Wife and Mother by Contract

Getting yelled at by rich clients became a norm at this point.

The fabric slips through my fingers, a deep burgundy that catches the fluorescent light like spilled wine. I smooth it against the mannequin's shoulder, pinning the seam with the precision of someone who's done this a thousand times.

This is the only part of my job I still love.

"This is wrong." The voice cuts through the studio like a blade.

I turn. Mrs. Caldwell stands in the doorway, sunglasses pushed into perfectly styled hair, lips pressed into a thin line of disgust.

"I asked for burgundy. This is maroon." She jabs a manicured finger at the dress. "Are you color blind, or just incompetent?"

My stomach twists. "I matched it exactly to the swatch you approved, Mrs. Caldwell. I have the sample right here—"

"I don't care what sample you have." She steps closer, and I catch the sharp scent of her perfume, expensive and suffocating. "I care that my daughter's engagement dress looks like it belongs at a funeral. Fix it. Today."

"The dye lot would take at least three days to redo properly—"

"Do I look like I care about your dye lots?" Her voice climbs, sharp enough that two assistants glance over from their stations. "I am paying for perfection, not excuses."

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and nod, because that's what I do.

I nod, and I apologize, and I absorb the blow so it doesn't ricochet onto anyone else. "I'll speak with the head designer right away."

She sniffs, spins on her heel, and marches out without another word.

My hands are still shaking when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Andy's name lights up the screen, and I duck behind the fabric racks to answer.

"Please tell me you're having a better day than I am," I whisper.

"That bad?" Andy's voice is warm, familiar, the kind of comfort that makes my throat tighten further.

"Mrs. Caldwell just accused me of being color blind. In front of everyone." I press my palm to my forehead. "I did everything right, Andy. I followed the swatch exactly."

"Of course you did. You always do everything right, Sarah. That's the problem — you let people walk all over you because you're too nice to fight back."

"I can't afford to fight back. I need this job." I glance toward the front of the studio, lowering my voice further. "Harry and I are barely making rent as it is."

"I know, I know." She sighs. "I just hate seeing you get treated like a doormat."

Before I can answer, my manager, Denise, appears at the end of the row, heels clicking against the polished floor with an urgency that spikes my pulse.

"Sarah. I need you in my office. Now."

"I have to go," I murmur into the phone, and hang up before Andy can respond.

Denise's expression is unreadable, tight around the eyes. "Mr. Webb wants to see you. Personally. In his office."

The words land like a stone in my chest. "Mr. Webb? The CEO?"

"Yes. Now, Sarah."

My mind spirals through every possibility on the elevator ride up, each one worse than the last.

Mrs. Caldwell must have called ahead, demanded my termination.

I smooth my blouse with clammy palms, trying to steady my breathing as the doors slide open onto the executive floor.

His office door is imposing, dark wood with brushed steel accents. I knock twice before easing it open.

Allen Webb sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, gaze fixed on a spread of papers. I always get stumbled at the image of his dark hair and illegally sharp jaw for some reason, like he’s a design on his own. He doesn't look up immediately, and I stand frozen in the doorway, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Sit," he says finally, gesturing to the chair without lifting his eyes.

I lower myself into the seat, spine rigid, hands clasped tight in my lap.

"You've been with this company for two years," he says, setting down his pen and meeting my eyes. His gaze is cool, assessing, the kind that makes me feel dissected. "In that time, you've received more client complaints than any other assistant designer. And yet you have the highest client retention rate in your department."

"I—" I falter. "I'm sorry about Mrs. Caldwell, sir. I followed the color swatch exactly as she approved it. I have the sample—"

"I'm not questioning your work." His tone stays flat, controlled. "I've seen your file. You're one of the most devoted designers in this company. You just seem to attract chaos."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "It's bad luck, I suppose."

Something flickers behind his eyes — not quite a smile, but close. He slides a folder across the desk.

"I looked at your recent sketches. The evening line you submitted last month."

My breath catches.

Allen Webb, the most recognized star of the fashion world across the country, who also happens to be my boss, looked at my designs personally.

"You looked at those?"

"I did." He leans back, studying me with an intensity that prickles my skin. "They're good, Sarah. Better than good. I want you moved into the senior design position, effective immediately."

The words don't register at first. "Senior... you mean, out of assistant work entirely?"

"Your own line. Your own budget. Triple your current salary." He watches my reaction like he's cataloguing it. "Unless you'd rather stay pinning hems for women like Mrs. Caldwell."

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, disbelieving, giddy. "No. No, I'd — thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Webb."

"Allen," he says quietly. "In private, Allen is fine."

Something warm and unfamiliar stirs in my chest, and for a moment neither of us looks away.

The walk home feels weightless. I practically float up the stairs, already imagining Harry's face when I tell him. I burst through the door, breathless.

"Harry! You will not believe what happened today—"

My little brother's sitting at the kitchen table, and the words die in my throat. His face is pale, drawn, his hands trembling around his phone.

"Harry? What's wrong?"

He looks up, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. "Sarah. Sit down. Please."

"You're scaring me." I lower myself across from him slowly, my excitement curdling into dread. "Just tell me."

"I borrowed money." His voice cracks. "A few months ago. From — from people I shouldn't have gone to. I thought I could pay it back before anyone noticed, but the interest, it just—"

He drags both hands through his hair, gripping fistfuls of it.

"It's not a normal loan, Sarah. These aren't normal people."

My blood turns cold. "What people? How much?"

"Forty thousand." He barely gets the number out before his voice breaks entirely. "They called me twice today. They said if I don't have it by the end of the month, they're not going to wait anymore. They said they know where we live."

"Harry—" My hands fly to my mouth.

"I'm scared, Sarah." He's crying now, shoulders shaking. "I didn't know who else to tell."

"Tell me everything." My voice shakes, but I force myself to stay steady for him, the way I always have. "Every detail, Harry. I need to know exactly what we're dealing with."

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, breath hitching. "Their names don't matter. They run through some warehouse on the east side, loan sharks, the kind that don't exist on paper. I went to them because the bank rejected me three times and I needed cash fast for—"

He stops himself, shame flashing across his face.

"It doesn't matter why."

"It matters to me." I reach across the table, gripping his wrist. "Harry."

"Gambling. It started small. I thought I could win enough to cover it and just... stop." He laughs, hollow and bitter. "Stupidest thing I've ever done."

"And the police? Have you thought about—"

"They don't care about the police, Sarah!" His eyes snap up, wild with fear. "One of them told me straight to my face — go ahead, call them, see how fast we di