Clara: Ma'am... is your name E. Morrow?
Eleanor: Eleanor... Eleanor Morrow, dear.
Gregory: Who cares what her name is?! I'm filing a police report for assault!
Clara: Go ahead, Gregory! Call them! Let them watch the security cameras show you harassing an elderly customer!
Gregory: You think you can talk to me like this? I hold the master lease on this entire commercial block!
Clara: My lease is paid five years in advance, Gregory. Now step out of my door before I have my staff remove you by force.
Gregory: You'll regret this, Clara! Your little boutique won't survive the month!
Gregory turned on his heel and rushed out the front glass door into the bright daylight, grumbling under his breath.
Clara immediately walked over to Eleanor, taking both of the old woman's cold, trembling hands in her own.
Clara: Please, come sit down in the lounge area. Let me get you a glass of warm tea.
Eleanor: You... you don't have to do that, child. I didn't mean to cause trouble.
Clara: You didn't cause any trouble at all. Eleanor Morrow... my grandmother talked about you every single day of my life.
Eleanor stopped in her tracks, her tear-filled blue eyes looking up at Clara with deep surprise.
Eleanor: Your grandmother?
Clara: Rose Sterling. She founded Sterling Atelier fifty years ago.
Eleanor: Rose? You... you are Rose's granddaughter?
Clara: Yes! I'm Clara! My grandmother always said E. Morrow was the greatest seamstress who ever lived!
Eleanor: Oh, sweet Lord... Rose talked about me?
Clara: She spent twenty years looking for you after the old workshop closed down!
Eleanor sat down on the velvet sofa in the private consultation suite, holding her wooden cane close against her knees.
Eleanor: Rose was my dearest friend. We started making dresses together in a tiny basement on Fifth Avenue.
Clara: What happened to you, Eleanor? Why did you disappear?
Eleanor: I didn't want to leave, Clara. I was forced out.
Clara: Forced out? By who?
Eleanor: By Gregory Croft's father... Charles Croft.
Clara leaned in closer, her brow furrowing as she listened to the old woman's cracked, gentle voice.
Eleanor: Forty years ago, Charles Croft bought out our original landlord. He wanted the rights to all my dress designs and pattern books.
Clara: He wanted your original patterns?
Eleanor: When I refused to sell my personal label to him, he locked the workshop doors overnight. He accused me of stealing fabric and threatened to have me arrested if I ever returned.
Clara: That's terrible! He stole your life's work!
Eleanor: I was young and terrified, Clara. I had no money for lawyers. I took my sewing kit and moved to a small town upstate.
Clara: And this blue dress... how did it end up in my store?
Eleanor: I made this specific piece for Rose's personal collection in 1978. It was the last dress we ever finished together.
Clara looked at the exquisite silk dress on the mannequin, her chest tightening with deep emotion and rising anger.
Clara: Eleanor, Charles Croft didn't just steal your designs. His son Gregory is using those same stolen patterns right now to run a fake luxury brand down the street!
Eleanor: What? Croft Design Group is still using my patterns?
Clara: Yes, and they're making millions off your genius while treating you like trash!
Eleanor: I thought my work was forgotten forever...
Clara: It's not forgotten, Eleanor. And starting today, we are going to make Gregory Croft pay for every single lie his family ever told!