Chapter 2: The Secret Her Mother Left Behind
Nia read the sentence three times.
Then she turned the page over.
A phone number had been written beneath her mother's signature, followed by a name she recognized from fashion magazines.
*Margot Sinclair.*
The founder of Sinclair Atelier.
One of the most respected couture houses in America.
Nia stared at the name until the letters blurred.
Her mother had been a seamstress who repaired wedding dresses in a rented storefront. She had never spoken about knowing anyone famous. As far as Nia knew, Evelyn Carter had spent her life working quietly, raising her daughter, and creating beautiful things for people who rarely learned her name.
Why would she have Margot Sinclair's private number?
Nia turned the envelope upside down, searching for another note.
Nothing.
She grabbed her phone and searched the name. Photographs filled the screen: Margot at fashion galas, Margot beside celebrities, Margot standing in front of a Paris runway.
The woman looked nothing like someone who would answer a call from a seventeen-year-old girl in a cramped bedroom.
Nia nearly put the letter away.
Then she remembered Vanessa's hand striking her cheek.
She remembered Brianna carrying off the gown as though Nia's months of work were nothing more than a shopping bag.
She remembered every time Vanessa had told her that her mother's sewing was a dead-end life.
Nia took a breath and dialed.
The call rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
A woman's voice answered.
“Sinclair residence.””
Nia almost hung up.
“Hello? Who is this?””
“My name is Nia Carter. I'm sorry to bother you. I found a letter from my mother, Evelyn Carter. She said I should call this number if I ever needed help protecting something that belonged to me.””
Silence.
Then the woman asked a question that made Nia sit upright.
“Did Evelyn give you the blue portfolio?””
“What portfolio?””
“Did you find the letter inside a wooden box?””
Nia's heart pounded.
“Yes.””
The woman exhaled sharply.
“I'm Margot Sinclair. Nia, where are you calling from?””
Nia looked at her bedroom door.
“My home.””
“Are you safe?””
The question was so unexpected that Nia didn't answer immediately.
“I'm fine,” she finally said.
“That isn't what I asked.””
Nia looked at the red mark on her cheek reflected in the dark window.
“No,” she whispered.
“Not really.””
Margot's voice softened.
“Listen carefully. I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly. Has anyone taken your work, your sketches, or your mother's belongings?””
Nia closed her eyes.
“My stepsister took my competition gown.””
“Did you give it to her?””
“No.””
“Did she have your permission to use it?””
“No.””
“Then keep every photograph, every sketch, every receipt, and every message connected to that dress. Don't destroy anything. Don't confront them alone. Can you do that?””
“Yes.””
“Good. I'll be in touch.””
Before Nia could ask what any of it meant, Margot added, “And Nia? Your mother was one of the most talented designers I ever knew.””
The call ended.
Nia remained still, her phone pressed to her ear.
For seventeen years, Vanessa had told her that her mother had been an ordinary seamstress who never accomplished anything beyond keeping a roof over their heads.
Now a woman whose designs appeared in international fashion magazines had just called Evelyn Carter one of the most talented designers she had ever known.
Nia looked at the envelope again.
For the first time, she wondered how much of her mother's life had been hidden from her.
A heavy knock shook the door.
“Nia!”” Vanessa shouted.
“Come downstairs.””
Nia tucked the letter into her pocket and locked the wooden box.
When she entered the kitchen, Brianna was standing on a chair while Vanessa pinned the stolen gown against her body.
The train pooled across the tiled floor.
A pair of scissors lay on the counter.
Nia stopped.
“What are you doing?””
Brianna turned, holding the bodice against herself.
“Relax. We're making a few adjustments.””
Nia hurried forward.
“Don't cut it.””
Vanessa blocked her path with one arm.
“Watch your tone.””
“That's a hand-embroidered bodice. If you cut the wrong seam, you'll ruin the structure.””
Brianna rolled her eyes.
“It's a dress, Nia. Not a nuclear reactor.””
She grabbed the scissors.
Nia lunged forward, but Vanessa caught her wrist.
“Don't you dare.””
Brianna snipped a small piece of fabric from the inside of the waist.
Nia's face went white.
“What did you do?””
“Relax. I'm removing the part that scratches.””
“You just cut through a hand-finished seam!””
Brianna dropped the scissors onto the counter.
“Then fix it.””
Nia stared at her.
“You stole my dress, damaged it, and now you're telling me to fix it?””
Vanessa released Nia's wrist.
“That's enough. Brianna has a stylist coming tomorrow. You're going to help her prepare the gown.””
“No.””
Vanessa leaned forward.
“Excuse me?””
“You heard me.””
For a moment, Vanessa looked genuinely shocked. Nia rarely resisted twice in one day.
Then her stepmother smiled without warmth.
“Fine. If you won't help, you can pay for the groceries you eat. You can pay your share of the electricity. And perhaps you should start paying rent.””
Nia looked around the kitchen.
Her mother's old recipe book sat beneath a stack of Vanessa's shopping catalogs. The family photographs on the refrigerator showed Brianna at every birthday, every holiday, every school event.
There was only one photograph of Nia.
It had been taken at her middle school art fair, and someone had covered half of it with a magnet.
“You can't make me pay rent,” Nia said quietly.
“I'm seventeen.””
“I can make your life very uncomfortable.””
Brianna laughed.
“She's bluffing, Mom. She has nowhere to go.””
Vanessa lifted the scissors from the counter and placed them inside a drawer.
“Go upstairs. And don't touch this dress again.””
Nia turned away before either woman could see her expression.
In her bedroom, she photographed the gown's remaining details from memory, recorded the date of its creation, and gathered every receipt she could find. She wrote down the number of crystals, the yards of silk, and the hours she had spent on the embroidery.
Then she opened her laptop.
The competition website showed a countdown.
*Five days remaining.*
Her new design would be difficult to finish in time. She would have to work through the night, and some of the materials she needed were almost impossible to replace.
Still, she began cutting the first layer of fabric.
At midnight, a message appeared on her phone.
It was from an unknown number.
This is Margot Sinclair. I need to see you tomorrow. Bring your mother's letter and the original sketches. Come alone if you can safely do so.
A second message followed.
There is something about your mother's death that I believe you deserve to know.
Nia's fingers tightened around the phone.
She read the message again.
Her mother had died in a car accident six years earlier. Vanessa had always said the accident was tragic but straightforward. There had been no mystery, no hidden story, nothing left to investigate.
At least, that was what Nia had been told.
She typed a reply.
What do you mean?
The response came almost immediately.
Your mother was supposed to become my business partner. The week before she died, she discovered someone had stolen her designs.
Nia's stomach dropped.
Who stole them?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Finally, Margot sent one last message.
The name you're looking for is the same name written on the label inside your stepsister's new dress.
Nia sat frozen in the blue light of her laptop.
Downstairs, Brianna laughed at something on television.
Nia glanced at the unfinished gown spread across her table.
Then she looked toward the hallway, where the stolen dress hung behind a locked closet door.
May you like
For the first time, she wondered whether Brianna had stolen only her gown.
Or whether her family had been stealing from her mother long before Nia was old enough to understand.
