Chapter 11 - THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST
The transition from a silent, subjugated shadow to the sole owner of Caruso Design Group—now officially rebranded as Nora Caruso Atelier—was anything but peaceful. While the legal victory had stripped Dominic of his executive authority, the corporate vultures and high-society gossips of Manhattan were far from finished picking at the carcass of our former life.
It was a cold Tuesday morning in January. The snow was falling in thick, heavy sheets against the reinforced glass of my new corner office on Madison Avenue. I stood by the window, a cup of black coffee warming my palms, watching the yellow cabs crawl through the slush below.
My intercom buzzed.
"Nora," said Elena, my newly appointed chief operating officer and a fierce veteran of the fashion industry whom I had poached directly from a rival luxury house. "You have a visitor in the private reception lounge. He refused to give his name, but he insists it's about the old vault files from Dominic’s tenure."
My grip tightened around the ceramic mug. "Did he look like a reporter?"
"No," Elena replied, her voice dropping an octave. "He looked like someone who used to work in the basement archives before Dominic purged the old staff four years ago. Shall I have security escort him out?"
"No. Send him in."
A minute later, the heavy oak door creaked open. A frail, elderly man with tired eyes and a worn wool overcoat stepped inside. His name was Arthur Pendelton, and thirty years ago, he had been the master pattern-maker for the original Caruso house under Dominic’s father.
"Mrs. Caruso," Arthur murmured, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered. "Or should I say... Madam President."
"Sit down, Arthur," I said, motioning to the leather armchair opposite my desk. I poured a fresh cup of coffee and slid it across the table toward him. "Elena tells you have something to say about the old archives. Something Dominic tried very hard to bury."
Arthur wrapped his trembling hands around the coffee mug. He didn't drink. He just stared at the dark liquid as if it held ghosts.
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"Dominic didn't just steal your sketches, Mrs. Caruso," Arthur whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "That was merely his modern habit. Long before you walked into his life, before he even inherited this company... his father and he ran a very different kind of operation. They didn't just steal designs. They stole entire legacies."
My heart skipped a beat. The drama that had consumed my marriage was apparently only the tip of an iceberg that stretched back decades into the dark underbelly of New York's fashion aristocracy.
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