Chapter 5: They Tried to Disqualify Me Before I Could Compete
I read the complaint three times.
Vanessa was claiming that the butterfly embroidery featured in my original gown belonged to her.
Not my mother.
Not me.
Her.
The complaint stated that Vanessa had developed the pattern as part of a private design project and had allowed me to use it without understanding its commercial value.
I almost laughed.
Vanessa couldn't sew a straight line without a professional tailor.
Yet she was claiming to be the creator of a design my mother had spent years developing.
I immediately called Margaret.
"She filed a complaint.""
"I know," Margaret replied.
My stomach dropped.
"You know?""
"I received a copy from the competition committee this morning.""
"What happens now?""
"They've placed your original entry under review.""
"Does that mean I'm disqualified?""
"Not yet. But we need evidence that the design belongs to Eleanor and that your use of it was authorized.""
I looked at the wooden box.
"I have the sketches.""
"Good. Bring everything.""
I packed the documents into a folder and left the house before Vanessa could stop me.
Margaret's foundation occupied a beautiful brick building in Manhattan's fashion district.
Inside, glass display cases held historical garments, original sketches, and photographs of designers whose names I had seen in magazines.
Margaret greeted me at the entrance.
"Come with me.""
She led me into a private studio.
A long table stood in the center of the room, covered with fabric samples and old design portfolios.
I placed my mother's documents on the table.
Margaret examined them carefully.
When she reached the transfer agreement, her expression darkened.
"This is the document I was afraid you would find.""
"Why?""
"Because Eleanor never agreed to transfer her intellectual property.""
I frowned.
"But there's a signature.""
"Look closely.""
She placed the document beneath a magnifying lamp.
The signature at the bottom appeared to be my mother's.
But something was wrong.
"The pressure is inconsistent," Margaret explained.
"Eleanor always signed her name with a distinctive upward stroke. This signature doesn't have it.""
"Are you saying someone forged it?""
"I'm saying we need a professional examination.""
I stared at the paper.
"Who would do that?""
Margaret didn't answer.
Instead, she opened another folder.
Inside was a photograph of my mother standing beside a younger Margaret.
"Your mother brought me the original designs seventeen years ago. She was preparing to launch her first independent collection.""
"What happened?""
"Your father was managing the financial side of the project. Vanessa was working for the company handling production.""
Margaret paused.
"Then several contracts appeared that Eleanor had never approved.""
"Did my father know?""
"I don't know how much he knew at the beginning.""
Her honesty unsettled me.
"But I do know that the collection was transferred to another company without Eleanor's permission.""
"Which company?""
Margaret turned a page.
*REED & CARTER FASHION GROUP.*
I stared at the name.
"That's Vanessa's company.""
"Yes. She and your father established it shortly after the collection disappeared.""
I felt sick.
"They built a company using Mom's designs?""
"Several of the company's earliest pieces used techniques Eleanor had developed.""
"Why didn't Mom sue them?""
"She tried.""
Margaret opened a drawer and removed a thick envelope.
Inside were copies of legal letters.
"Your mother spent years fighting for ownership. But the original documents had disappeared, and the company claimed she had voluntarily surrendered her rights.""
I looked at the letters.
"Where did the original documents go?""
Margaret met my eyes.
"That's what we've never discovered.""
My phone vibrated.
A message from Brianna.
You better stop telling people that dress is yours. Mom says you're about to get yourself into serious trouble.
Another message followed.
Also, the Friday dinner is tomorrow. Don't embarrass us by showing up.
I put the phone facedown.
Margaret noticed.
"Your stepsister?""
"Yes.""
"Is she wearing your dress?""
I nodded.
Margaret sighed.
"Then we have another problem.""
"What?""
"That gown contains elements of your mother's registered collection. If Vanessa is claiming ownership of the embroidery, we need to establish whether the registration is still valid.""
She walked to a filing cabinet.
After searching through several folders, she pulled out an old certificate.
My mother's name appeared at the top.
*ORIGINAL DESIGN REGISTRATION — ELEANOR CARTER*
The registration date was seventeen years earlier.
But the document contained an unusual clause.
All derivative designs remain the intellectual property of the original creator unless explicitly transferred through a witnessed agreement.
Margaret tapped the paragraph.
"Your mother never signed a witnessed transfer.""
I looked up.
"Then Vanessa's complaint is false?""
"Potentially. But we need to prove it.""
I thought about the competition.
Six days had become five.
My new dress was still unfinished.
"I don't want to spend my time fighting Vanessa. I just want to compete.""
Margaret smiled.
"Then compete.""
She walked toward a large worktable.
"Show me what you're making.""
I unfolded my sketch.
For several seconds, Margaret said nothing.
She studied the flowing panels, the layered structure, and the metallic embroidery.
Then she looked at me.
"Did you develop this construction method yourself?""
"Mostly. I adapted some techniques from my mother's old notes.""
Margaret examined the drawing again.
"Do you know what you've done here?""
I shook my head.
"You've created a three-dimensional movement effect without using a conventional support structure.""
"Is that good?""
She laughed softly.
"Nia, it's extraordinary.""
For the first time in days, I felt my shoulders relax.
Margaret called her assistant, a pattern technician named Olivia, and asked her to bring a selection of specialized materials.
"You'll work here for the next two days," Margaret said.
"We'll provide the equipment, but every design decision will remain yours.""
I looked at her.
"Why are you helping me?""
She paused.
"Because I made a promise to your mother.""
"What promise?""
"That if her daughter ever came looking for the truth, I would help her find it.""
My eyes filled.
I looked down quickly.
Margaret placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Now, let's make something worth remembering.""
For the next several hours, I worked harder than I ever had.
Olivia helped me construct the hidden framework.
Margaret taught me how to reinforce the translucent panels without making them stiff.
I made mistakes.
I cut the wrong fabric twice.
I broke a needle.
But I kept going.
By evening, the bodice was complete.
The midnight-blue fabric caught the light beautifully.
Then Margaret received a phone call.
Her expression changed as she listened.
"What do you mean the committee received another complaint?""
She looked at me.
"Who submitted it?""
There was a pause.
Then Margaret closed her eyes.
"Send me the document.""
She ended the call.
I stood.
"What happened?""
Margaret turned her laptop toward me.
The competition had received a second complaint.
This time, it wasn't about the embroidery.
It was a formal request to remove me from the competition because of alleged plagiarism.
The complaint included photographs of a dress from an old fashion collection.
A dress that looked almost exactly like my unfinished design.
I leaned closer.
The photograph showed a midnight-blue gown with flowing white panels.
At the bottom was the name of the designer.
*Brianna Reed.*
My stepsister had apparently submitted my stolen design under her own name.
And the photograph was dated three days earlier.
I looked at Margaret.
"That's impossible. She stole my finished dress, not this one.""
Margaret studied the image.
Then she noticed something I hadn't.
A small embroidered symbol appeared near the waist.
Three tiny butterflies arranged in a circle.
Her face went pale.
"Nia, where did you get that symbol?""
"From my mother's sketchbook.""
Margaret slowly closed the laptop.
"Then we have a much bigger problem.""
"What?""
She looked directly at me.
"That photograph isn't of your design.""
May you like
She took a breath.
"It's a photograph of the missing twelfth dress.""
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