Chapter 2: The Secret Behind the Blue Dress
I read the email three times before I trusted my eyes.
The Elena Carter Foundation had been established to support young designers from families who couldn't afford fashion school. I'd discovered it months earlier while searching for competitions that didn't require expensive entry fees.
The foundation's annual Rising Star competition offered a full scholarship to a prestigious design institute, a paid internship with a luxury fashion house, and a cash prize of fifty thousand dollars.
I'd submitted six photographs of my work, including the original sketches for my graduation dress.
I hadn't expected to win.
I hadn't even expected to become a finalist.
But the email confirmed that my design had been selected, and the judges wanted to see the finished gown in person at a private showcase on Saturday.
There was only one problem.
My dress was downstairs, in Brianna's possession.
I hurried out of my room.
Vanessa stood in the kitchen, placing fruit on a plate while Brianna posed in front of the hallway mirror. The gown's train spread across the hardwood floor.
"Take it off," I said.
Brianna turned slowly.
"Good morning to you, too.""
"That dress is mine.""
Vanessa set down her knife.
"Not this again.""
I held up my phone.
"I've been selected for a national design competition. I need the dress for the final showcase.""
Brianna burst out laughing.
"You expect us to believe that?""
"Read the email.""
She snatched my phone and scanned the screen.
Her laughter faded.
"Fifty thousand dollars?"" she muttered.
Vanessa took the phone from her.
She read the message once, then again, her expression becoming harder with every line.
"This could be fake.""
"It's from the foundation's official address.""
"Anyone can make an email look official.""
"There's a showcase on Saturday. They want to examine the dress.""
Vanessa handed the phone back.
"Then make another one.""
"I don't have enough satin to recreate it.""
"That sounds like your problem.""
I stepped toward Brianna.
"Please. I worked for months on this. You know what it means to me.""
For the first time, Brianna looked uncertain.
Then she glanced at her mother.
Vanessa gave her a tiny nod.
Brianna lifted her chin.
"I need it for the Best Dress competition. Mine doesn't look nearly as good.""
"Then wear yours.""
"I can't. Everyone will compare us.""
"That's not my problem.""
Her face twisted.
"You're unbelievable.""
She turned toward the staircase, gathering the train in her hands.
I moved to follow her, but Vanessa blocked my path.
"You're not going upstairs until you've apologized for the way you spoke to us.""
I stared at her.
"Apologized?""
"You accused Brianna of deliberately ruining your dress. You shouted at your father. And now you're making ridiculous demands.""
"You watched her take my dress!""
Vanessa's smile was cold.
"Lower your voice.""
"Give it back.""
She leaned closer.
"Do you want to know why your father never stands up to me? Because he knows what happens when someone makes this family difficult.""
"What does that mean?""
"It means you're seventeen, Nia. You have no money, no job that pays enough to support you, and nowhere else to live. Think very carefully before you decide to make an enemy of the only adults responsible for you.""
The words landed harder than the slap.
I looked past her toward the stairs.
Brianna had disappeared with my gown.
Vanessa returned to cutting fruit as if the conversation were finished.
I went outside and sat on the back steps.
The morning air smelled of wet grass and the neighbor's freshly brewed coffee. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower started.
I opened the email again and found the director's phone number.
A woman answered on the second ring.
"Elena Carter Foundation. This is Patricia.""
"My name is Nia Carter. I received an email about the Rising Star final.""
"Oh, Nia! We've been trying to reach you.""
My stomach tightened.
"Is something wrong?""
"Not at all. Your submission was one of the strongest in this year's competition. The judges were especially impressed by your use of color and your sculptural construction.""
I swallowed.
"There's a problem. My dress was taken by someone in my household. I don't know if I'll be able to bring it.""
There was a pause.
"Taken? Do you mean stolen?""
"I don't know what to call it.""
"Can you document your ownership of the design?""
"I have the original sketches, dated photographs, and pictures from every stage of construction.""
"Excellent. Send them to me today. We can discuss your options.""
I looked through the kitchen window.
Vanessa was feeding Brianna a slice of strawberry while my stepsister sat wearing my gown.
"There's something else," I said.
"The dress was damaged before I finished it. I turned the damage into part of the design.""
"That may be precisely why the judges chose it. Your portfolio described the piece as Undertow. You wrote that it was about finding beauty after betrayal.""
I hadn't expected anyone to read that line closely.
"Yes.""
Patricia's voice softened.
"Then don't give up on it. We'll find a way to make sure your work is represented fairly.""
After the call, I sent her everything: photographs, sketches, receipts for the materials, and a short video I'd taken the night I finished the gown.
I even included a photograph of my mother sitting at her sewing machine, teaching me how to guide fabric beneath the needle.
Then I returned inside.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with his coffee.
"Can we talk?"" I asked.
He looked tired.
"About the dress?""
"About everything.""
He set his mug down.
"Nia, I know you're upset, but your stepmother is trying to keep the peace.""
"She slapped me.""
His eyes shifted toward the hallway.
"She shouldn't have done that.""
"Then why didn't you say anything?""
He rubbed his jaw.
"Because everyone was angry, and I wanted the situation to calm down.""
"She took my mother's sewing money, Dad.""
He froze.
I hadn't planned to say it, but the words had been sitting inside me for two years.
"The envelope Mom left for me. The one marked For Nia's Dreams. You said the money went toward household expenses. How much was in it?""
Dad stared at his coffee.
"I don't remember.""
"Was it ten thousand dollars?""
His fingers tightened around the mug.
"Where did you hear that amount?""
"I found an old bank statement in Mom's sewing box before it disappeared. There was a withdrawal of ten thousand dollars three weeks after you married Vanessa.""
He stood abruptly.
"That was a difficult time.""
"For whom?""
"Nia, you don't understand how expensive it is to run a household.""
"I understand that I worked every evening to pay for fabric while Brianna got an eighteen-hundred-dollar dress.""
"That's enough.""
"No, Dad. It's not.""
His face hardened.
"You need to stop treating everything as though it's a competition between you and Brianna.""
I stared at him, searching for the father who used to sit beside Mom while she sewed, smiling as she held up each finished creation.
"I never wanted to compete with her," I said quietly.
"I just wanted you to see me.""
He didn't answer.
I went upstairs.
My bedroom felt strangely empty without the dress. Loose threads lay scattered across the table, and my sketchbook was open to the final design.
I sat down and began making notes for a backup version.
If Brianna refused to return the gown, I would need something else for Saturday.
I could borrow fabric from the alterations shop. I could redesign the sleeves. I could create a smaller version of the skirt.
I would find a way.
At noon, my phone buzzed.
It was a message from an unknown number.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
Brianna stood in front of a full-length mirror wearing my dress. Vanessa had pinned the train to create a dramatic silhouette, and a pair of expensive earrings framed Brianna's face.
Underneath the photograph, someone had written:
Guess who's entering the Best Dress competition in your design?
I called Brianna immediately.
She answered with music playing in the background.
"What?""
"Take that picture down.""
"Why?""
"Because it's my design.""
"Prove it.""
"I have every sketch and every photograph.""
"Then show them to the judges.""
"I will.""
She laughed.
"Great. We can both enter.""
"You're not entering in my dress.""
"Mom says I can wear whatever I want.""
I closed my eyes.
"Brianna, please. You know I made it.""
Her voice changed.
"You know what I'm tired of, Nia? Everyone acting like you have some special connection to Mom because she died. You get to keep her sewing machine, her photographs, all those sentimental things. I get nothing except people telling me how lucky I am.""
I hadn't expected that.
For a moment, I said nothing.
Then she continued.
"You're not the only person who wants to be special.""
"You could have made your own dress.""
"I don't have time to learn sewing.""
"Then don't steal mine.""
She hung up.
I sat still for several minutes.
I could understand wanting to be admired. I could understand feeling overshadowed.
But Brianna had taken the one thing I had built with my own hands and decided that my effort belonged to her simply because she wanted the result.
At 4:15 p.m., Patricia called again.
"Nia, I've reviewed your evidence. There's something you need to know.""
I gripped the phone.
"What is it?""
"Your mother wasn't just a supporter of our foundation.""
I sat up.
"What do you mean?""
"Elena Carter was one of our founding designers. She donated her original patterns and helped establish the scholarship program before she became ill.""
I stared at the wall.
"That's impossible. Dad never told me.""
"Perhaps he didn't know the full story. But there's a file in our archive concerning your mother and a particular collection she was developing.""
"What collection?""
Patricia paused.
"The collection that inspired the annual Rising Star prize.""
My heartbeat quickened.
"Can I see it?""
"Not over the phone. But there's another reason I'm calling. The judges have requested a meeting with you before Saturday's showcase.""
"Why?""
"Because your submission contains a pattern that appears to match one of your mother's archived designs.""
I looked toward the empty garment rack.
My mother had always told me that creativity was something nobody could take away.
But someone had taken her money.
Someone had taken my dress.
And now a national fashion foundation was telling me that my mother's name was connected to the design that might change my life.
"Ms. Patricia," I whispered, "what exactly did my mother leave behind?""
May you like
Her answer made me grip the edge of my desk.
"Something your father may have been trying to keep you from discovering.""
