My Fake Death Was The Punchline To His Cruel Joke Chapter 22
Shortly after the civil suit was filed, the studio’s biggest client abruptly suspended our contract.
The CEO was polite but firm on the video call.
“Elena, we have the utmost respect for your talent, but the board is concerned about the project being associated with personal controversy.”
I looked at the proposal on my screen, the one my team had revised seven times, pulling three all-nighters to perfect.
“A criminal judgment is not a personal controversy,” I said evenly.
The man on the other side of the screen couldn’t meet my eyes.
“We just need some time to reassess the risk.”
After the call ended, a heavy silence fell over the office.
The two designers who had been with me from the very beginning sat at the conference table, their faces grim.
The old Mara would have apologized. Apologized for causing trouble, for making things uncomfortable. She would have voluntarily given up the opportunity that was rightfully hers.
But I wasn’t her anymore.
I closed my laptop.
“Everyone’s salary will be paid in full while the project is on hold.”
One of the designers finally spoke. “And what if they terminate the contract?”
“Then we find new clients.”
I unrolled the blueprints for the women’s shelter, the project that had won us the state design award.
“We started this studio with a tiny café and an old bookstore. We didn’t get this far because of the Shaw name. If we could build it from scratch once, we can do it again.”