Chapter 2: The Woman Who Knew My Mother
I read the email three times before I dared open the attachment.
The photograph was old, slightly faded around the edges, but my mother was unmistakable. She wore a cream blouse with rolled-up sleeves, her dark hair pinned loosely behind her head.
She was laughing.
I hadn't seen that expression in years.
Standing beside her was a silver-haired woman in a black suit. Behind them hung a row of elegant gowns, each more elaborate than anything I'd ever seen in a magazine.
The caption beneath the photograph identified the woman as Vivienne Laurent, founder of Laurent Atelier, a luxury fashion house whose designs regularly appeared on red carpets and international runways.
I had seen her face on television.
She was the kind of designer whose dresses sold for more money than my father earned in a year.
My hands went cold.
Why had my mother been standing beside her?
I opened the message.
Dear Nia Carter,
My name is Isabelle Reed. I was your mother's assistant during the final year of her work with Laurent Atelier. I have been trying to contact you for some time.
Your mother left instructions concerning a particular design, along with documents that could affect your future. I believe you may have recently completed a gown based on that design.
Please do not share the attached photograph or discuss this matter with anyone in your household until we speak.
If you are willing, meet me tomorrow at eleven o'clock at the Grand Meridian Hotel. Bring your mother's sketchbooks if you still have them.
There is something your father should have told you a long time ago.
I read the last sentence again.
My father should have told me something?
I looked toward the sewing box beneath my desk. Most of my mother's belongings had disappeared over the years, but I had kept three battered sketchbooks hidden inside an old suitcase.
I pulled them out.
The first contained sketches of children's dresses. The second was filled with wedding gowns and handwritten notes.
The third had a small brass clasp and a faded label on the cover.
Elena Carter — Collection No. 7.
I opened it carefully.
The first pages were ordinary designs. Then I reached a drawing of a gown with sculpted shoulders, flowing satin, and an asymmetrical train.
My breath caught.
It was my dress.
Not identical, but close enough that I could see the family resemblance in every line.
At the bottom of the page, my mother had written:
The Blue Horizon. For Nia, when she is ready to tell her own story.
I touched the handwriting.
I had thought the name I'd given my redesigned gown came entirely from my own imagination. Yet there it was, written in my mother's familiar blue ink.
I turned the page.
A second sketch showed the same gown in different colors. Beside it was a small note.
Original concept, Elena Carter. Development partnership pending with V. Laurent.
The letter V was circled twice.
I heard footsteps in the hallway and quickly closed the book.
Vanessa entered without knocking.
“What are you doing up here?””
“Homework.””
She glanced at the sketchbooks.
“Those old things again?””
“They belonged to Mom.””
“And they're falling apart. You should throw them away.””
I slid the books beneath my blanket.
“No.””
Her eyes narrowed.
“What did you say?””
“I said no. They're mine.””
Vanessa stepped closer and snatched the nearest book from the bed.
“Don't you dare speak to me like that in my house.””
I stood.
“This was my mother's room before you turned it into storage. Her things are the only things I have left.””
Vanessa opened the sketchbook and flipped through several pages. For one brief moment, her expression changed.
She had recognized something.
I saw it in the way her fingers stopped moving.
Then she slammed the book shut.
“Your mother was a talented woman, but talent doesn't pay bills.””
“Why are you looking at me like that?””
“Like what?””
“Like you know something.””
Vanessa dropped the sketchbook onto the bed.
“You're imagining things. And if I find these books lying around again, they'll go in the trash.””
She left.
I waited until her footsteps faded before retrieving the book.
Her reaction had frightened me more than her threats.
The next morning, I told Dad I was meeting a classmate to discuss graduation arrangements. He barely looked up from his coffee.
“Be home by lunch,” he said.
Vanessa sat across from him, scrolling through a shopping website.
“Actually, Marcus, Brianna needs you to drive her to the boutique today. Her competition dress needs alterations.””
“I thought it was ready.””
“The hem isn't perfect.””
Brianna entered the kitchen wearing a silk robe.
“Dad, the designer said I should have the shoes matched to the dress.””
“How much?””
“Only four hundred.””
Dad sighed, reached for his wallet, and handed her his credit card.
I stood by the doorway with my bag over my shoulder.
“Dad, can I have the car for an hour?””
He looked at me as if I had asked him to buy a private jet.
“For what?””
“To meet someone about Mom.””
His expression changed.
Vanessa stopped scrolling.
“What person?”” Dad asked.
“Someone who worked with her.””
Silence settled over the kitchen.
Then Vanessa laughed.
“Your mother died six years ago, Nia. Surely anyone who knew her has moved on.””
“I didn't say they had moved on.””
Dad stood abruptly.
“You shouldn't go chasing old stories. Your mother had a difficult final year, and there's nothing useful to dig up.””
“How do you know what I'm going to ask?””
“Because I know how these things work.””
He grabbed his keys.
“I'll take you to school.””
“I don't need a ride.””
“Nia.””
His voice carried a warning I had heard all my life.
I tightened my grip on my bag.
“Fine. I'll take the bus.””
At eleven o'clock, I entered the Grand Meridian Hotel.
The lobby smelled of polished wood and fresh lilies. Men in tailored suits crossed the marble floor while a pianist played beside the windows.
I felt painfully aware of my worn sneakers.
A woman in a navy suit rose from a chair near the reception desk.
“Nia?””
“Yes.””
She approached me with an expression that was both warm and sorrowful.
“You have your mother's eyes.””
I swallowed.
“Who are you?””
“Isabelle Reed. I worked with Elena for almost four years.””
She led me to a quiet table near the windows and ordered tea I barely touched.
Then she took a slim leather folder from her bag.
“Your mother was more than a seamstress,” Isabelle said.
“She was a designer. A brilliant one.””
“I know she made dresses.””
“No, sweetheart. I mean she created collections that attracted international buyers. Vivienne Laurent recognized her talent before anyone else did.””
Isabelle opened the folder.
Inside were photographs of my mother wearing elegant outfits, sketches with professional annotations, and copies of letters bearing the Laurent Atelier letterhead.
“Your mother developed a collection called Blue Horizon,” Isabelle continued.
“It was supposed to be her breakthrough. The collection was scheduled to debut six years ago, but the launch was canceled after her death.””
“Why?””
Isabelle hesitated.
“Because the designs disappeared from the company archive.””
I stared at her.
“What does that have to do with me?””
“Everything. Elena left a legal agreement stating that the collection's intellectual property would eventually pass to you. You were too young to manage it then, so the documents were sealed.””
She placed another sheet in front of me.
It contained my mother's signature.
Below it was the name Marcus Carter.
My father's signature.
I recognized the loops and the slanted capital letters.
“What did Dad sign?””
Isabelle folded her hands.
“He agreed to protect your mother's work until you turned eighteen. He also agreed that no one could transfer, sell, or reproduce those designs without your consent.””
My birthday was less than two months away.
I stared at the paper.
“Did he know about the collection?””
“He knew everything.””
My chest tightened.
“Then why did he tell me the money in Mom's envelope went to household expenses?””
Isabelle's face grew serious.
“What envelope?””
I described the little envelope labeled For Nia's Dreams.
She went completely still.
“Your mother told me she had placed a separate trust fund in your name. It was meant to pay for your education and help you establish your own studio.””
“How much?””
Isabelle looked down at the documents.
“According to the last statement I saw, the trust held approximately two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.””
The room seemed to tilt.
“That can't be right.””
“It was funded through royalties, savings, and a settlement connected to your mother's early designs.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Where is it now?””
“That is what I have been trying to establish.””
She showed me a photocopy of a bank notice. The trust had been active until two years earlier, when several withdrawals and a change in account administration had been recorded.
The date of the first withdrawal was the same month my father married Vanessa.
I could barely breathe.
“Who withdrew the money?””
Isabelle looked directly at me.
“We're still verifying the complete transaction history. But one of the authorization forms bears your father's signature.””
My phone buzzed.
A message from Brianna appeared.
Mom says you're meeting some random woman. Come home before you embarrass us again.
A second message arrived immediately afterward.
It contained a photograph of my bedroom.
My sketchbooks lay scattered across the floor.
Someone had searched my room.
Then Brianna sent another message.
By the way, Mom found something interesting in your mother's old sewing box.
A photograph appeared on my screen.
It showed a folded document with my mother's handwriting.
And at the bottom of the page was a sentence that made my blood run cold.
In the event that my designs are stolen, the original collection must be presented to Vivienne Laurent in person.
Isabelle leaned forward.
“Nia, what is it?””
I turned the phone toward her.
She read the sentence, then looked at me with sudden urgency.
“Your mother knew someone might steal her work.””
“Who?””
Before Isabelle could answer, my phone rang.
Dad's name flashed across the screen.
I answered.
“Nia,” he said, his voice unusually sharp.
“Where are you?””
“At a meeting.””
“Come home. Right now.””
“Why?””
There was a pause.
May you like
Then he said something I had never heard him say before.
“Because Vanessa has found the documents, and she's threatening to destroy them.””
