Clutching my pregnant belly backstage, I watched my fiancé, Tristan, lead my stepsister Valerie down the runway, crowning her the sole designer of my haute couture collection. When I confronted him, he threw a rigged NDA in my face and had security toss me into the freezing rain. To protect my unborn baby, I dialed my late mother's emergency black card, choosing to flee Paris for an ancient Italian workshop. The price was severing all blood ties forever, embracing the crushing isolation of a single mother on the run. Hidden inside those stolen dresses was my invisible Ghost Stitch fingerprint, a secret they could never forge. But as my water broke on the cold stone floor of my sanctuary, the only question was whether my baby and I would even survive the night.