Chapter 1 - The Yellow Stitch
Daniel Carter did not look away.
His gaze remained fixed on the narrow vertical line of pale yellow thread near the left hem. To anyone else, it was a clumsy repair made by someone who could not afford a tailor. To Daniel, it seemed to carry a weight that stopped him entirely.
“I did,” Emma said, her voice dropping defensively. “The seam split three days ago.”
“Why yellow?” he asked.
The question sounded bizarre under the six chandeliers, surrounded by murmuring guests holding crystal flutes. Victoria Ashford had already taken half a step back, her expression shifting from polite dismissal to cautious calculation.
“Because I didn’t have blue,” Emma said. “Is there a rule against mending clothes?”
Daniel didn’t answer right away. He reached out—hesitating just an instant before his fingers brushed the fabric near the hem. He didn't touch her skin, only the frayed edge of the old cotton. His hand was steady, but when he drew it back, Emma saw his thumb twitch.
“My mother,” Daniel said, his voice lowering until it barely carried past the two of them. “She used to fix my winter coats with whatever thread was left in the basket. Usually yellow. Sometimes red.”
Emma stared at him. “A lot of people mend things.”
“Not with triple-looped overcast stitches,” he said quietly. “Not unless they were taught by someone who worked in the St. Jude textile mills before they closed in ninety-eight.”
The air between them seemed to thin.
Emma’s heart skipped a rhythm. Her mother had never talked much about her past before moving to the city, but she had occasionally mentioned the old looms down by the river.
“How do you know about those mills?” Emma asked.
“My family owned them,” Daniel said.
Before Emma could process that, Victoria stepped back into their space, a tight, fixed smile on her face. “Daniel, really. This is becoming rather dramatic. If Miss Bennett wishes to discuss family history, perhaps she can do so with the catering manager outside. The committee is waiting for you to open the silent auction.”
Daniel didn’t look at Victoria. His eyes stayed on Emma, dark and searching.
“The auction can wait five minutes,” he said.
“Daniel—,” Victoria began.
“Emma,” Daniel interrupted, ignoring her entirely. “Where did that dress come from?”
“It was my mother’s,” Emma said, the defensiveness returning. “Her name was Clara.”
Daniel went completely still.
The background noise of the ballroom—the clinking ice, the distant murmur of conversation—seemed to recede into a dull hum. Color drained from Daniel’s face, leaving him pale beneath the warm overhead lighting. The casual, slightly arrogant authority he had worn moments before vanished, replaced by an expression of raw, unshielded shock.
“Clara?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Emma’s chin rose. “Clara Bennett. Do you know her?”
Daniel didn’t answer. He looked at the yellow thread again, then up at Emma’s eyes, as if searching for something hidden beneath her skin.
“Victoria,” Daniel said without turning around. “Clear the North Lounge.”
“What? Daniel, the donors are—.”
May you like
“Clear it.” His voice left no room for argument. “Now.”
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