sticky tables were a far cry from Nathaniel's world, and Julie's laughter was a lifeline. They traded stories about Fiona's tantrums and Madeline's snark, but Ella's mind kept drifting to the photograph, the articles, the creak in the library.
"You're doing it again," Julie said, nudging her. "Zoning out. Come on, Ella, what's eating you?"
Ella hesitated, the truth clawing at her throat. She couldn't tell Julie everything, but she needed to let something out. "I found something," she said carefully. "About my mom. She worked with Nathaniel Black, years ago, on a big gala."
Julie's eyes widened. "Whoa. That's huge. Did he know her well?"
"I don't know," Ella admitted. "He never mentioned it. I found a photo of them together, and… it's weird. Like he's hiding something."
Julie leaned in, intrigued. "You think he's playing you? Like, using you because of your mom?"
"Maybe," Ella said, her voice tight. "Or maybe it's just a coincidence."
Julie snorted. "Coincidences don't exist in fashion. Or with guys like Black. Dig deeper, but be careful. He's not just a suit—he's a shark."
Ella nodded, grateful for Julie's bluntness. But careful wasn't enough anymore. She needed answers, and Nathaniel's penthouse meeting was her chance.
The next evening, Ella arrived at Nathaniel's penthouse, her portfolio under her arm, her nerves taut as a pulled thread. The building was a sleek tower of glass and steel, its lobby a cathedral of marble and chrome. A private elevator whisked her to the top floor, opening to a sprawling space that screamed wealth: hardwood floors, modern art, floor-to-ceiling windows framing a glittering Manhattan skyline. The air held a faint scent of cedar and smoke, like secrets burned away.
Nathaniel greeted her at the door, his charcoal suit traded for a black sweater and slacks, his presence no less commanding. "Ella," he said, his gray eyes scanning her. "You look ready."
"Hope so," she replied, her voice steady despite her pounding heart. She wore a tailored crimson dress, its sharp lines a nod to his wear something sharp text, her mother's teal scarf tied at her wrist like a talisman.
He led her to a sleek conference table, where fabric swatches and mood boards awaited. Two others joined them: a sharp-eyed woman introduced as Lena, his creative director, and a quiet man named Marcus, his operations lead. The meeting began with Ella presenting her vision: a collection blending raw textures with polished silhouettes, inspired by resilience and reinvention.
Nathaniel listened intently, his questions incisive but encouraging. Lena pushed back on costs, Marcus on timelines, but Nathaniel's gaze stayed on Ella, as if measuring more than her designs. "It's bold," he said finally. "But it needs a story. Something personal. What drives you, Ella?"
The question caught her off guard. She thought of her mother, the scarf's note, the photograph. "Loss," she said softly. "And the fight to build something from it."
His eyes flickered—recognition? Guilt?—but he nodded. "Use that. It'll resonate."
As the meeting wrapped, Lena and Marcus left, leaving Ella alone with Nathaniel. The penthouse felt too quiet, the city's glow casting long shadows. He poured two glasses of whiskey, offering her one. She declined, her guard up.
"You're cautious," he observed, sipping his drink. "Smart."
"Learned it the hard way," she said, her voice edged. She couldn't hold back anymore. "Why didn't you tell me you knew my mother?"
Nathaniel froze, his glass pausing mid-air. The silence stretched, heavy as velvet. "Margaret," he said finally, his voice low. "She was… exceptional."
Ella's heart pounded. "You worked with her on the Raven's Wing gala. Why hide it?"
He set his glass down, his eyes meeting hers. "I didn't hide it. I didn't know you were her daughter—not at first. When I saw your designs, your name… I made the connection. I wanted to be sure before I said anything."
Ella's fists clenched. "Sure of what? That I'm not a threat? Or that I'm useful?"
He stepped closer, his voice intense. "That you're ready for the truth. Margaret wasn't just a seamstress. She was a partner in Raven's Wing—not just the gala, but the foundation's deeper work."
Ella's breath caught. "What work?"
Nathaniel hesitated, his jaw tight. "Raven's Wing wasn't only about charity. It was a network—information, influence, protection. Your mother was brilliant, Ella. She saw patterns others missed. But she got too close to something dangerous."
"Dangerous how?" Ella pressed, her voice shaking.
He looked away, his expression shadowed. "She asked questions about the funds. Like you're doing now."
The revelation hit like a cut. Her mother had suspected the same irregularities Ella found in the articles. Was that why she died? Not a heart attack, but something darker?
Before she could speak, a crash came from the hallway. Nathaniel moved like lightning, pulling a sleek pistol from a drawer. Ella's blood ran cold. "Stay here," he ordered, disappearing into the dark.
Her pulse raced. She grabbed her portfolio, ready to bolt, but curiosity—and fear—kept her rooted. She crept toward the sound, her boots silent. In the hallway, Nathaniel stood over a shattered vase, the pistol lowered. No one else was there.
"False alarm," he said, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the shadows.
Ella didn't buy it. "You keep a gun in your desk. That's not normal for a fashion investor."
He met her gaze, unapologetic. "This isn't a normal world, Ella. You're learning that."
She backed away, her mind reeling. Nathaniel's connection to her mother, Raven's Wing's secrets, the gun—it was too much. She left the penthouse, the elevator's descent mirroring her sinking heart.
Back in her apartment, Ella's burner phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You're close. Ask about the ledger.
Her hands shook. A ledger? Tied to Raven's Wing's funds? Cooper—or whoever was texting—knew too much. She stared at the scarf, the photograph, the raven card. Nathaniel's words echoed: She got too close. Was Ella next?
She didn't notice the figure outside her window, their camera's lens glinting in the dark.
Across town, Lena stood in a shadowed office, her phone pressed to her ear. "She's asking about Margaret," she said, her voice low. "And the ledger."
A voice crackled through. "Good. Let her dig. It'll draw them out."
Lena hung up, her lips curling. The game was moving faster now.
The stitches are tightening. The shadows are closing in.