The rain had stopped an hour ago, but London's streets remained slick and treacherous, gleaming under the amber glow of streetlamps like a serpent shedding its skin. Anli Sharma sat at her desk in the open-plan office of Harrington & Co., a prestigious textile design firm nestled in the heart of Covent Garden, and watched the droplets race each other down the windowpane. Each one lost, she thought. Each one destined to crash into oblivion at the bottom.
Just like her.
"Anli! A moment."
The voice cut through her reverie like a blade. She didn't need to turn around. She knew that voice—too bright, too friendly, dripping with the synthetic sweetness of someone who had perfected the art of smiling while stealing.
Penelope Fenchurch. Senior Designer. Thirty-four years old, blonde hair pulled into a severe bun that stretched her forehead into a permanent expression of surprise, and a wardrobe that screamed "old money" while her talent whispered "mediocre at best." Penny, as she insisted everyone call her, had been at Harrington's for eight years. Anli had been here for three. In those three years, Penny had never once created an original concept. She didn't need to. She had Anli.
Anli rose from her chair, her knees popping softly—a twenty-six-year-old body already betraying the wear and tear of a fifty-year-old's stress. She smoothed her burgundy cardigan, a relic from her university days, and walked toward Penny's corner office. The corner office that should have belonged to someone with vision. Someone like Anli.
The bullpen stretched before her, a maze of grey cubicles and beige walls that management insisted promoted creativity. It promoted nothing but conformity. Her colleagues—Sarah, typing furiously at her keyboard; James, on yet another personal call; Priyanka, the only other brown face in the office, who offered Anli a sympathetic glance before quickly looking away—all knew what was happening. They'd known for years. And they'd done nothing.
Because that's what survival in the corporate world demanded. Silence.
Penny's office smelled of vanilla and ambition, the former from the overpriced candle burning on her desk, the latter from the framed photographs of herself with industry executives that lined her walls. She gestured for Anli to sit, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light.
"The Bloomsbury account," Penny said, not looking up from her laptop. "They loved the mood board."
Anli's heart clenched. The Bloomsbury account. Three weeks of sleepless nights. Two hundred sketches. Forty color palettes. Twenty-six iterations of the final design. All of it, every single hour of work, had been done by Anli. She'd presented it to Penny in a bound portfolio, watching as the senior designer's eyes widened with something that might have been jealousy before it settled into its usual mask of pleasant entitlement.
"I'm so glad," Anli managed. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Hollow. As if someone else were speaking through her mouth.
Penny finally looked up, and her smile was a masterpiece of condescension. "They've commissioned the full collection. Sixteen pieces, autumn launch. It's going to be huge, Anli. Huge." She leaned back in her leather chair, steepling her fingers. "I told them the concept was mine, of course. They wanted to meet the designer, and I said—well, I said that I don't like to put my artists in the spotlight. Keeps them focused on the work."
The words landed like physical blows. Anli felt them in her chest, in her stomach, in the tightness of her throat. My artists. As if Anli were a possession. As if her creativity, her soul poured onto paper, belonged to anyone but herself.
"That was my design," Anli said quietly. She hadn't planned to say it. The words simply escaped, like prisoners who'd finally found a crack in the wall.
Penny's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind her eyes. Something cold. "Was it? I seem to recall making significant contributions. The color palette, for instance. I suggested the aubergine."
"The aubergine was in my original sketch. You saw it and said it was too dark."
"And then I reconsidered. That's what leadership looks like, Anli. Rethinking. Evolving." Penny picked up a silver pen, twirling it between her fingers. "You're young. You'll have plenty of opportunities to develop your own voice. But right now, you're part of a team. And teams share."
Share. The word was a poison pill wrapped in honey. Anli had heard it a hundred times. We're a family here, Anli. We succeed together. Your win is my win. But when had Penny ever shared credit? When had any of her "mentoring" resulted in Anli's name appearing anywhere but the bottom of a payroll spreadsheet?
Three years. Three years of this. Three years of watching her concepts become Penny's concepts, her sketches become Penny's portfolio, her dreams become Penny's reality. And for what? A salary that barely covered her rent in a studio flat in Zone 3. A job title that said "Junior Designer" while she did the work of a Creative Director. A future that stretched before her like an endless grey corridor, identical doors on either side, all of them locked.
"I've been looking at other opportunities," Anli said. The words were out before she could stop them. She saw Penny's expression flicker—surprise, then annoyance, then something that looked almost like fear. Good. Let her be afraid. Let her wonder what would happen when the person who did all her work finally walked away.
Penny recovered quickly. Her smile returned, wider than before, and Anli recognized it for what it was: a weapon. "Of course you have. Ambitious girl like you. I'd expect nothing less." She set down her pen and leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you should know, Anli, that the industry is small. Very small. And people talk. When they ask me about you—and they will ask—what do you want me to say?"
The threat hung in the air between them, shimmering like heat haze. Anli understood. Penny wasn't just stealing her work. She was holding her entire career hostage. One bad word from a Senior Designer at Harrington's, and every door in London would slam shut. Anli would be lucky to find work at a print shop in Croydon.
"I see," Anli whispered.
Penny's expression softened into something that might have been mistaken for kindness. "I'm not your enemy, Anli. I'm your mentor. Your champion. When I rise, you rise with me. That's how it works." She slid a folder across the desk. "The Bloomsbury collection needs a companion piece. Something for their accessories line. I need concepts by Monday. And Anli?" She waited until Anli met her eyes. "Make them brilliant. Make me proud."
Anli took the folder. Her hands were steady. That surprised her. Inside, she was crumbling, every brick of her self-worth dissolving into dust. But her hands, those traitors, remained perfectly still.
"Of course, Penny."
She walked back to her desk, past Sarah and James and Priyanka, who couldn't meet her eyes. Past the photocopier that had jammed three times today. Past the inspirational posters that declared Creativity Takes Courage and Dream Without Fear. She sat down, opened the folder, and looked at the blank page within.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: Darling, dinner tonight? I made too much dal again. Your favorite. Xx
Anli's eyes burned. Her mother. The only person in the world who saw her. Really saw her. Meera Sharma, fifty-four years old, with laugh lines around her eyes and a heart so big it sometimes seemed to occupy her entire body. She'd come to London from Delhi at twenty-two, with nothing but a suitcase and a degree in literature. She'd built a life here. A small life, modest, but hers.
Anli typed a quick response: Can't tonight, Mum. Deadline. Rain check?
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally: Of course, my love. Soon. Xxx
Anli stared at the message until her screen went dark. Then she turned to the folder and began to sketch.
The next three days passed in a blur of caffeine and sleeplessness. Anli worked through the nights, her flat's single window offering no view but the brick wall of the neighboring building. She filled page after page with concepts—scarves printed with geometric blooms, handbags that mimicked the curve of petals, jewelry inspired by the veins of a leaf. They were good. They were better than good. They were the best work she'd ever done.
And none of it would have her name on it.
By Friday afternoon, she'd finished. She emailed the designs to Penny, then sat back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. Her neck ached. Her eyes burned. Her soul felt like a wrung-out rag. But somewhere beneath the exhaustion, a small flame still burned. She would get out of this. She would find another job, another industry if necessary. She would build something for herself, something Penny couldn't touch.
Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Mum.
"Hey," she said, her voice scratchy from disuse. "I was just about to call you—"
"Anli." It wasn't her mother's voice. It was deep, male, strained. "Anli, you need to come to the hospital. There's been an accident."
The world stopped.