Leta clutched her phone, the image of Anya Rostova’s helix clasp burned into her mind. The air in her small workshop smelled sharply of solder and cold brick. It wasn’t just *her* Benek had wronged. This was a deeper rot, a calculated cruelty that predated their entire relationship. A sickening lurch twisted her stomach as she scrolled back through the anonymous email. No sender, no other text, just the stark proof. This was it. The leverage she needed.
Her first thought, instinctive and unwavering, was Magda. Her mentor, her confidante, the steady hand that had guided her through the initial public fallout. Magda would know what to do. Magda had always championed ethical design, the purity of original creation. Leta dialed, her fingers unsteady against the glass. The older woman's voice, usually deliberate and slow, sounded clipped when she answered.
“Leta, darling. To what do I owe this urgent call?” Magda asked, a faint rustle of papers in the background.
“Magda, I… I have something. Proof. About Benek. It’s huge. Can I come over? Now?” Leta’s voice was a tight whisper, a mixture of fear and burgeoning triumph.
“Proof? Goodness. Is it substantial? Not just more hearsay, I hope.” Magda’s tone sharpened, a note of skepticism Leta found uncharacteristic.
“It’s not hearsay. It’s a design sketch. From another designer. He stole from her years ago. A pattern, Magda. A *pattern*,” Leta emphasized, her gaze sweeping around her workshop, the half-finished projects seeming to mock her past naivete. “I need your advice. I need to show you.”
There was a pause, longer than Leta expected. Then, Magda’s voice, smoother now, almost too calm. “Very well. Come to my gallery office. The one on Vesper Street. I’ll clear my schedule. But be discreet, Leta. This sort of thing… it can be volatile.”
Discreet. Always discreet. Leta grabbed her coat, the phone still in her hand. The revelation about Benek’s deeper depravity filled her with a new, cold resolve. She would not just reclaim her name; she would dismantle his. With Magda by her side, it felt possible.
Kian was nowhere to be seen when she passed through the communal hallway. His door was shut, a dark, solid block. For a fleeting moment, she considered knocking, telling him about the new development. But then she dismissed the thought. This was her fight. She couldn't lean on him for everything, especially not on a man who'd just admitted to a high-stakes bluff about hotel ownership. Besides, Magda was the expert in the industry's treacherous currents.
The Vesper Street gallery was an edifice of polished chrome and hushed luxury, a stark contrast to the gritty warmth of the Artisan’s Quarter. Magda’s office, nestled on the top floor, overlooked the bustling city. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, giving the room an almost ethereal glow. Magda sat behind a vast, dark wood desk, her silver hair coiled neatly, her expression serene.
“Leta, my dear. Come in, come in.” Magda gestured to the plush leather chair opposite her. Her smile was warm, familiar, but her eyes, Leta noticed, held a sharp, almost calculating glint she hadn't seen before.
Leta pulled out her phone, her thumbs stiff as she opened the image. “Look, Magda. This is Anya Rostova’s signature helix clasp. Benek used it in one of his early necklace concepts, long before he ever met me. He tried to disguise it, but it’s unmistakable.” She zoomed in on the photo, highlighting the incriminating detail.
Magda leaned forward, her gaze intense as she studied the screen. A slow smile spread across her face, not one of surprise or shock, but something colder, more knowing. “Fascinating,” she murmured, her fingers tapping lightly on the desk. “Anya Rostova… a very specific choice.”
“It proves he’s a serial plagiarist, Magda! We can take this to the Guild, expose him! With this, and my portfolio, he’ll be ruined. My name will be cleared!” Leta's voice rose with a fierce hope. This was it. The turning point.
Magda pushed back in her chair, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. “Ruined? My dear Leta, you are so wonderfully naive.” She held out a hand. “Give me your phone, if you please. I’ll need to make copies, verify the provenance.”
Leta hesitated, a prickle of unease brushing her skin. It was just Magda. Her mentor. But something in the older woman’s eyes, a hardness Leta couldn’t quite place, made her pause. Yet, the desire for vindication was stronger than the fleeting doubt. She handed over her phone.
Magda took it, her movements precise. She didn’t immediately move to copy anything. Instead, she placed the phone carefully into a drawer of her desk. The soft click of the drawer closing echoed in the sudden silence of the room. Leta stared, her throat dry.
“Magda? What… what are you doing?”
Magda’s serene expression didn’t waver. “Securing the evidence, my dear. And securing *your* future.” She finally looked up, her gaze piercing. “Tell me, Leta. Do you truly believe Benek Toman, with all his connections, his carefully cultivated image, would fall because of a single pilfered clasp? From years ago?”
“But… it’s a pattern! It shows his fraudulence!” Leta stammered, a chilling dread seeping into her bones.
“It shows that Benek, like many successful designers, knows how to adapt… or *acquire*… inspiration,” Magda corrected, her voice now devoid of any warmth. “And it shows that *you*, Leta, despite your raw talent, lack the necessary ruthlessness to truly succeed in this industry.”
Leta felt the air leave her lungs. “What are you talking about? Magda, you… you always supported me. You said my designs were pure, original!”
“And they are. Exquisite. But purity doesn’t move product, Leta. Benek’s ambition, his lack of moral compass… *that* moves product. He’s a better investment for my vision than you ever were.” Magda’s words were a physical blow, each one striking Leta’s chest.
“*Your* designs? What are you saying?” Leta pushed herself to her feet, her chair scraping loudly on the polished floor.
Magda sighed, a long, theatrical sound. “Did you truly believe I simply ‘mentored’ you out of the goodness of my heart? Your Lazurite collection, Leta, was my concept. Your skill brought it to life, yes, but the foundational ideas, the market positioning… those were mine. Benek simply had the drive to execute them on a grand scale. He understood the game. You, my dear, were always too focused on the ‘art.’ Too soft.”
The world tilted. The sunlight now seemed to mock her, illuminating the dust of her broken trust. Magda. Her trusted ally. Her mentor. This was a betrayal far deeper, far more insidious than Benek’s. Benek had stolen her work; Magda had stolen her *faith*.
“You… you orchestrated this? The theft? You let him take everything from me?” Leta’s voice was a ragged croak, tears blurring her vision.
“I facilitated an opportunity,” Magda corrected, her gaze tightening. “You were too close to your art. Too sentimental. I presented Benek with a chance to elevate the collection, to truly capitalize. He took it. And now, you’re interfering.” Magda leaned back, her composure unshakeable. “Powerful friends are watching, Leta. Very powerful. Friends who value stability, profit, and discretion. If you persist in this naive crusade, you won't just lose your career. You’ll be blacklisted. From every supplier. Every gallery. Every competition. You’ll be a ghost in Sovany’s luxury market. No one will touch your work. Not even with this flimsy ‘evidence’ of yours, which I, by the way, will ensure never sees the light of day.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, concrete and terrifying. It wasn't just about reclaiming her work anymore. It was about survival. About not being erased entirely. Leta felt a cold, desperate fear she hadn't known possible. This wasn't a rival; it was a conspiracy, a hidden structure of power that had just revealed its teeth.
Magda rose, walking around her desk, her movements slow and deliberate. She stopped in front of Leta, her gaze falling to Leta’s left hand, where the simple, unadorned silver band of her accidental marriage to Kian glinted faintly.
“Your talent was the key, my dear,” Magda said, her voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper. “But Kian Novak owns the whole building. You should have chosen your allies more carefully.”