The needle slipped through silk, my fingers steady despite the tremor in my chest. Another stitch, another lie buried in the hem of this dress—just like I’d been stitched into this life, invisible.\n\n"You’re late again," Daniel’s voice cut through the quiet of our cramped apartment. "Mom expects dinner on time. You think being a housewife is a part-time job?"\n\nI didn’t answer. How could I explain that I’d spent the afternoon adjusting the drape on a gown worn by a supermodel who’d whispered, "This feels like magic"—a dress I designed under a pseudonym, the same one my father’s company used to reject me years ago.\n\nThen the TV flashed a headline: "Mystery Designer Wins L’Éclaire Award." My photo blurred past—caught leaving a studio. Daniel froze.\n\n"That’s… that’s you." His voice turned cold. "All this time, you’ve been hiding money? Pretending to be *nothing*?"\n\n"I did it for us," I whispered.\n\n"For *us*? You humiliated me!"\n\nThe door slammed. Silence swallowed the room.\n\nMy phone buzzed—a message from Jack: "They want you at the Paris show. Full collection. Your name on the invite."\n\nTwo lives. One choice.