With a triumphant smile, my best friend snatched the eight hundred dollars in cash from the counter and declared my hard work was the perfect down payment for the designer bag she deserved.
She was supposed to be my fifty-fifty partner, the “face” of our brand.
I was just the ghost in the workshop, the one covered in sawdust who designed, built, and shipped every single product while she took all the credit. My savings account had become her personal playground, funding a life of boozy lunches and spa weekends disguised as business expenses.
She never imagined the ghost in the workshop was also the one who held every password, and I was about to use them to dismantle her whole life’s work—which was, of course, entirely my own.
The Paper-Thin Partnership: A Receipt for Resentment
The hum of the laser cutter was the only company I kept most nights. It smelled like progress and burnt sugar, a scent I’d come to associate with the thin line between passion and exhaustion. Tonight, it was etching a delicate lace pattern onto a set of walnut coasters, the final piece of a fifty-item order due tomorrow. My order. My design. My machine.
My phone buzzed on the workbench, rattling against a stray piece of sandpaper. It was a Venmo notification. *Chloe requested $125.48. For: 🥂 Business lunch + inspo!*
I stared at the screen, the blue light harsh in the dim workshop. The accompanying photo on her Instagram story, which I’d already seen, featured two artisanal cocktails and a plate of oysters. Her lunch companion was not me, but some influencer I vaguely recognized. I was eating a cold slice of leftover pizza over the sink.
“Inspo,” I muttered to the laser cutter. The machine didn’t answer, just kept methodically carving away the wood I’d paid for.
This was the looming issue, the one that sat like a stone in my gut. Aura & Elm, our boutique, was technically a fifty-fifty partnership. But the numbers didn’t feel like fifty-fifty. The hours didn’t feel like fifty-fifty. And a boozy lunch with a socialite certainly didn’t feel like a business expense, not when I was still trying to recoup the cost of the industrial-grade sander I’d bought last month.
I sighed, rubbing the sawdust from my forehead, and tapped ‘Pay.’ The money vanished from our shared account with a cheerful little *whoosh*. It was easier than arguing. It was always easier than arguing.
The Face of the Brand
The next morning, my phone buzzed again. This time it was an Instagram notification. Chloe had posted.
The photo was gorgeous, I had to admit. It was a flat-lay, artfully arranged on a distressed white-wood background she’d bought for her apartment. It featured the very walnut coasters I’d finished at 2 a.m. The lighting was perfect, catching the intricate, laser-etched details. My details.
The caption read: “Woke up feeling so inspired and just had to bring this new vision to life! ✨ So in love with how our new lace collection is turning out. Every piece tells a story. #AuraAndElm #HandmadeWithLove #CreatorLife”
My fingers tightened around my coffee mug. *Our* new collection. *Woke up feeling inspired.* I had a vision, all right. It was of me, bleary-eyed and covered in a fine layer of wood dust, coaxing the design file to cooperate with the machine’s quirks.
The comments were already rolling in. “OMG Chloe, you are so talented!” “Your vision is everything!” “I can’t believe you make these, they’re stunning!”
Chloe, of course, was replying to each one with breezy charm. “Thank you, darling! It just poured out of me! 😘”
I scrolled until my thumb ached. Not a single mention of my name, the workshop, the laser, the late nights. There was only Chloe, bathed in the warm, flattering glow of stolen credit. I was the ghost in the workshop, and she was the face of my work. The brand’s face.
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