Chapter 1 

Camille

The faint hum of the floor polisher echoes through the cavernous lobby, bouncing off marble floors so pristine they look like glass under the fluorescent lights. Sometimes, I catch my own reflection in them—like now, when I pause to wipe sweat from my brow. For a beat, I see a tired young woman with caramel-brown skin, hair frizzing at the edges of her loose bun, and dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. My father used to say these eyes were full of promise. That was back when I believed in everything he said.

I let out a soft sigh. The polisher hums on, patient as a sentinel waiting for its next directive. The rest of the building is asleep. It’s just me and the hush of after-hours quiet, interrupted occasionally by a security guard’s footsteps or the elevator’s ding. Working nights in these gilded corridors isn’t my dream, but it’s my reality—one I can’t escape. Not yet.

At last, I flick the polisher’s switch to OFF, letting the lobby settle into silence. One job done, a thousand more to go, and it’s not even midnight. Lugging the polisher behind me, I wheel it into the maintenance closet. My arms ache from wrangling its weight for the last hour, but I can’t rest now. There’s a list: vacuum the executive conference rooms, disinfect the glass-and-chrome desks, make sure the water coolers are refilled. It’s always a list.

But first, I need a break.

I scuttle out of the closet, glancing around the lobby with the cautious air of someone who’s not supposed to linger. Sprawling pillars of polished marble rise from the floor to the soaring ceiling, where chandeliers glitter like captured starlight. Overhead, a skylight reveals a piece of the New York night sky—dark, foreboding, and dotted with the occasional plane’s flashing lights. The entire space screams money and power. It’s ironic, really. All this pomp for a building that houses some of the biggest names in fashion, finance, and media—people who might wear my designs if I ever got the chance to create them.

I cross to a small seating area off to the side, hidden by potted palms so tall their fronds brush the overhead lights. It’s mostly for show, but the chairs are comfortable. I sink into one, relief blooming in my muscles. Out of habit, I reach into the pocket of my gray uniform pants and pull out a crumpled napkin, then fish a pen from behind my ear.

Sketching is my only freedom. 

It’s a skill I inherited from my father, Patrick Hart—once a revered name in the fashion world. He’d plop me beside him at the big oak table in his studio, letting me doodle while he made magic happen on reams of parchment paper. I was a little girl then, wide-eyed and confident enough to believe I’d follow in his footsteps. But that was before. Before the acquisition war, before the betrayal, before his new wife—the polished, cunning socialite whose name I can barely say without clenching my teeth—took everything in the aftermath. Now, I have no real claim to my father’s legacy. Just a few dog-eared memories and the stubborn talent I refuse to let go to waste.

Slowly, I draw a quick outline of a cocktail dress, imagining how it would move on a runway. Bold lines with fluid draping. My pen scrawls across the napkin, occasionally catching on the grain of the cheap paper. My heart kicks up a notch, a small thrill in the midst of monotony. This is what I live for—imagining worlds where I can design something that makes a statement.

The vacuum can wait five more minutes.

Outside, heavy glass doors slide open, letting in a draft of cooler air. I stiffen, heart pounding—my break’s almost over if that’s a supervisor or a random late-night executive. But no one appears. The footsteps I expect never come. Likely just the wind triggering the sensors, or the security guard making rounds. Easing the tension in my shoulders, I return to my sketch. The dress is starting to take shape: a structured bodice with a hand-stitched rosette along one shoulder, the skirt flaring out with subtle layers of chiffon. I note the idea: slightly asymmetrical neckline, use unexpected color combinations—perhaps midnight blue with copper accents. A hint of sparkle, but never gaudy.

My pen scratches out the final lines. My father’s voice hums in my memory: “Fashion should be felt as much as seen, Camille. It should evoke emotion, not just admiration.” His designs did that—brought tears to runway audiences, made an industry that prides itself on cynicism catch its breath. When he died, under the weight of financial ruin and heartbreak, the vultures descended. Among them was Leo Maddox—once my father’s protégé. I was too young to fully understand the heartbreak in my father’s eyes, but I knew something fundamental: that man took credit for my father’s brilliance and left him with nothing but debts and a tarnished name.

My pulse spikes at the thought of him. Leo Maddox. I’ve never met him, but the tabloids paint him as a cold, ruthless fashion mogul. Some call him a visionary. Others call him a traitor. He’s made himself the unstoppable force behind Maddox Design, the brand that soared to success on the ruins of my father’s company. If there’s one person I’d never want to meet, it’s that man.

I push the thought away. No point dwelling on ghosts. I have bills to pay, an overbearing stepmother to tolerate, and a dream I can’t afford to lose. I tuck my napkin sketch into a small folder I keep stashed in the depths of my bag. Someday, maybe, I’ll have a real portfolio. For now, scraps and scribbles.

Time’s up. My break ends. Sighing, I rise from the chair, brushing wrinkles from my gray uniform. My reflection in the polished wall across from me catches my eye again. I smooth back a few stray curls from my chestnut-brown hair, which is pulled into a soft, messy bun. My uniform is loose, not exactly flattering, but it’s functional. Underneath the shapeless fabric, I have a slim figure—gentle curves I inherited from my mother, or so I’m told. I was only nine when she passed.

There’s a pang in my chest, but I shove it aside. Feeling sorry for myself never accomplishes anything. At five-foot-six, I’m used to feeling overshadowed by the towering presence of my father’s legacy, then the oppression of living with my stepmother. But even from behind these drab clothes, I feel a flicker of determination. I refuse to be invisible forever.

I pick up the vacuum from the supply closet and push through the glass doors to the executive suites.

The lights in the corridor are still on—someone must have left in a rush. The carpet is plush, a deep emerald green that matches the gilded trim along the walls. It’s the sort of luxury I’ve cleaned a thousand times but never get used to. I start at one end, methodically guiding the vacuum in neat rows, while my thoughts drift from design ideas to the mounting pressure of living under my stepmother’s roof.

Her name is Fiona. She’s perfect at a glance—impeccably dressed, always delivering backhanded compliments with a sweet smile. My father married her for reasons I’ll never know, and after he passed, she made sure I was cut off from anything that might carry his name—except, of course, the taxes and leftover debts. 

She inherited the remains of his brand, albeit battered, and my stepsister claimed the social spotlight, riding on the memory of my father’s achievements. Meanwhile, I was told in no uncertain terms that if I wanted a roof over my head, I’d better learn to serve. So, here I am, vacuuming carpets for people who can afford to commission haute couture as casually as buying groceries.

Halfway down the corridor, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I switch off the vacuum and dig it out. It’s a text from my stepsister, Brenna—Fiona’s golden child.

Brenna (11:42 PM): OMG guess who’s just been invited to a private dinner w/ The Leo Maddox??

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. The entire family knows how I feel about Leo Maddox, but Brenna must enjoy rubbing it in. My heart clenches anyway. A private dinner with the Leo Maddox? Rumor has it he’s scouting personal designers for a hush-hush, exclusive launch. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime break for any aspiring fashion professional. But Brenna’s not a designer. She’s a socialite who sees the industry as a vanity fair. She doesn’t even sew on her own buttons.

Exasperated, I tuck the phone back into my pocket. The vacuum roars to life again, drowning out the swirl of thoughts. My father’s legacy, my stepmother’s manipulations, the memory of a man I’ve grown to resent. The next time I glance at my phone, it’s nearing midnight. My shift will end around four or five in the morning, depending on how much time I take for breaks. Which means I’ll get home just in time to catch a few hours’ sleep before having to deal with Fiona’s latest demands. I grit my teeth and keep cleaning.

By one-thirty, I’m done with the executive wing and moving on to the top-floor boardroom—where deals worth millions, sometimes billions, are made. The polished wooden conference table looks like it’s carved from a single slab of mahogany, the chairs upholstered in rich, buttery leather. Rows of motivational artwork—art that probably cost more than my father’s first production run—adorn the walls. They say things like INNOVATE, LEAD, DOMINATE. The irony isn’t lost on me. The boardroom is silent, but the hush feels heavy, like the ghosts of a thousand closed deals still echo here.

Wiping down the table, my mind drifts again to that text from Brenna. I can’t help the small, bitter spark of envy. I’d kill for the opportunity to show my father’s sketches—my sketches—to someone with the influence to open doors. Yet the same man who destroyed my father’s career is now hailed as a genius. If my father had been alive, maybe we could have rebuilt his brand together. Maybe I would’ve finished fashion school. Maybe we’d have matched each other in drive and talent, Hart & Hart—father and daughter.

Instead, I have rags in my hands and the sting of salt behind my eyes.

I pause, exhaling carefully.

Crying on the job won’t help. Neither will rage. My father told me once, “In a world of thieves, you must protect your heart by arming your mind.” Maybe that’s what I need to do—find a way to arm my mind. Plan. Strategize. Not let bitterness consume me.

When the final wipe-down is complete, it’s close to two. I slump into one of the leather chairs, letting the exhaustion settle into my bones. A noise in the hallway startles me; I jolt upright, worried it might be a supervisor. Heart hammering, I scramble to my feet and gather my cleaning supplies. But no one comes in. After another minute, it’s silent. My nerves are shot, though, so I decide to take a quick moment to recenter.

Just then, my phone buzzes again. Another text from Brenna.

Brenna (2:02 AM): Don’t freak but I might not make that dinner tomorrow. Got a better invite. Maybe you can go. 

Brenna (2: 04 AM): LOL jk, as IF. NEVER. 

Every muscle in my body tenses. She might be joking about letting me go in her place, but the seed is planted. What would I give to sit across from Leo Maddox? To see the look in his eyes if I demanded answers about my father’s downfall? Better yet, to show him the designs that carry the very essence of Patrick Hart’s vision—and watch that arrogant facade crack?

A war begins in my head. It’s reckless. It’s probably an awful idea. But the part of me that’s been silent too long—the part that fantasizes about restoring my father’s name—roars to life. If Brenna truly doesn’t go, could I?

My heart thunders so loudly I half expect the security guard to burst in and tell me to keep it down. I stare at the text a moment longer. My father taught me to seize every chance to prove myself. Not that I was ever bold enough to impersonate my stepsister… until this moment.

I gather my cleaning supplies and head for the elevator. The doors whisper open, revealing my reflection for the umpteenth time tonight: tired eyes, chestnut-brown hair trying to escape its bun, uniform that hides my figure, skin the color of caramel looking washed out under fluorescent lights. For a second, I picture myself in one of my designs—something bold, sleek, and undeniably me. Head high, eyes blazing with purpose, stepping into a world of glitz and haute couture. The world my father once commanded.

What if?

That’s the question that follows me all the way to the next floor. It’s the question that refuses to let me sleep when I finally drag myself home. It’s the question that throbs in my chest as I recall the rumors swirling about Leo Maddox’s new launch—and how he’s rumored to be scouting personal designers. I may have no rightful place at his table, but sometimes a chance is all you need.

“In a world of thieves, arm your mind,” my father had said. I close my eyes, feeling the prickle of tears I won’t let fall. My mind is stirring with new possibilities—dangerous, exciting possibilities.

I step off the elevator into yet another corridor that glimmers with wealth, push the vacuum along, and let the hush of the night blanket me in half-formed hopes.

Because if Brenna won’t show up for that dinner, maybe I will.

Outside, the faintest lightening of the sky signals dawn. My shift ended an hour late. Typical. My arms ache, shoulders stiff from hours of labor. But despite my exhaustion, my pulse thrums with a curious, bright energy I can’t shake. Something about the idea—putting on my sister’s borrowed glam, stepping into that restaurant, and forcing Leo Maddox to acknowledge the daughter of Patrick Hart—sets my heart racing. Even if it’s just to see the shock on his face, the self-assured man rumored to ruin reputations with a single phone call might finally meet someone he can’t easily dismiss.

I push through the revolving doors and step onto the sidewalk. Crisp air greets me, and I inhale deeply, letting the morning chill numb my fatigue. New York is stirring awake: cars honk, a few early joggers pass by, and the lights in nearby cafés snap on. It’s the city that swallows dreams whole, but sometimes it spits a few out triumphant. I wonder if I can be among the few.

I head toward the nearest subway entrance, the city’s pulse thrumming beneath my feet. My phone buzzes again—a final text from Brenna that arrived while I was in the elevator.

Brenna (4:59 AM): Confirmed—I’m definitely not going. Have fun cleaning floors or whatever you do at night.

I let a small, wry smile curl my lips. Oh, I’ll have fun, all right. The kind Brenna will never see coming.

My father lost everything once. He died in ashes. But maybe I can reclaim something of his legacy—even if it’s just the right to demand that Leo Maddox face me, no longer a shadow in a janitor’s uniform but as Patrick Hart’s daughter.

Tucking my phone away, I quicken my pace down the subway steps. Beneath the city, trains rattle, the metallic scream echoing through tunnels. Commuters shuffle, half-asleep, carrying hopes and burdens as heavy as mine. I hug my coat closer around my body and let the turnstile clack behind me, my footsteps purposeful on the worn concrete.

A single whisper pulses in my mind: Tomorrow night, you’ll look the man who stole your father’s legacy in the eye—and remind him that the Harts aren’t finished yet.

Despite everything—my exhaustion, my fear, my battered faith in a dream that might never come true—an ember of determination glows within me. I cling to it, because if I lose that, I lose the last piece of myself that believes in possibilities.

The train arrives, doors sliding open with a rush of stale air. I slip inside, find an empty seat, and lower my gaze to the folder of sketches in my bag. Someday, those sketches will see the light of day. Someday, I’ll show the world who Camille Hart really is. And tomorrow night, I might just get my chance—impersonation be damned.

The train lurches forward, plunging us all into the darkness of the subway tunnel, but I feel like I’m on the brink of something new. Fear and excitement mingle, twisting into a single coil in my stomach. A question forms on my lips, one that sets my pulse racing with anticipation.

What happens when the man who took everything from us finally faces the one woman determined to take it back?

My reflection in the train window stares back with an almost defiant glint. Soon, Leo Maddox, I think, gripping my bag. You’ll see exactly who I am—and what I’m capable of.