Chapter 3: The Name Inside the Dress
Brianna appeared at the top of the stairs wearing my gown.
The white bodice fit her shoulders awkwardly, and the midnight-blue skirt dragged behind her as she gripped the fabric in both hands. She had pinned the back with two oversized clips, pulling the carefully structured waist into a shape it was never designed to hold.
Vanessa stood behind her, holding my portfolio.
“Look at you,” she said proudly.
“You were meant to wear something like this.””
I stared at them.
“You're wearing my dress.””
Brianna descended one step, lifting the skirt so it wouldn't catch beneath her heels.
“Correction. I'm wearing a dress that looks much better on me.””
“You stole it.””
“Mom says it's a family garment.””
“It isn't a family garment. I made it.””
Vanessa closed my portfolio.
“Enough. Brianna has a competition this weekend, and she needs a suitable outfit. You can sew another one.””
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny, but because the sentence was so absurd that my mind struggled to process it.
“You know my inspection is in fifteen minutes.””
“Then you should have thought about that before disrespecting this household,” Vanessa replied.
“I did nothing wrong.””
“You raised your voice.””
“You slapped me!””
Vanessa lifted her chin.
“And I would do it again if you spoke to me that way.””
Brianna examined herself in the hallway mirror.
“Mom, the blue panels make my waist look smaller. I'm definitely wearing this Saturday.””
I stepped toward her.
“Take it off.””
She backed away.
“Don't touch me!””
“Then give me my dress!””
Vanessa moved between us.
“Brianna is wearing it. The discussion is over.””
I looked at the clock.
8:46.
The inspection began at nine, and the showcase venue was twenty minutes away.
I had no dress, no portfolio, and no way to reach the judges in time.
Then I remembered Mr. Brooks's advice.
Don't let anyone rush you into throwing away your work.
I forced myself to breathe.
“Fine,” I said.
Vanessa blinked.
“Fine?””
“Yes.””
Brianna's smile widened.
“See? She finally understands.””
I turned toward the front door.
Vanessa called after me.
“And where do you think you're going?””
“To find out what happens when someone steals something they don't understand.””
She laughed.
“You're seventeen, Nia. You don't have the money or the influence to threaten anyone.””
I opened the door.
“Maybe not.””
Then I walked outside.
The morning air was cold enough to sting my cheeks. I hurried down the driveway, clutching my phone and the small sketchbook I'd managed to save.
My hands shook as I called the competition coordinator.
Patricia Wells answered on the second ring.
“Nia? Are you close?””
“My stepsister took my dress. My stepmother has my portfolio, and they won't let me retrieve either one.””
Silence.
Then Patricia spoke in a different tone.
“Are you safe?””
“Yes.””
“Has anyone threatened you?””
“They hit me when I tried to take the dress back.””
“I need you to hear me clearly, Nia. Do not put yourself in danger trying to retrieve it. Can you get to the venue?””
“Yes.””
“Come immediately. Bring your sketchbook, any photographs you have, and your identification. We will document the incident.””
I swallowed.
“But the original gown—”
“If it is your original work, we will establish that. The panel will decide how to proceed after reviewing the evidence.””
I closed my eyes.
“Thank you.””
When I arrived at the theater, I found a grand entrance framed by tall glass doors. A banner stretched above the lobby, displaying the names of the twelve finalists.
Mine was printed near the center.
NIA CARTER — Tidal Grace.
Seeing my name there made my chest tighten.
I had spent so many years feeling invisible in my own home that the sight of it seemed unreal.
A woman in a navy suit approached me.
“Nia Carter?””
“Yes.””
“I'm Patricia Wells. Come with me.””
She led me into a conference room where three judges sat around a long table. A fourth person stood near the windows, examining photographs on a tablet.
I recognized her immediately.
Celeste Whitmore.
She was one of the most respected designers in the country, known for dramatic silhouettes and architectural eveningwear. Her work had appeared on red carpets and international runways.
She looked up as I entered.
“Nia.””
I stopped.
“Ms. Whitmore.””
She crossed the room and offered her hand.
“I'm glad you came.””
I shook it, trying to keep my fingers from trembling.
“I'm sorry I don't have the original dress.””
“Tell us what happened,” Patricia said gently.
So I did.
I explained the paint, the repair, and the confrontation that morning. I showed them photographs of the ruined gown, the redesigned version on the mannequin at Mr. Brooks's shop, and the original sketches I'd saved on my phone.
One of the judges, a man with silver-rimmed glasses, studied the images.
“You created this entire pattern yourself?””
“Yes.””
“Without professional training?””
“I learned from my mother and practiced at home. I work part-time at an alterations shop.””
Celeste Whitmore leaned over the photographs.
“Your mother was Elena Carter, wasn't she?””
I stared at her.
“You knew my mother?””
Celeste sat back.
“I knew her work. Many years ago, she submitted designs to a regional fashion exhibition. I was a young assistant at the time. Her construction techniques were extraordinary.””
My eyes filled.
“She never told me she knew anyone in fashion.””
“She was a private woman. She was also a gifted designer.””
Celeste tapped one photograph.
“This is the original gown?””
“Yes.””
“And the blue sections?””
“My stepsister damaged the dress with paint. Mr. Brooks helped me redesign it using the fabric that could be saved.””
Celeste examined the picture more closely.
“That's interesting.””
I frowned.
“Interesting?””
“You didn't simply conceal the damage. You incorporated the disruption into the silhouette. The asymmetry gives the skirt movement, and the blue draws attention to the structure of the bodice.””
She looked at me.
“Did you plan this design before the damage?””
“No.””
“Then tell me why you chose to keep the blue.””
I thought about the hours I'd spent crying over the ruined fabric. I thought about my mother's words, the sewing machine, and the way Vanessa had looked at me as if my dreams were an inconvenience.
“Because the damage happened,” I said.
“I couldn't undo it. I could either throw away the entire dress or figure out how to make something beautiful from what remained.””
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Then Celeste smiled.
“That's a designer's answer.””
The judge with silver-rimmed glasses cleared his throat.
“We still need to verify the garment's provenance. Do you have any dated photographs, receipts, or work records?””
I opened my sketchbook.
Inside were three months of sketches, fabric calculations, and handwritten notes. I also had photographs of the dress at different stages of construction, each timestamped on my phone.
Patricia examined the documents.
“This is substantial evidence of original authorship.””
Celeste looked at me again.
“There's one more thing we need to discuss.””
My stomach tightened.
“What is it?””
“The competition has received an inquiry about your design.””
Patricia opened her laptop.
“Someone contacted our office this morning claiming that another finalist had created a gown with a similar silhouette. They also requested that your entry be reviewed for possible plagiarism.””
My blood went cold.
“Who?””
Patricia hesitated.
“The person identified herself as Brianna Carter.””
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
My stepsister hadn't merely taken my dress.
She had contacted the competition and accused me of stealing my own work.
Celeste's expression hardened.
“Did she provide evidence?””
“She submitted a photograph of herself wearing the gown,” Patricia replied.
“She claimed she had designed it and that you had access to her sketches.””
I stared at the screen.
The photograph showed Brianna in my dress, standing in front of the hallway mirror. She had cropped the image so that the label inside the bodice was hidden.
The caption beneath it read:
My original design for the National Young Designers Showcase. Proud to share my work.
My hands went numb.
“She stole my design,” I whispered.
Celeste looked directly at me.
“Then we need to establish the facts before the showcase begins.””
Patricia began typing.
“I'm placing your entry under review. We will preserve all communications and request the original garment for inspection.””
I leaned forward.
“She has my dress right now.””
“Then we will arrange to retrieve it,” Patricia said.
“But I need you to understand something. If your sister knowingly submitted your work as her own, the consequences could extend beyond this competition.””
I nodded.
I wanted to cry, but I was too angry to let myself.
For years, Brianna had taken whatever she wanted because Vanessa always found a way to excuse her. If Brianna broke something, it was an accident. If she lied, she was protecting herself. If she hurt me, I was being dramatic.
But this time, she had made a mistake that couldn't be hidden behind a closed bedroom door.
There were records.
Photographs.
Receipts.
And a dozen people who had already seen my name printed beside the design.
Patricia closed her laptop.
“We'll contact your family and arrange a formal meeting this afternoon. Until then, don't post accusations online or confront your sister alone.””
“I understand.””
Celeste walked me to the door.
“Nia, may I ask you something?””
I turned.
“Of course.””
“If your dress is returned in its current condition, will you still present it?””
I thought about the blue panels, the altered seams, and the hours of work that had gone into saving it.
“Yes.””
“Even if the judges see the damage?””
“Especially then.””
She studied my face for a moment.
“Good.””
Then she placed a business card in my hand.
“Call me after the meeting.””
I looked down.
Her personal number was written on the back.
“Why?””
“Because there's something about your mother's work that I've wanted to understand for a very long time.””
Before I could ask what she meant, Patricia called Celeste back into the conference room.
I stood alone in the hallway, holding the card.
My phone vibrated.
A new message had arrived from Brianna.
It contained a photograph of my dress laid across her bed, the original label visible inside the bodice.
Below it, she had written:
Mom says the judges won't believe you over me. Give up now, and maybe I'll let you borrow it after the competition.
I stared at the message.
Then another arrived.
By the way, I found something inside your mother's sewing box. You should probably ask Dad what happened to the money she left you.
My heart stopped.
I read the message again.
The money.
The envelope marked For Nia's Dreams.
The money Dad had claimed was used for household expenses.
I had spent five years believing it was gone.
But Brianna's next message made my hands tremble.
Funny thing is, Mom says that money paid for my first designer collection.
I stood motionless in the empty hallway.
My stepsister had stolen my dress.
She had stolen my design.
And now she was suggesting that the money my mother had saved for my future had been used to build hers.
I called Brianna immediately.
She answered with a laugh.
“Miss me already?””
“Tell me what you meant about Mom's money.””
“Oh, that?”” Her voice turned sweet.
“You should ask your father.””
“Brianna, don't play games with me.””
“I'm not playing. You want the truth? Fine. The money wasn't used for household expenses.””
I gripped the phone.
“Where did it go?””
She paused.
Then she said something that made the floor seem to tilt beneath me.
“Mom used it to pay for something Dad has been hiding from you for years.””
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, my pulse pounding in my ears.
For the first time that day, the dress no longer seemed like the biggest betrayal.
May you like
Because whatever Brianna had discovered inside my mother's sewing box, it had something to do with my father.
And I was beginning to suspect that the people who had stolen my future had been planning it long before I ever picked up a needle.
