I asked Priya where she had received the sample. Adrian reached for the portfolio, but she kept one hand on it. She said his proposal described an exclusive design archive developed by his company. Beneath the linen were photographs of six more pieces from my workroom: a blue heron I had made for the library, a wheat border from Mrs. Chen's curtains, and the green leaves from a table runner still waiting for pickup. The pictures had been taken against my gray pressing board.

Adrian said we should discuss ownership at home. I asked who had let him into my workroom. He reminded me that he owned the building. Priya closed the portfolio. Nothing dramatic happened, yet the room seemed to tilt. Adrian had not brought me to a birthday dinner. He had brought me because Priya expected the designer to appear, and he assumed I would smile when introduced.

Then a server placed a contract beside my plate. A yellow tab marked the signature line. The agreement licensed my archive for five years and named Adrian's company as its creator. My payment was listed as a household contribution already received. I read that phrase twice. The contribution was money from the savings account Lorna had left me, transferred three months earlier after Adrian said our roof needed an emergency repair. The roof had never been repaired. A brown stain still spread above my workroom sink whenever it rained.

I did not shout. I removed the green thread from Adrian's watch and laid it across the signature line. I told Priya the designs were mine, the transfer was unauthorized, and I would send her dated invoices in the morning. Adrian whispered that I was humiliating him over scraps of cloth. That sentence freed something in me. I stood, thanked Priya for showing me the portfolio, and asked the server to box the slice of lemon cake. If the evening truly belonged to me, I decided, I would at least take my cake.