She caught her breath, steadying them before they broke. The door creaked open. Patrick stepped out in hand. His face lit by the hallway lamp. He was tall, dressed in a white shirt with the collar open. His lips curled into a smirk. He didn’t see Ephoma. She had pressed herself flat against the wall, hidden in the shadows like part of the paint.

Don’t worry, he murmured into his phone, walking past her. By tomorrow, everything will be mine.

His footsteps faded down the marble stairs. Only then did Ephoma breathe again. She turned, her legs shaky, and hurried toward Madame Veronica’s bedroom. She knocked once, twice. “Come in,” Madam said gently from inside. Epha entered.

Madame Veronica sat by her dresser in a blue lace night gown, her glasses low on her nose, a folder of fabric sketches lay open on the table. Her beauty was soft, touched by years of hard work, her hair tied neatly in a bun. Ma’am, Ephoma said, her voice thin. Please, we need to talk. Madam looked up, surprised.