Chapter 4: My Father Signed Away My Future
For the first time in my life, I understood that my father wasn't simply choosing my stepsister over me.
He was actively helping her destroy me.
I stood in the attic, holding my mother's trust documents, while Patricia watched me as though I'd uncovered something I wasn't supposed to see.
“Why did Dad ask the competition to disqualify me?”” I demanded.
Patricia adjusted the sleeve of her blouse.
“Because he's trying to prevent a public scandal.””
“A scandal? Madison stole my dress!””
“Your father believes the agreement is legitimate.””
“Then why does he look so terrified every time I mention having it examined?””
Patricia's expression hardened.
“Watch your tone.””
I laughed bitterly.
“You've spent years telling me to respect this family. But what exactly have you done to earn that respect?””
She stepped closer.
“Your mother was not the innocent woman you remember.””
The words struck harder than I expected.
“Don't talk about her.””
“You think she trusted everyone? You think she told your father everything?””
“My mother loved him.””
“Love doesn't mean honesty, Olivia.””
I tightened my grip on the folder.
Patricia glanced at it again.
“Give me those papers. They're not complete, and you could misunderstand what they mean.””
“No.””
“Your father will explain everything.””
“He can explain it to a lawyer.””
Her eyes narrowed.
“You're making a terrible mistake.””
“Then let me make it.””
I walked past her.
Hannah followed me downstairs.
Neither of us spoke until we reached my bedroom.
Once the door was locked, she placed the folder on my desk.
“We need a lawyer,” she said.
“I know.””
“And we need to protect those documents.””
I nodded.
My phone rang.
Dad.
I stared at his name for several seconds before answering.
“Where are you?”” he asked.
“Upstairs.””
“Come to the living room. Now.””
“I have nothing to discuss with you.””
“Olivia, this is serious.””
“So is filing a false complaint against your daughter.””
He exhaled sharply.
“Come downstairs.””
I ended the call.
Hannah looked at me.
“Do you want me to come?””
“Yes.””
We walked downstairs together.
My father was standing beside the fireplace. Patricia sat on the sofa, and Madison was stretched out in an armchair, scrolling through her phone.
A thick envelope rested on the coffee table.
Dad pointed toward it.
“Sit down.””
I remained standing.
“What is this?””
“An agreement.””
I picked it up.
The first page contained a proposed settlement between me and Harrington Creative.
According to the terms, I would withdraw my authorship claim, acknowledge Madison as the original designer of The Phoenix, and agree not to publicly challenge her ownership.
In exchange, the company would pay me $5,000.
Five thousand dollars.
For seven months of work.
For my mother's legacy.
For the future I'd spent years trying to build.
I looked up.
“Are you serious?””
My father folded his arms.
“It's a reasonable compromise.””
Madison finally looked up from her phone.
“Honestly, Liv, you should take it.””
I stared at her.
“You think five thousand dollars is enough?””
She shrugged.
“It's more than you've ever made from sewing.””
Hannah stepped forward.
“That's an unbelievable thing to say.””
Madison rolled her eyes.
“Stay out of it.””
Patricia raised a hand.
“Let's remain civil.””
I dropped the envelope onto the table.
“You want me to sign away my own design?””
My father rubbed his forehead.
“Olivia, you don't understand the financial situation.””
“What financial situation?””
Silence.
I looked between them.
“What financial situation?””
Patricia answered.
“The company has expenses. Legal fees. Business obligations. Your mother left behind commitments that your father has been managing for years.””
I turned toward Dad.
“Are you using my mother's business to pay your debts?””
His face changed.
“That's none of your concern.””
I felt my stomach twist.
“Then why does my design belong to your company?””
He stepped closer.
“Because your mother wanted the family to have something secure.””
“No. She created a trust to protect me.””
“Your mother was confused near the end.””
I went completely still.
“What did you just say?””
Dad looked away.
Patricia immediately interrupted.
“Richard, don't.””
But it was too late.
I stepped toward him.
“Were you saying Mom wasn't mentally capable of signing documents?””
He didn't answer.
“Because if that's your argument, we can have her medical records examined.””
My father slammed his hand against the fireplace mantel.
“Enough!””
The room fell silent.
Then Madison stood.
“Dad, we don't need to keep doing this. She isn't going to sign.””
He looked at her.
“Go upstairs.””
“But—”
“Now!””
Madison stormed out.
Patricia followed, giving me one last warning look.
My father remained.
For several seconds, he simply stared at the floor.
Then he spoke quietly.
“You have no idea what your mother put me through.””
I felt a strange sadness.
“Tell me.””
He looked at me.
“She built that business without listening to anyone. She made decisions on her own. She trusted people who didn't deserve it.””
“That's not an answer.””
“After she died, I had to deal with everything.””
“Then show me the records.””
He shook his head.
“You don't understand.””
“Then explain it.””
He walked toward the door.
“I can't keep doing this.””
I called after him.
“Dad!””
He stopped.
“Did Mom know Patricia was involved with the company?””
His shoulders stiffened.
He didn't turn around.
And then he said:
“Your mother knew more about Patricia than you ever will.””
He left.
That evening, Hannah helped me contact an intellectual property attorney named Laura Mitchell.
Laura agreed to meet us the following morning.
Before we went to bed, I uploaded copies of my mother's trust documents to two secure accounts and emailed the original photographs of my dress to the competition coordinator.
At 11:38 p.m., my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You should ask your father where the money from Bennett Atelier went.
I sat up.
Another message arrived.
Your mother didn't leave the business in debt. Someone emptied its accounts after she died.
Then a photograph appeared.
It showed a bank transfer.
The amount was $420,000.
The recipient?
Harrington Creative LLC.
I read the transaction date.
It was three weeks after my mother's funeral.
My hands began shaking.
I called Hannah.
She answered immediately.
“Olivia?””
“Someone just sent me something.””
I forwarded the photograph.
A few seconds later, she whispered:
“Oh, my God.””
I stared at the screen.
The transfer had been authorized by someone whose name I knew very well.
May you like
Richard Bennett.
My father.
