Chapter 9 – A Name of Her
Own
Noelle’s POV
By the time I stepped back into the house, the sun had long dipped below the horizon, painting the world in deep hues of night.
Inside, the foyer glowed with soft amber light–warm, inviting. But it couldn’t melt the ice that had settled deep in my chest since visiting Vernon’s company that morning.
Vernon lounged in the living room, dressed in a crisp black shirt and slate–gray trousers, sipping whiskey with casual elegance. The moment he caught sight of me, he set his glass down.
“How was the first day on the job, Mrs.
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Walters?” he asked with a teasing glint in his eye.
I tossed my purse onto the side table and walked toward him, a slow smirk curving my lips. “Productive,” I said. “I did something wicked.”
He perked up, eyes gleaming. “Oh? Now you have to tell me.”
I leaned against the armrest, folding my arms. “I slipped a sabotaged design into Jocelyn’s submission pile. She’s been
stealing from my old portfolio–figured it was time to bait the thief.”
Vernon let out a low whistle. “I love that you’re finally enjoying this.”
“It’s not just revenge,” I said. “It’s justice- sweet, slow–burning justice.”
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He walked over, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear with deliberate tenderness.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because we’ve been invited to dinner at the Nichols estate. Christopher will be there.”
A rush of anticipation flared in my chest. “Perfect. I want him to see the ring. To see exactly what he lost… and what I’ve become.”
Vernon chuckled. “That’s my girl.”
“Also,” I added thoughtfully, “I want to rebrand. Start a new label. Release my designs under a different name–something clean, anonymous. No ties to Noelle Nichols.”
He nodded, considering. “Smart move. Keep
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them guessing.”
“Do you have a small company lying dormant? Something under the radar that I can quietly take over?”
He pulled out his phone without hesitation and made a call. Thirty minutes later, two sharply dressed professionals arrived- Henry and Zoe.
“This is Noelle, Vernon introduced. “She’s taking over Lioré Designs. It’s been inactive for years. From this moment forward, you work for her. Keep everything off the books. No leaks.”
They both nodded with swift professionalism.
We sat down, and I opened my sketchbook, laying it flat on the table. “I want a brand
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that’s minimalist but refined. Black, white, blush. Clean lines. No clutter. No splash pages–just direct access to the catalog.”
“Social media presence?” Henry asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Set up anonymous accounts -Instagram, Pinterest, TikTok. Just visual content: designs on mannequins, detail shots, fabric motion. No names, no face. Let the audience wonder.”
“We can build an email list, Zoe added. “So when you’re ready for a full launch-”
“Perfect. But keep the server protected. Offshore hosting. Privacy layers. I don’t want
anything tracing back to me.”
“Understood,” they responded in unison.
“Also,” I said, “get in touch with a few discreet
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fashion influencers–ones known for honest critiques. Have them “discover‘ the brand. Let the buzz build organically.”
They scribbled notes while Vernon stood behind me, arms folded, watching with unconcealed pride.
“We’ll have your site live in twenty–four hours,” Henry promised.
Once they left, Vernon and I returned to the studio. I created a new email and registered the handle:
@MaisonLaRuelle
Then I uploaded two teaser posts–one showing a sketch in progress on a tablet, the other of an unfinished chiffon gown draped over a mannequin.
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Within minutes, the posts were circulating. Likes, shares, and comments rolled in:
“That line work–flawless.”
“A designer with vision is here.”
“Who is Maison LaRuelle? Obsessed already.”
Fashion blogs took notice. The mystery sparked conversation.
An hour in, I received my first DM:
@HauteModePR: “Are you open to a potential collab? We’d love to talk.”
I smiled. But didn’t reply.
Not yet.
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919W.
Vernon leaned over, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You’ve always had this power. You just spent too long surrounded by the wrong people.”
Just then, his phone buzzed.
“Want to see something that’ll make your night?” he asked.
I looked up. “What is it?”
He turned the screen toward me.
A breaking news alert.
“Plagiarist? Socialite Jocelyn Nichols under fire for submitting allegedly stolen design sketches.”
“Did Jocelyn design these, or is she a fraud?”
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“Insiders claim the pieces don’t match her usual style.”
My lips curled. “So she took the bait.”
Vernon grinned. “She walked right into the trap.”
Every one of the flawed designs had been flagged by top–tier fashion software for plagiarism.
“They tracked the original upload
timestamps, Vernon added, “It’s not looking good for her!”
I leaned back in the chair, a dark satisfaction blooming in my chest.
Round one was mine.
And I had so much more in store.
