Chapter 6: The Designer They Tried to Erase
At 6:10 the next morning, I stood in Eleanor Price's workshop wearing a plain black dress and holding a portfolio against my chest.
My right eye ached beneath its bandage.
I had slept for less than three hours.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Brianna standing beneath the chandelier in my gown, smiling as strangers congratulated her for work she had never done.
But when Eleanor entered the workshop carrying two cups of tea, she found me studying the photographs of my dress.
“Still thinking about the competition?””
I nodded.
“What if they believe Brianna?””
Eleanor placed a cup beside me.
“Then we show them the evidence.””
“What if they believe Vanessa's story?””
“Then we answer the questions they ask.””
I looked at her.
“What if none of it is enough?””
She pulled out a chair and sat opposite me.
“Nia, listen to me. You cannot control what other people choose to believe. You can control whether you arrive prepared to tell the truth.””
She tapped the portfolio.
“That's what we're doing today.””
I took a breath.
Then I opened the folder and checked the contents one final time.
Original sketches.
Photographs of the painting process.
Images of the embroidery.
Receipts for fabric and crystals.
A timeline of the gown's construction.
And a written statement describing the design.
Everything was there.
My phone rang.
Daniel.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, Nia. I've reviewed Olivia Grant's message. We have also received a copy of the complaint filed against you.””
My stomach tightened.
“What does it say?””
“Brianna claims you copied a design she created and submitted it under your own name. Vanessa has provided a statement supporting that claim.””
I closed my eyes.
“Can they disqualify me?””
“They can investigate the allegation. Whether it affects your eligibility depends on the competition's rules and the evidence presented.””
“What should I do?””
“Attend. Bring your documentation. Don't make accusations you cannot substantiate. Let the timeline and the original materials speak for themselves.””
I swallowed.
“Have you learned anything else about the trust?””
“Yes. The administrator has confirmed that your medical payment request is being processed. The disputed authorization remains under review.””
I let out a shaky breath.
“Thank you.””
“There is one more thing. I contacted Marcus Reed yesterday.””
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What did he say?””
“He denied knowing anything about the disputed transfers. He also claimed that he had not communicated with Vanessa about your father's financial affairs since the funeral.””
“But the email—”
“I know. We have requested the original correspondence and additional company records. I don't want to jump to conclusions.””
I stared at the photographs on the table.
“Do you think he knows what happened to Dad?””
“I think we need more evidence before we can answer that question.””
He paused.
“Your father wanted you to have the truth, Nia. We will continue investigating. But today, you have a competition to attend.””
I smiled faintly.
“Yes, sir.””
After the call ended, Eleanor helped me pack the portfolio into a protective case.
Then she drove me to the showcase venue.
The Georgia Young Designers Showcase was being held in a large convention hall near downtown Atlanta. White banners hung from the ceiling, and rows of mannequins displayed garments from emerging designers.
The air smelled of perfume, fresh fabric, and coffee.
Young designers hurried between dressing areas carrying garment bags, sewing kits, and boxes of accessories.
Some had entire teams assisting them.
Others worked alone.
I felt a familiar ache as I looked around.
I had imagined arriving with my gown draped over my arms, its blue crystals glittering beneath the lights.
Instead, I carried a portfolio.
Eleanor touched my shoulder.
“Head up.””
I straightened.
At the registration desk, a woman in a navy blazer checked my name.
“Nia Carter?””
“Yes.””
She glanced at her computer.
“Please wait here. Ms. Grant would like to speak with you before you proceed to the judging area.””
My stomach tightened.
A few minutes later, Olivia Grant approached.
She wore a tailored gray suit and carried a tablet.
“Nia, thank you for coming.””
“Thank you for allowing me to present.””
Olivia looked at Eleanor.
“And you are?””
“Eleanor Price. I'm helping Nia organize her documentation.””
Olivia nodded.
“We've received a formal complaint alleging that Nia misrepresented the authorship of her entry.””
“I know,” I said.
“We need to review your evidence before the judging panel makes a decision.””
She led us into a small conference room.
A man and a woman were seated at the table, each with a copy of the complaint.
The man introduced himself as Richard Hale, the competition's legal adviser. The woman was a member of the judging committee.
Richard opened a folder.
“Miss Carter, your stepsister claims she designed the blue butterfly gown and that you submitted it without her permission.””
I placed my portfolio on the table.
“That isn't true.””
“Do you have evidence that you created the design?””
“Yes.””
I opened the folder.
The first page showed my original pencil sketch, dated six months earlier.
The second showed the white silk before painting.
The third showed the first layer of blue pigment.
Then came photographs of the embroidery, the butterflies, and the crystals being attached.
I had included timestamps and copies of my supply receipts.
Richard examined each page.
The judge leaned closer to the photographs.
“This is a detailed record,” she said.
I nodded.
“I photographed each stage because I wanted to document the process for my portfolio.””
Richard turned to the final image.
It showed the finished gown on its mannequin in my bedroom.
My sewing machine stood in the background, surrounded by thread spools and scraps of silk.
“When was this photograph taken?”” he asked.
“Two nights before the gown was taken from my room.””
“Taken?””
I hesitated.
“My stepmother and stepsister removed it without my permission.””
Richard exchanged a glance with the judge.
“Do you have evidence of that?””
“I have messages from my stepsister, photographs of her wearing the gown, and witnesses who heard our conversation at a charity gala last night.””
I showed them the messages.
I showed them the photograph Brianna had posted online, claiming the design as her own.
Then I showed them Olivia's business card, which she had given me during the confrontation.
Olivia nodded.
“I witnessed part of that exchange. I can confirm that Nia presented documentation supporting her claim of authorship.””
Richard closed the folder.
“We will need to examine the complaint and the supporting materials before reaching a decision.””
I swallowed.
“Will I still be allowed to present?””
The judge looked at Richard.
He conferred with her quietly before turning back to me.
“You may present your documentation to the panel. However, we will reserve the final decision on your eligibility until the investigation is complete.””
It wasn't the certainty I wanted.
But it was a chance.
I nodded.
“Thank you.””
As we left the room, Eleanor squeezed my hand.
“You did exactly what you needed to do.””
I tried to smile.
Then I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Nia?””
I turned.
Brianna stood near the entrance to the dressing area, wearing a pale blue designer suit. Her hair fell in perfect waves, and her makeup was flawless.
Vanessa stood beside her.
She wore a cream coat and carried a leather handbag.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Brianna looked at my portfolio and laughed.
“You actually came.””
I met her eyes.
“Yes.””
“With what? A scrapbook?””
Eleanor stepped forward.
“That's enough.””
Brianna glanced at her.
“Who are you?””
“Someone who believes a designer's work should belong to the person who created it.””
Brianna's cheeks flushed.
Vanessa intervened with a practiced smile.
“Let's not make a scene. We're all here because we want the best for the girls.””
I stared at her.
“Then why did you file a complaint claiming I stole my own design?””
Her smile froze.
Brianna looked at her mother.
Vanessa recovered quickly.
“We submitted a statement because there are questions about the origins of the gown.””
“You watched me sew it for six months.””
“I watched you work on various projects.””
“You knew exactly what that dress was for.””
Vanessa's expression hardened.
“Your father would be ashamed of how you're behaving.””
The words struck me like a slap.
For a moment, I was sixteen again, standing in the hospital corridor after my father's death, listening to Vanessa explain that I needed to be grateful for everything she did.
Then I remembered his letter.
You were never a burden to me.
I lifted my chin.
“Don't use my father to make me afraid of telling the truth.””
Vanessa's eyes narrowed.
“You have no idea what you're doing.””
“Then stop me with evidence.””
She stared at me.
Brianna grabbed her mother's arm.
“Mom, we need to go.””
Vanessa looked toward the judging area, where several designers were gathering.
Then she leaned close to me.
“You think this competition will save you? You're nothing without that dress.””
I looked at my portfolio.
Then I looked at her.
“Maybe,” I said.
“But the dress was mine because I made it. Not because you allowed me to have it.””
I walked away before she could respond.
The preliminary presentations began at ten.
Each designer had five minutes to introduce their work, explain the concept, and answer questions from the panel.
Some contestants displayed finished garments.
Others showed sketches, fabric samples, and digital renderings.
When my name was announced, my stomach tightened.
I walked onto the small stage carrying my portfolio.
The lights were bright enough to make my left eye water.
I blinked and placed the folder on the presentation table.
Three judges sat in front of me.
Olivia stood near the side of the stage.
I took a breath.
“My name is Nia Carter. My design is called A Thousand Blue Wings.””
My voice trembled.
I looked at the first photograph.
“This gown was created from white silk remnants and hand-painted with layers of cobalt and turquoise pigment. I embroidered the flowers individually, then added silk butterflies and thousands of blue crystals.””
I turned to the next page.
“The butterflies represent transformation. The flowers were inspired by the garden my father and I used to care for together.””
I paused.
For a moment, the convention hall disappeared.
I saw my father kneeling beside the flowerbeds, showing me how to separate a stem without damaging the roots.
I heard him laughing when I accidentally spilled a watering can over his shoes.
I swallowed.
“I wanted to create something beautiful from materials that might otherwise have been discarded. The design reflects the belief that something extraordinary can grow from circumstances that seem ordinary.””
One judge leaned forward.
“Why isn't the finished garment here?””
The question I had dreaded.
I steadied myself.
“The gown was taken from my room without my permission the day before the competition. It was subsequently worn by another person who claimed to have designed it.””
A murmur passed through the audience.
I continued before my courage could disappear.
“I understand that this is a serious allegation. That's why I've brought photographs documenting the entire construction process, original sketches, material receipts, and messages showing the garment in another person's possession.””
The judge examined my materials.
“Do you have any proof that the design predates the complaint?””
“Yes.””
I handed her the original sketch.
The date was visible in the corner, alongside notes about the embroidery pattern and the placement of the butterflies.
“I also have photographs showing the unfinished bodice and the first painted panels. The timestamps correspond with my receipts for the materials.””
The judge studied the pages.
Then she looked at me.
“Thank you, Miss Carter. We will review your documentation.””
I stepped away from the table.
My legs felt weak.
Eleanor was waiting near the side entrance.
When I reached her, she embraced me.
“You did it.””
“I don't know if they'll believe me.””
“You told the truth. That's what you could do.””
I leaned against her shoulder for a moment.
Then a staff member hurried toward us.
“Miss Carter?””
I turned.
“Mr. Hale would like to see you immediately.””
My stomach tightened.
“Did something happen?””
The staff member glanced toward the registration area.
“The committee has received additional evidence from your stepsister.””
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What evidence?””
She hesitated.
“A signed statement claiming that you copied the design from a sketchbook belonging to Brianna Carter.””
I stared at her.
“That isn't true.””
“I understand. Mr. Hale wants to discuss it with you.””
I followed her into the conference room.
Vanessa and Brianna were already there.
A printed sketch lay on the table.
I stopped walking.
The design showed a white silk gown with blue flowers, delicate butterflies, and a long crystal-covered train.
It looked remarkably similar to mine.
Brianna folded her arms.
“I told you she copied me.””
Vanessa placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder.
“We didn't want to make this public, but we cannot allow dishonesty to go unchallenged.””
I stared at the sketch.
Something about it felt wrong.
The butterflies were too large.
The flowers were arranged differently.
And the blue waves across the skirt lacked the subtle transitions I had spent weeks developing.
I leaned closer.
Then I noticed a tiny detail near the lower edge of the page.
A date.
The sketch was supposedly created eight months earlier.
But the blue pigment referenced in the notes was a specialized textile product that I had purchased only five months ago.
I remembered the receipt because I had saved for weeks to afford it.
I looked at Richard Hale.
“May I see the original?””
He hesitated.
“We were provided with this copy.””
“Then I need to know who supplied it and when.””
Brianna laughed.
“She's just making excuses.””
I ignored her.
“Can you examine the paper and the ink? Can you verify when the photograph was taken, if there is an original digital file?””
Richard studied me.
“Those questions will be part of the review.””
I pointed to the pigment notes.
“This product wasn't available to me when the date on the sketch claims it was created. I can provide the receipt showing when I bought it.””
Vanessa's expression flickered.
I saw it.
And this time, I didn't look away.
“You knew about this sketch,” I said.
Her lips pressed together.
Richard interrupted.
“Miss Carter, we will review the materials independently. Until then, no one should make further allegations.””
Brianna stood abruptly.
“This is ridiculous!””
Vanessa caught her wrist.
“Sit down.””
Brianna stared at her mother, startled by the sharpness of the command.
For the first time that morning, Vanessa seemed less interested in protecting Brianna than in controlling what she said next.
The room fell silent.
Then Richard's assistant entered carrying a tablet.
“Mr. Hale, we've received a message from the person who submitted the sketch.””
Richard looked up.
“Who submitted it?””
The assistant glanced at Vanessa.
Then at Brianna.
“Marcus Reed.””
My heart stopped.
The name from my father's letter.
The man associated with the disputed construction transfers.
The man Vanessa claimed had nothing to do with our family anymore.
Richard took the tablet.
A few seconds later, he looked at me.
“Miss Carter, the sender has agreed to provide the original file and answer questions about its creation.””
I stared at him.
“Why would Marcus Reed have Brianna's sketch?””
No one answered.
Then the assistant added one final detail.
“The message says he has evidence that the design was created before either of you began working on your gowns.””
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
If that was true, everything I believed about my own design could be challenged.
But if it was false, someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to manufacture evidence against me.
Vanessa rose from her chair.
“We should postpone this discussion until the families have had an opportunity to resolve the matter privately.””
Richard closed the folder.
“That will not be necessary. The committee will handle the investigation.””
For the first time, Vanessa looked genuinely frightened.
I turned toward Brianna.
She was staring at the tablet, her face pale.
“Brianna,” I said quietly.
“Why does Marcus Reed have your sketch?””
She looked at her mother.
Vanessa's hand tightened around her handbag.
Then Brianna whispered something so softly that I almost missed it.
“Because he was the one who gave it to me.””
I stared at her.
“Gave it to you?””
She swallowed.
“Mom said it was the design I should use.””
The room went silent.
I felt cold spread through my chest.
Brianna hadn't created the sketch.
She hadn't even found it herself.
Someone had handed her a design that resembled mine and told her to claim it.
I looked at Vanessa.
She was already moving toward the door.
“Where are you going?”” Richard demanded.
Vanessa stopped.
For a second, she looked like the elegant woman who had ruled the mansion through money, threats, and perfectly timed smiles.
Then her mask cracked.
“This is a private family matter.””
“No,” I said.
My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
“It stopped being private when you tried to take my work away from me.””
Vanessa turned toward me.
Her eyes were full of fury.
“You have no idea what your father set in motion.””
The words hung in the air.
Then she seemed to realize what she had said.
She closed her mouth.
But it was too late.
Richard had heard her.
Olivia had heard her.
And so had I.
I took one step forward.
“What did my father set in motion?””
Vanessa didn't answer.
She walked out of the conference room, leaving Brianna sitting beside the disputed sketch.
I watched her disappear down the corridor.
Then I looked at the blue butterfly drawn on the page.
The shape was almost identical to the ones on my gown.
Someone had copied my design—or someone had given me a design that had existed long before I thought of it.
And Marcus Reed was somehow connected to both.
My phone vibrated.
An email from Daniel Brooks appeared on the screen.
I have identified the company that received the disputed construction transfers. It was incorporated shortly before your father's death. The records indicate that Vanessa Carter and Marcus Reed both had connections to it.
A second message arrived before I could finish reading.
There is also evidence that your father's final meeting with Marcus took place the evening before the accident that killed him.
I stopped breathing.
The competition hall continued moving around me. Contestants carried garments through the corridor. Judges spoke in low voices. Somewhere, a sewing machine hummed.
But all I could see was my father's handwriting.
There is a person who knows what happened.
For two years, I had believed my father died before he could protect me.
May you like
Now I wondered whether he had discovered something so dangerous that someone had spent years trying to keep it buried.
And the person who had stolen my dress might be connected to the last secret my father ever tried to uncover.
