"They've frozen the accounts. Everything! the personal trust, the ateliers in Milan and Paris, even the townhouse."
A flicker of panic tightened her chest, but she steadied her voice. "How bad?"
Her mother hesitated, eyes glistening. "They've already sold the rights to Drake Industries."
Mia's head snapped up. "What?"
"They didn't have a choice, sweetheart. Adrian Drake made the highest bid."
The name hit her like a slap.
Adrian Drake.
The golden son turned ruthless heir. The man whose father had once been her father's closest ally until betrayal, scandal, and whispers of fraud had driven his father to suicide.
Mia's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "So this is how he wins. By buying our ashes."
Her mother rubbed her temples. "Maybe he's just… trying to help."
"Help?" Mia turned sharply. "He's been waiting for this moment for years. Don't you see? He's taking everything that ever had my father's name on it."
Silence stretched between them, filled with the distant hum of rain against the windows.
The rain bled down the wide glass panels of Hart Atelier, streaking the city's reflection until it looked as fractured as Mia Hart's world.
She stood in the center of the once-bustling showroom, the place where her father's designs had once brought editors to tears and buyers to their knees, now emptied to bone and silence. Racks stood bare. Rolls of silk leaned like forgotten dreams against the wall.
A faint echo of her father's voice lingered in her head,
"Legacy, Mia. That's what we leave behind when beauty fades."
Legacy.
What a cruel word to choke on now.
Behind her, soft footsteps broke the silence.
"Mia," her mother said quietly. "The lawyers called again."
Mia didn't move. "What did they say this time?"
Her mother's face was pale, almost translucent under the fluorescent lights. "There's… a remaining debt. One your father didn't disclose."
"How much?"
"Enough to destroy what's left of us."
Mia drew in a slow, trembling breath. She could feel the ground tilting beneath her years of ambition, hard work, pride collapsing into nothing.
"Then we'll find a way," she said finally, straightening. "We'll sell the properties in Milan. We'll start again. We don't need—"
The sharp buzz of her phone cut her off.
She glanced down. Unknown number.
She almost ignored it, until a new message appeared.
Adrian Drake: 10 a.m. tomorrow. My office. Come alone. Let's discuss your father's debt.
Her mother frowned. "Who is it?"
Mia's lips tightened. "The devil himself."
She walked toward the windows, staring out at the blurred skyline. Her reflection glimmered faintly, dark hair pulled back, eyes hollow but still burning with defiance.
Her mother stepped closer, voice trembling. "Don't go, Mia. Please. That man, he blames your father for his own loss. He'll only hurt you."
"He can try."
"Mia—"
"Mom." She turned, eyes sharp now, filled with the kind of anger she'd inherited from her father. "If he wants to talk, I'll listen. But I'm not walking in there to beg. I'm walking in there to end this."
Her mother's shoulders sagged, helpless. "You sound just like him."
"I hope so."
Mia crossed the room to her father's office, the heart of Hart Atelier. The door creaked open, revealing the remnants of a life dismantled.
Dust clung to the mahogany shelves. The smell of cedarwood and paper still hung faintly in the air. On the desk, a single photo frame lay face down. She lifted it.
It was her father, smiling beside her at her first fashion show. The glass was cracked clean through their faces.
"Legacy," she whispered again, voice breaking. "You taught me to build one, Dad. You never said how it felt to watch it burn."
A knock at the door. Her mother again. "They're here for the last sketches. Should I tell them to…"
"No," Mia said softly, setting the frame down. "Let them take it. The building. The name. The brand." She turned, her voice hardening like glass.
Her mother's lips quivered. "He'll chew you up, Mia."
"Then he'll choke."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain grew heavier, drowning the silence.
When her mother finally left, Mia sank into her father's chair. The leather was cold against her palms. She imagined Adrian Drake sitting behind some other desk across town, the conqueror watching his victory unfold.
He thinks I'm broken, she thought. Good. Let him underestimate me.
Her gaze drifted to the message again. Ten a.m. His office.
No assistants, no lawyers, just her and him.
Fine.
If he wanted to gloat, he'd have to do it face to face.
She picked up her phone and typed a single word: Confirmed.
Then she set it down beside the cracked frame and leaned back, her jaw tight.
Outside, the storm deepened, thunder rolling like a warning across the skyline.
She watched it with calm defiance, whispering to herself.
"Tomorrow, Adrian Drake gets to meet the last Hart standing."