They laughed at a plus-size seamstress when her stepsister ripped the only dress her late mother had left her—

The morning sun broke over the skyline in brilliant streaks of copper and gold, piercing through the sheer curtains of the guest suite. Hattie woke up with a start, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked around the vast room. For a terrifying second, she thought she had fallen asleep over her cutting table again and dreamed the entire evening.

Then she saw the three leather journals sitting neatly on the desk.

She wasn't in the attic. She was in Ennio Valtrani’s stronghold.

A soft knock at the door preceded Rosa, who pushed a cart laden with fresh fruit, warm croissants, eggs, and a pot of dark, rich coffee. Behind her came two young women carrying armfuls of garment bags.

"Good morning, Miss Hattie," Rosa chirped, setting the breakfast tray on the small dining table by the window. "Signor Ennio had these brought up from the city's private boutiques. He said you would need proper attire before your ten o’clock meeting."

Hattie looked at the garment bags with dread. "Rosa... boutique clothes don't fit me. Standard high-end designers don't cut patterns for women with hips like mine. It's fine, really. I can just wear—"

"Signor Ennio knows this," Rosa interrupted with a knowing smile. "He called Madame Laurent directly at midnight. These were cut from her private archive for curvy silhouettes. Go on. Open them."

Hesitantly, Hattie unzipped the first bag.

Inside hung an emerald-green wrap dress made of heavy, double-faced silk jersey. When Hattie took it out, she marveled at the construction. The pleating at the waist was deliberate, designed to cinch without pinching; the neckline was cut to flatter a full bust without gaping; the sleeves were tapered to elongate the arms.

When she slipped it on in the marble dressing room, Hattie couldn't stop looking in the full-length mirror.

For years, Victoria had bought her cheap, shapeless tent dresses in drab grays and browns, claiming that "larger girls ought to dress quietly so as not to offend the eye." But in this emerald silk, Hattie didn't look like an apology. She looked powerful. Her waist was defined, her skin glowed against the rich jewel tone, and the hem fell in sweeping, elegant waves just below her knees.

When she walked out into the main living area, Ennio was standing by the glass dining table, reviewing financial documents with a man in an expensive navy suit.

As the click of Hattie’s low heels sounded against the hardwood, Ennio looked up.

His eyes lingered on her, traveling from the hem of the green dress all the way to her throat, where she had pinned a tiny silver swallow brooch she had salvaged from her sewing box. For a second, the cold, calculating mafia lord disappeared, replaced by a man utterly arrested by what he was seeing.

"Miss Kincaid," he said, clearing his throat lightly as he straightened up. "Green suits you."

"Thank you, Mr. Valtrani," she said, feeling a warm blush creeping up her neck. "The fit is... miraculous."

"Quality materials yield quality results," Ennio replied smoothly. He turned to the man in the navy suit. "This is Arthur Vance, senior partner at Vance & Sterling Legal. And, as fate would have it, your mother’s third cousin."

Hattie blinked in shock. "Cousin Arthur? Mama spoke of you, but she said you moved to London decades ago."

The lawyer smiled warmly, stepping forward to shake her hand with genuine affection. "I did, Hattie. But Ennio called me at three this morning. He told me what Victoria has been doing to Charles's estate, and I caught the red-eye flight immediately."

Arthur opened a thick manila folder on the table, spreading out several official-looking documents.

"When your father died, Victoria presented a will that left ninety percent of Maison Kincaid, along with your mother’s intellectual property, entirely to her, placing you under a restrictive conservatorship until age thirty," Arthur explained, his tone sharpening. "My firm never reviewed that will. It was filed through a corrupt probate attorney who, as of six o'clock this morning, has been arrested for document fraud."

Hattie pressed a hand to her chest. "The will was fake?"

"Completely forged," Ennio said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your father never disinherited you, Hattie. Charles Kincaid’s legitimate last will and testament was deposited in a secure trust in Zurich before he fell ill. It was registered with the Vance family trust."

Arthur tapped a stamped document. "According to the real will, Hattie, you own sixty-five percent of Maison Kincaid. The name, the building, the pattern archives, and all commercial trademarks belong to you. Victoria and Blair own precisely nothing. In fact, based on the millions Victoria has siphoned out of the operating accounts over the last four years, she owes the estate roughly seven million dollars."

Hattie felt dizzy. She reached out, leaning against the edge of the glass table to steady herself.

For eight years, she had been made to feel like an unwanted stray living off Victoria’s charity. She had endured Blair’s cruel taunts about her size, her clothes, and her lack of value, believing she was trapped until she could save enough pocket money to flee.

Now, she learned that the roof over Blair’s head, the champagne Victoria drank, and the very dresses Blair wore on social media had belonged to Hattie all along.

"What happens now?" Hattie asked, her voice shaking with a potent mix of fear and emerging wrath.

Ennio walked over until he was standing right beside her. He looked down at her with a fierce, protective intensity.

"Now, we let them realize how helpless they are without you," Ennio said. "In two weeks, the National Couture Gala takes place. Maison Kincaid was slated to open the showcase. Blair told the press she was debuting a revolutionary new collection of hand-draped evening wear."

A hollow laugh escaped Hattie’s lips. "Blair can't even thread a bobbin. She was going to lock me in the workshop this entire week to drape twelve dresses from Mama’s sketches."

"Exactly," Ennio smirked, a dangerous, razor-sharp edge to his smile. "And without you in that attic, Blair has nothing but twelve bolts of uncut satin and a pair of scissors she doesn't know how to use."

Before Hattie could reply, Ennio’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the caller ID and tapped the speaker button.

A frantic, screeching voice filled the room.

*"Ennio! Ennio, please pick up!"* Victoria shrieked through the line. *"The bank has frozen our payroll! Our fabric suppliers are refusing to deliver the velvet for the gala! Blair is having an anxiety attack! Hattie took off last night and hasn't come back, and we can't find her sketchbooks anywhere! You must talk to your bankers, this is a catastrophic mistake!"*

Ennio picked up the phone, his voice dropping into pure ice.

"It is not a mistake, Victoria," he said calmly. "It is an audit."

*"What?!"*

"Hattie is not coming back to your attic," Ennio continued. "And if you or your daughter set foot within a hundred yards of her, my men will ensure the police find that secondary ledger you keep hidden behind the safe in your dressing room."

A choked silence fell over the line.

"Have a pleasant morning, Mrs. Kincaid," Ennio said, and hung up.

He looked back at Hattie, whose eyes were wide with wonder and disbelief.