Chapter 7: The Signature That Could Destroy Them
I stared at my father's handwriting until the letters seemed to move across the page.
I agree to the change.
Four words.
Four words that made me question every memory I had of him.
"Was this amendment ever approved?"" I asked.
Daniel Whitmore shook his head.
"No. The independent trustee never authorized it, and the required legal formalities were never completed. But the document tells us something important.""
"That Vanessa wanted the money?""
"That she wanted control over the trust, yes. We still need to establish what happened to the funds and whether any additional documents exist.""
I sat down beside the cutting table.
My mother had been dying when Vanessa and Dad signed that amendment. I remembered those final months vividly: the smell of antiseptic in the hospital, the flowers that wilted on the windowsill, and the way Dad squeezed my shoulder whenever I asked if Mom was going to get better.
He had promised me everything would be okay.
Had he already been planning to take away the future Mom had built for me?
Daniel placed a glass of water beside me.
"You don't have to make sense of all this tonight.""
"But I need to know why.""
"That is what we're going to find out.""
He explained that the trust's independent administrator had never received the amendment for approval. The original agreement remained the controlling document in the records he had reviewed, although an attorney would need to verify its current legal status.
The missing money was another matter.
"We'll request a full accounting," he said.
"Your father and stepmother may have explanations for some transactions. Others may require legal action.""
"What if they spent everything?""
"Then we determine what can be recovered and hold the responsible parties accountable.""
I looked around the studio.
My mother had left me more than money. She had left designs, equipment, a business history, and a room full of possibilities.
I wasn't going to let anyone convince me that I was powerless again.
Daniel gave me the contact details of an attorney named Rebecca Shaw, who specialized in estate disputes and trust administration. He also arranged for a locksmith to change the studio's locks after the property's ownership status had been reviewed.
Before leaving, he paused at the door.
"Your mother once told me something about you," he said.
"What?""
"She said you had a habit of looking at broken things and imagining what they could become.""
I smiled sadly.
"She used to say that all the time.""
"Then remember it now. The records are complicated, but you aren't broken, Nia.""
After he left, I sat alone beneath the studio lights.
For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to imagine a future that didn't involve begging my father for permission to pursue my dreams.
I could study fashion design.
I could build a collection.
I could create something that belonged to me.
But first, I needed my dress back.
The next morning, Rebecca met me at the foundation's office. She was a sharp-eyed woman in her forties who spoke plainly and asked precise questions.
She reviewed the documents Daniel had collected, photographed the pages, and made a list of records that needed independent verification.
"Don't contact your stepmother about the money," she advised.
"Don't threaten her with legal action, and don't attempt to retrieve property from the house without considering your safety. Let us handle the financial records properly.""
"What about my dress?""
"If you can establish ownership, we can send a formal demand for its return. In the meantime, focus on your competition.""
I nodded.
Rebecca glanced at my sketchbook.
"Is that the design you submitted?""
I showed her the original drawing and photographs of the finished gown.
She studied them carefully.
"Did anyone else contribute to the design?""
"No. Brianna ruined the original fabric, but I transformed it into the finished piece myself.""
"Good. Keep the original sketches and dated photographs safe.""
I had barely finished answering when Patricia entered the room holding her phone.
"Nia, there's a problem.""
My stomach tightened.
"What happened?""
She turned the screen toward me.
A photograph showed Brianna standing on a small stage, wearing my ocean-inspired gown. Behind her, a banner announced the regional Best Dress competition.
The caption read:
*BRIANNA REED STUNS JUDGES WITH AN ORIGINAL DESIGN INSPIRED BY THE OCEAN.*
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"They're saying she designed it.""
Patricia nodded.
"The competition's organizer contacted us this morning. Someone submitted Brianna's entry using a design statement that appears almost identical to yours.""
I read the caption again.
Brianna had described the blue paint as an intentional artistic choice. She claimed she had created the gown after experimenting with damaged fabric and unconventional color techniques.
She had stolen my story, too.
Rebecca leaned forward.
"Do you have evidence that the dress was yours before she took it?""
"Everything. The sketches, photographs, receipts, the email from the foundation, and the messages where she admitted taking it.""
"Then preserve all of it. We can notify the competition organizers and request that they investigate the authorship claim.""
I pulled out my phone.
There was a new message from Brianna.
You should see the comments. Everyone loves my dress.
Another message arrived.
Mom says I might get a scholarship out of this. Thanks for the inspiration.
I read the words twice.
Then I took screenshots and forwarded them to Rebecca.
"I'm done letting her use my work.""
Rebecca gave a small nod.
"Good. We'll proceed through the appropriate channels.""
That afternoon, the Elena Carter Foundation issued a formal notice confirming that my design had been selected for its Rising Star final before Brianna's competition entry was submitted. The foundation also requested that the regional organizers preserve the original entry records while the dispute was reviewed.
The announcement spread quickly through the local fashion community.
By evening, Brianna's social media page was flooded with questions.
Some people asked why she had entered a dress that looked identical to mine. Others pointed out that her supposed design story had appeared in my competition portfolio weeks earlier.
Brianna deleted several comments.
Then she posted a photograph of herself with Vanessa.
The caption read:
People will do anything to destroy a girl's success when they can't achieve it themselves.
I didn't respond.
I was too busy finishing my backup gown.
Mrs. Alvarez had given me the fabric, and Patricia had arranged for me to use a sewing room at the foundation. I worked for hours, creating a sleek midnight-blue dress with asymmetrical sleeves and a flowing turquoise train.
It wasn't a copy of Undertow.
It was something new.
And every stitch reminded me that my talent didn't belong to Brianna, Vanessa, or my father.
It belonged to me.
At 9:40 p.m., my phone rang.
Dad.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
"Nia, we need to talk.""
"About what?""
"Vanessa is furious. She's saying you're trying to ruin Brianna's future.""
I closed my eyes.
"Did you know she submitted my dress as her own?""
He was silent.
"Did you?""
"I knew she was wearing it for the competition.""
"That isn't what I asked.""
He exhaled.
"Your stepmother told me you had agreed to let Brianna use it.""
I stared at the wall.
"That's a lie.""
"I understand that now.""
"No, Dad. You don't. You never asked me what happened.
You never checked the facts. You just believed whatever made your life easier.""
He said nothing.
Then he whispered, "I made a mistake.""
I wanted to feel relieved.
Instead, I felt tired.
"Which mistake?""
"The trust. The dress. Everything.""
"That's not an apology.""
"I know.""
For several seconds, all I heard was his breathing.
Then he said, "Vanessa is packing Brianna's things. They're planning to leave tomorrow.""
"Why are you telling me?""
"Because I think she's afraid.""
"Of what?""
He lowered his voice.
"She found out Daniel has the original documents.""
My heart began to race.
"What did she do?""
"I don't know. But she spent the last hour searching my study for something.""
"What?""
Dad hesitated.
Then he said, "The original trust agreement isn't the only document your mother hid.""
I sat upright.
"What else is there?""
"I don't know exactly. But Vanessa believes your mother left a letter that could prove where the money went.""
I thought of the blue cabinet, the red-sealed envelope, and the documents we'd already found.
"Where is it?""
Dad's voice trembled.
"That's what Vanessa has been trying to find.""
Then the call ended.
I stared at my phone.
For years, Vanessa had treated me like a child whose questions could be silenced with a slap, a threat, or a cruel smile.
May you like
Now she was searching desperately for something my mother had hidden.
And whatever it was, Vanessa was terrified that I would find it first.
