Page 210 of The Rebel Billionaire

After Elise and Teresa dropped the bombshell that some of the designs from our new spring/summer collection have been stolen and picked up by another house, our legal team has been working overtime. Temporary restraining orders have been issued in federal court, along with a host of cease-and-desist letters. But the fact of the matter is we’re no closer to understanding who did this.

St Clair is on lockdown. File access is restricted. No phones or cameras are allowed on-site, with everyone checking them in at the door. We’re back to using our old-fashioned telephone system and walking to speak to those we need to.

“You have my word,” I say, earning myself a grunt.

“I’ll wait to hear from you.”

The call ends and I refrain from throwing my phone across the room.

“Shit!” I say, running a hand through my hair. Another luxury department store, threatening to cancel its seasonal order. I’ve promised them that whatever collection we release, it will retain St Clair’s exclusivity and value. A promise I can only hope to keep, as we still don’t know where the leak originated.

“Kristophe Lansdown is here to see you,” Brooke says, popping her head around the door. Her brow furrows as she takes in my expression. “Is everything…”

I force a smile.

“Thanks, Brooke. Send him in.”

She lets it drop, stepping back.

Kris enters, his hand outstretched. “It’s been a while,” he says.

“Thanks for coming. I wish it were under better circumstances,” I say, shaking his hand and motioning for him to take a seat.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Your PA’s on it. Coffee and cake, apparently,” he says with a smile. “She seems nice, organised.”

“She is. She’s been a godsend since Callie went on maternity leave.”

“A baby boy, wasn’t it?”

“Logan.”

Although Kris is a couple of years older than us, we’ve shared the same social circle and attended charity events together.

Brooke knocks and enters, carrying two coffees and two plates of her latest creation. She baked this one in my kitchen. Despite it being a weeknight, she agreed to stay over because of my stress levels.

“Thanks,” he says, shooting her a smile that she returns, setting my teeth on edge.

“You’re welcome.”

Brooke leaves us.

“Small talk isn’t why you’re here. Have your team uncovered anything?”

“I’ve got my top digital forensics team on it. They’ve been following digital breadcrumbs.”

“Have they found anything?”

“We’ve extracted metadata and digital watermarks and audited identity and access-management logs.”

“And?” I ask, my heart rate picking up.

“Nothing. It’s clean.”

“It can’t be.”

“Whoever did this is smart. They knew what we’d be looking for.”