The glass door opened. Daniel Brooks walked in. Tailored charcoal suit. Polished shoes. He carried a manila envelope. He didn't knock. He walked straight to the drafting table. Dropped the envelope on top of the sketches.
"Your lead designer signed with me this morning," he said.
Elena didn't look up from her tablet. She kept scrolling through production notes. "He left a non-compete clause unsigned."
"He left a higher salary signed." Brooks leaned against the edge of the table. Crossed his arms, "Double his base. Full creative control. Health benefits that actually cover his family."
Elena set the tablet down. Opened the envelope. Pulled out the contract. Flipped to the signature page. Checked the dates. Checked the witness line. Everything was stamped. Notarized. Final.
She tapped the paper with her pen. "You bought one pair of hands."
"I bought a vision," Brooks replied. "One you can't execute without him."
"I own the pattern library."
Brooks smiled. Thin. Cold. "Patterns fade. Talent moves. You will adapt or you will close."
Elena closed the contract. Slid it back into the envelope. Handed it to him. "I will not close."
He took it. Tucked it under his arm. "Your launch is in six weeks. You have no head designer. You have half the silk stuck in customs. You are running on fumes."
"I am running on schedule."
He laughed once. Short. Empty. "Good luck with that."
He turned. Walked out. The glass door clicked shut behind him.
Elena stood. Walked to the back wall. Picked up her phone. Dialed the production manager.
"Marcus."
"Elena. I saw the news. Brooks just posted the signing. Social media is blowing up."
"Ignore it. Pull the archived sketches."
"Which ones."
"The ones James shelved. Season four. The geometric cuts. The structured silks."
A pause. Keyboard clicks in the background. "Those are flagged for copyright disputes. Legal put a hold on them three years ago."
"They were flagged because we waited. We do not wait anymore."
"If we use them, Brooks will file an injunction. He owns the original drafts."
"He owns the drafts. He does not own the cuts. I modified the seam lines. I shifted the hem weights. I changed the drape ratios. They are new files. Different timestamps. Different metadata. Send them to the independent ateliers."
"Which ateliers."
"Three. The ones in the outer district. The ones that work on contract. The ones that do not ask questions about source material."
Marcus exhaled. "We have forty-eight hours to cut and stitch the first samples. Without Marco, the pace slows. The quality control drops."
"I will handle quality control. You handle volume. Split the files. Send them tonight. Confirm receipt by six a.m."
"And if the machines jam on the new stitch patterns."
"They won't. I tested the tension ratios last week. The software is updated. The feed rollers are calibrated. Just run the files as sent."
"Understood. I'll push the overtime. The workers will complain."
"Pay them double for the first shift. They will stop complaining."
"Done. Sending the files now."
She ended the call. Walked to the printer. Fed the stack of blank heavy stock. Hit print. The machine hummed. Pages slid out one by one. Technical sheets, Seam diagrams, Hem measurements, Fabric grain lines. She caught each page. Stacked them. Aligned the edges. Taped the corners. Sealed three envelopes. Addressed them. Slid them into the outgoing bin.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Sophie.
Customs inspector just replied. Says the missing stamps were never filed. Claims the broker dropped the paperwork. Wants another twelve thousand to clear the hold.
Elena typed back.
Pay it. Wire hits in ten. Keep the transfer receipt. I need the chain of custody.
Sophie called immediately. Elena answered on speaker.
"You're wiring another twelve." Sophie's voice was tight. "That's twenty-four total. We don't have the buffer for port bribes."
"It's not a bribe. It's a clearance fee. The broker dropped the phytosanitary stamp on purpose. Someone paid him to misfile it."
"Brooks."
"Or someone working for him. Track the wire destination. Pull the routing number. I want the bank name and the account holder."
"I'm on it. But Elena, if the port seizes the crate anyway, we lose the silk. We lose the runway date."
"We won't lose the date. I rerouted the backup shipment to Rotterdam. It clears customs under a different tariff code. The silk arrives in four days. Not six."
"You have a backup already."
"I always have a backup. Just secure the receipt. I need proof the money moved."
"Understood. Sending it now."
She ended the call. Walked to the cutting floor. Checked the material layout. Marked the first pattern. Picked up the rotary cutter. Pressed it against the silk. Dragged it straight. Clean edge. Perfect line. She repeated the motion, Cut after cut. Stack after stack.
The door opened again. Marcus walked in. Carrying a tablet. Screen glowing with file transfer logs.
"Atelier one confirmed receipt. They're loading the patterns."
"Atelier two."
"Downloading now. Server is slow but holding."
"Atelier three."
"Pending. Their operator is offline. I left a voicemail. They'll pick it up by midnight."
"Make sure they acknowledge. No assumptions. No delays."
Marcus nodded. Tapped the screen. "I'll track the timestamps. If one drops, I reroute to backup."
"Good. Keep the line open. Call me if the stitch tension drifts past point four."
"It won't. The files are locked. The machines read the code."
"Machines read code. People make mistakes. Watch them."
"I will. But Elena, the thread weight on the new files. It's heavier than what we usually run. The needles will bend if we push too fast."
"Swap to size ninety. It handles the tension. Change the bobbin case pressure, Drop it by half a notch. The stitch will lay flat."
"I'll adjust the settings. But we need to run a test swatch first. If the feed dogs skip, we ruin the first yard."
"Run the swatch. If it skips, lower the presser foot pressure. If it bunches, raise the tension dial. Just fix it before the full cut."
"Got it. I'll call the floor lead. We'll start the test in ten."
"Send me the photo of the test seam. I'll approve it before you run the full lot."
"Understood. Moving to the machines."
He turned. Walked out. The workshop floor hummed. Cutting blades whirred. Fabric slid across steel tables. Elena kept working. Measured. Cut. Marked. Stacked. The rhythm was steady. The pace was tight. She didn't stop. She didn't look at the clock. She only watched the line.
Her phone rang again. Unknown number. She let it go to voicemail. The screen lit with a notification. Security feed update. Motion detected, Exterior camera three. Street level.
She wiped her hands on a cloth. Walked to the monitor. Tapped the screen. The feed loaded. Grainy night vision. Streetlights casting long shadows. A black sedan sat idling across the road. Engine running. Exhaust curling in the cold air. Tinted windows. Driver inside. Unmoving. Watching the building. Watching her window. Watching the loading bay doors. She leaned closer. Checked the license plate. Blurred. Unreadable. She zoomed in. The camera pixelated. The car stayed. Engine idled. Headlights off. Just waiting. Just watching.