Chapter 6: The Price of Wearing My Mother's Name
I read Brianna's messages until the screen dimmed.
Then I looked up at Adrian Vale.
"She knows something.""
He nodded.
"Or she believes her mother knows something.""
"Either way, they're trying to scare me into withdrawing.""
Adrian took the phone from my hand only after I offered it to him. He read the messages, then returned it.
"Don't respond while you're angry.""
"I'm not angry.""
He raised an eyebrow.
I let out a sharp breath.
"Fine. I'm furious.""
"That's understandable. But fury is useful only when you decide what to do with it.""
I looked toward the garment bag.
"What do I do now?""
"First, we make sure the complaint cannot be used to remove you from the competition without a proper review. Second, we preserve every piece of evidence connected to your mother's work. Third, we find out why Vanessa Carter is communicating with Maison Laurent.""
He called Daniel over and gave him instructions to contact the competition's legal adviser.
Then he turned to me.
"Would you be willing to let our archivist examine the sketchbook today?""
I hesitated.
"If it proves the designs were my mother's, will that help me?""
"It could help establish the history of the work. It won't automatically resolve every legal question, but it will give us something concrete to investigate.""
I thought of the blue gown Brianna had stolen.
I thought of the years I'd spent believing my mother had left me nothing but a box of photographs and a sewing machine.
"All right," I said.
"But I stay with the sketchbook the entire time.""
"Agreed.""
Adrian's archivist, Margaret Shaw, arrived forty minutes later carrying a padded case and a pair of white cotton gloves.
She was a woman in her sixties with silver hair pulled into a low bun. Her expression was serious, but her voice was warm.
"You're Elena's daughter.""
I nodded.
She looked at me for a long moment.
"I wondered whether I'd ever meet you.""
My throat tightened.
"You knew my mother?""
"I cataloged her work for almost three years. She was brilliant, stubborn, and extraordinarily generous with young designers.""
Margaret opened the padded case.
"We'll begin with the sketchbook. I won't remove anything or mark the pages.""
I placed the book on the table.
She turned the pages carefully, examining the paper, ink, and handwritten notes.
When she reached the drawing of the wine-red gown, she stopped.
"Oh, Elena.""
Her voice softened.
"What is it?"" I asked.
Margaret adjusted her glasses.
"This is the original Crimson Promise design.""
I stared at her.
"How can you tell?""
She pointed to a small notation in the corner.
"Your mother used a specific drafting method. See these tiny measurements along the waistline? They correspond to a construction technique she developed herself.""
She turned another page.
"And here's the pattern for the crystal placement.""
I leaned closer.
It was almost exactly the pattern I'd recreated on my gown.
Margaret examined the paper's edges.
"The ink appears consistent with the other drawings. We'll need a proper archival examination to establish dates more precisely, but this isn't a sketch that was copied recently and inserted into an old book.""
I swallowed.
"So it really was hers.""
"Yes.""
The word settled over me like a blanket.
My mother had created the dress before I was born.
I hadn't invented it from nothing.
I'd somehow found my way toward a design she had left unfinished, using the same patterns and the same instincts she had taught me.
Margaret turned to the back cover.
She examined the handwritten note to Adrian, then gently lifted the photograph attached beneath it.
"There may be something here.""
She pointed to a narrow pocket stitched into the inside cover.
I'd never noticed it.
Margaret carefully opened the pocket and found a folded piece of paper.
My heart began to pound.
She unfolded it.
Inside was a handwritten list of names, dates, and reference numbers.
At the top, my mother had written:
*ORIGINAL PATTERNS — PRIVATE ARCHIVE*
Beneath it were several entries, each corresponding to a design in the sketchbook.
The final entry was different.
*CRIMSON PROMISE — MASTER PATTERN AND OWNERSHIP RECORD.*
Beside it was a reference number and a location.
Margaret looked at Adrian.
"Do you recognize this archive code?""
He took the paper.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he sat down.
"Yes.""
"Where is it?"" I asked.
Adrian looked at me.
"At the original Vale studio.""
"Your company still has it?""
"It should.""
"Then why haven't you looked for it?""
His expression tightened.
"Because the studio was closed after Elena's dispute. The archive was transferred to a secure storage facility, and some of its contents were eventually acquired by a company connected to Maison Laurent.""
I stared at him.
"So they might have my mother's original patterns?""
"Possibly.""
Margaret tapped the reference number.
"If the master pattern still exists, it could establish the design's provenance far more convincingly than the sketch alone.""
I looked at the note.
For the first time, I understood why my mother had hidden it.
She hadn't simply left me a beautiful design.
She had left me a trail.
And someone had spent years making sure I never followed it.
By late afternoon, the competition committee had agreed to allow my entry to proceed while the complaint was reviewed.
The decision came with restrictions.
I would have to present the gown, provide my sketches, and answer questions about the design. The judges would reserve the right to withhold the prize until the ownership dispute was resolved.
It wasn't ideal.
But it meant I could walk onto the stage.
Adrian offered to have a professional stylist help me prepare.
I declined.
"I want to wear it the way I designed it.""
He considered that, then nodded.
"Then we'll make sure you have everything you need.""
Daniel arranged a private dressing room. Margaret returned the sketchbook to its protective case, and I changed into a simple black outfit before carefully removing the red gown from its garment bag.
I stood in front of the mirror.
The wine-red silk glowed under the dressing-room lights. Crystals shimmered across the bodice and traced the train in a pattern that seemed to move whenever I shifted my weight.
I ran my hand over the waistline.
For a moment, I remembered the first night I'd begun making it.
I'd been crying on the floor, surrounded by the remains of my blue gown's crystal box, convinced that everything I wanted had been taken from me.
Now I understood that the red dress wasn't just a replacement.
It was a connection to a woman I'd loved and lost.
A woman whose work had been stolen long before anyone stole my graduation gown.
A woman who had left me a clue because she believed I might one day be brave enough to follow it.
I put on the gown.
The bodice settled against my waist.
The skirt fell into place.
I turned toward the mirror and watched the train sweep behind me.
My mother's design had become my own creation, shaped by my choices, my mistakes, and the materials I'd managed to find.
I wasn't simply wearing her legacy.
I was adding to it.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Five minutes," Daniel called.
"Thank you.""
I checked my phone.
There was a new email from the competition committee.
The subject line read:
*ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE SUBMITTED BY MAISON LAURENT.*
I opened it.
The complaint had been updated with a new attachment: a sworn statement claiming that Elena Carter had signed over all rights to the Crimson Promise design shortly before her death.
The document included a signature.
My mother's name.
And a date from seventeen years earlier.
I stared at it.
The signature looked real.
But beneath it was a clause stating that ownership of the design had been transferred to Maison Laurent in exchange for a substantial payment.
I felt sick.
If the document was authentic, my mother's design might legally belong to someone else.
If it was forged, someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to bury the truth.
I called Adrian.
He answered immediately.
"Have you seen the new filing?"" I asked.
"Yes.""
"Is that my mother's signature?""
"I can't tell from a scan.""
"But could she have signed it?""
He was silent for a moment.
"Elena was desperate for money during the final months of her illness. It's possible someone pressured her. But I don't believe she would have willingly surrendered her life's work without telling me.""
"How do we prove it?""
"We need the original document and the master pattern.""
I looked at the clock.
The runway presentation was about to begin.
"Then I'll walk out there and show them what I made.""
"Nia, you don't have to answer every accusation tonight.""
"Yes, I do.""
My voice surprised me with its certainty.
"They've spent years deciding what my mother did, what she owned, and what I deserve. I'm done letting them speak for us.""
Adrian didn't argue.
"Then walk out there with your head held high.""
I ended the call and stepped into the corridor.
The auditorium beyond the backstage entrance was alive with music, conversation, and the rapid clicks of cameras.
I could see the runway lights through a narrow gap in the curtains.
Then I heard Brianna's voice.
She was speaking to a reporter.
"My family has always supported my creative journey," she said, smiling brightly.
"It's heartbreaking when someone tries to claim another person's work as their own.""
The reporter nodded.
"Are you referring to the allegations involving your stepsister?""
Brianna lowered her voice, but I could still hear her.
"I'm only saying that some people will do anything to get attention.""
She lifted her chin.
"My mother taught me that integrity matters more than talent.""
Vanessa stood beside her, wearing a satisfied smile.
I watched them for a moment.
Then Brianna turned and noticed me.
Her smile faltered when she saw the red gown.
She looked at the crystals, the sculpted bodice, and the enormous train.
For the first time, she seemed to understand that she hadn't destroyed my chance.
She'd forced me to make something better.
But before she could speak, a man in a dark suit approached us.
He held an official envelope bearing the competition's seal.
"Miss Carter?"" he asked.
"Yes.""
"I'm afraid I have to deliver this before the final presentation.""
He handed me the envelope.
Inside was a notice stating that Maison Laurent had demanded an immediate suspension of my entry pending investigation of the ownership dispute.
I looked up.
"Can they do that?""
The man glanced toward the judges' area.
"That's for the committee to decide.""
Across the room, Adrian Vale was already speaking urgently with the head judge.
Then he looked toward me.
And for the first time since we'd met, he appeared genuinely afraid.
Because the final page of the notice contained a statement from Maison Laurent's chief executive.
The name beneath it was one I recognized from my mother's photograph.
*Richard Laurent.*
The same man who had stood beside her seventeen years earlier.
May you like
The same man who had watched her create the Crimson Promise.
And the man who was now claiming that her masterpiece had never belonged to her at all.
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