Chapter 3: The Price of My Father's Applause
I read the message again.
Then I read it a third time.
Someone had paid Vanessa to wear my dress.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
I looked toward the ballroom, where photographers were still interviewing contestants.
"Margaret?""
She turned.
"Yes?""
"Who sponsored this year's showcase?""
She considered the question.
"Several companies. A luxury textile supplier, two fashion retailers, and a private investment group.""
"Can I see the sponsorship records?""
"Why?""
I showed her the messages.
Her expression changed.
"Who sent these?""
"I don't know.""
She took out her own phone.
"Let me speak with the event director.""
While she walked away, Celeste sat beside me.
"Do you think someone is trying to help you?""
"I don't know.""
"Could it be someone from the judging panel?""
"Maybe.""
Celeste studied my face.
"Whatever it is, don't let them frighten you.""
I looked at the message again.
*Your stepsister didn't just steal your dress. She was paid to wear it.*
The words made my stomach turn.
I had thought Vanessa wanted the attention.
Now I wondered whether she had been working toward something much bigger.
An hour later, Margaret returned with a folder.
"The event director agreed to let you see the relevant sponsorship information," she said.
"But these are confidential records. Please don't photograph or distribute them.""
I nodded.
She opened the folder.
There were several payments listed under the showcase's sponsorship agreement.
One caught my attention.
<text color="secondary" size="xs" weight="medium">SPONSORSHIP PAYMENT</text>
*Northstar Creative Holdings — $75,000*
I recognized the name.
Not because I had worked with them.
Because my father had mentioned Northstar at dinner several times during the previous month.
He had described it as a private investment company interested in fashion and luxury brands.
I continued reading.
The payment had been designated for a special promotional partnership involving an emerging designer.
The designer's name was listed below.
Vanessa Bennett.
I looked up.
"She was sponsored?""
Margaret nodded.
"Apparently.""
"Why didn't she tell anyone?""
"That is a question you'll need to ask her.""
I studied the document.
There was a second line beneath the sponsorship description.
*Featured collection: Crimson Legacy.*
My collection.
The red gown.
My shoes.
The six months of work I had poured into the project.
I felt cold.
"Who authorized this?""
Margaret turned the page.
There were two signatures.
One belonged to the event director.
The other belonged to a representative of Northstar Creative Holdings.
I read the name.
Then I stopped.
*Richard Bennett.*
My father.
I sat down.
Celeste reached for my arm.
"Maya?""
I couldn't speak.
My father hadn't simply helped Vanessa steal my clothes.
He had signed an agreement that attached my collection to a commercial sponsorship.
Without asking me.
Without telling me.
Without giving me credit.
I looked at Margaret.
"Can you tell me what this agreement means?""
She hesitated.
"It appears Northstar paid the event for a promotional partnership. The agreement specifies that Vanessa would present the Crimson Legacy collection as her own emerging design work.""
"But I designed it.""
"That's why this is serious.""
I looked at the signature again.
"Does my father own Northstar?""
Margaret turned another page.
"No. But he is listed as an authorized representative.""
I swallowed.
"Representative for whom?""
She pointed to the final paragraph.
I read it.
Then read it again.
The company had been established by a person named Eleanor Bennett.
My stepmother.
I found Vanessa in the VIP lounge.
She was sitting with Eleanor, sipping champagne.
When she saw me, she smiled.
"Back again?""
I placed the sponsorship document on the table.
"What's this?""
Eleanor's smile disappeared.
Vanessa looked down.
Then she slowly put down her glass.
"Where did you get that?""
"Does it matter?""
"That's confidential.""
"So is stealing someone's collection.""
Eleanor stood.
"Maya, this is not the place.""
I pointed to the document.
"You paid the showcase seventy-five thousand dollars to let Vanessa present my collection.""
Vanessa laughed.
"Don't be ridiculous.""
"Your name is right here.""
"Because I was the featured designer.""
"Of my work.""
She leaned back.
"You have a very strange understanding of ownership.""
I stared at her.
"I have the original sketches. The fabric receipts. The construction photographs. Every revision is documented.""
Vanessa shrugged.
"Then prove it.""
"I already have.""
"Not to anyone important.""
She lifted her champagne glass.
"People don't buy sketches, Maya. They buy a story. And my story is much more interesting than yours.""
I looked at Eleanor.
"Did you know?""
She didn't answer.
"Did you know Dad signed this?""
Eleanor finally spoke.
"Your father was trying to help the family.""
"By stealing my work?""
"By creating an opportunity for Vanessa.""
"What opportunity?""
Eleanor's expression hardened.
"She has the connections to build a real career. You have talent, perhaps, but talent alone doesn't pay the bills.""
I looked at Vanessa.
She smiled.
"Exactly.""
Then she reached into her handbag and pulled out a small velvet box.
Inside was a diamond bracelet.
I recognized it.
It was the bracelet my mother had worn on her wedding day.
I stepped closer.
"Where did you get that?""
Vanessa looked at the bracelet.
"Oh, this?""
"That belonged to my mother.""
Eleanor folded her arms.
"Your father gave it to Vanessa.""
I looked at her.
"Why?""
"Because it was sitting unused in a drawer.""
My hands began to shake.
It wasn't the value of the bracelet.
It was the memory.
My mother had worn it every Christmas. I remembered the way she used to fasten it while humming in front of the bedroom mirror.
I reached toward it.
Vanessa pulled her wrist away.
"Don't touch me.""
"Give it back.""
She smiled.
"Ask Dad.""
I turned toward the door.
"Gladly.""
My father was in the hotel restaurant when I found him.
He was speaking with a man in a gray suit.
When he noticed me, he excused himself.
"Maya, what now?""
I placed the sponsorship agreement in front of him.
"Explain this.""
He glanced at it.
His face changed.
"Where did you get that?""
"That's becoming your favorite question.""
He lowered his voice.
"These are business documents.""
"Then explain the business.""
He looked around.
The restaurant was nearly empty.
"Maya, you don't understand the arrangement.""
"Then help me understand.""
He sat down.
I remained standing.
"Northstar sponsored the presentation," he began.
"They wanted a recognizable collection and a designer who could represent the brand.""
"So you gave them my collection.""
"We made an agreement.""
"Without my permission.""
He rubbed his forehead.
"Vanessa was willing to participate.""
"Because she didn't design anything.""
"She has the right presentation skills.""
I stared at him.
"Did you ever think about asking me?""
He didn't answer.
I pulled out my phone and opened a photograph of my original sketches.
"This was drawn six months ago. Here is the first dress pattern. Here is the embroidery plan. Here are the shoe designs.""
I swiped through the photographs.
"Every single part of the collection is mine.""
Dad looked at the screen.
For a moment, something like shame crossed his face.
Then it disappeared.
"You're making this unnecessarily difficult.""
I lowered the phone.
"You're saying I should let her take it?""
"I'm saying you should think about the consequences.""
"What consequences?""
He leaned closer.
"Northstar is considering a major investment. If this arrangement collapses, it could affect the entire family.""
I stared at him.
There it was.
The real reason.
Not love.
Not fairness.
Money.
"How much did you get?""
His eyes narrowed.
"What?""
"How much did you get for signing the agreement?""
"Watch your tone.""
"Did they pay you?""
He stood.
"That's enough.""
I didn't move.
"How much, Dad?""
He looked toward the restaurant entrance.
Then he said something I would never forget.
"Your sister's future is worth more than one fashion show.""
I swallowed.
"And mine?""
He looked at me.
"You'll always find something else to do.""
I returned to the hotel room I had been assigned for the event.
Celeste had already left for the evening, but she had sent me a message.
*You were amazing tonight. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.*
I sat on the edge of the bed.
My new shoes stood beside the wardrobe.
The silver gown hung from the door.
I looked at the photographs of my mother on my phone.
One showed us together in her sewing room.
She was holding a piece of white fabric against my shoulder.
I was about ten years old, laughing.
I remembered what she had told me that afternoon.
Never let someone else decide the value of something you created with your own hands.
I had been too young to understand.
Now I did.
My phone vibrated.
Another message from the unknown number.
*You should know your father didn't receive the sponsorship money.*
I sat upright.
Another message arrived.
*The money went to Eleanor's company. But that's not the worst part.*
My fingers moved quickly.
*Who are you?*
The reply came almost immediately.
*Someone who has been watching this family for a long time.*
Then:
*Check the original design registration.*
I frowned.
I had registered my collection months earlier through an independent design protection service.
The registration certificate was stored in my email.
I opened it.
My name appeared at the top.
Maya Bennett.
Below it were the designs, sketches, and submission dates.
But there was something else.
A notification.
*Ownership dispute submitted.*
My heart stopped.
The dispute had been filed two weeks earlier.
The claimant was Vanessa Bennett.
Attached was a declaration stating that I had been employed as her assistant designer.
I stared at the screen.
My stepsister hadn't just stolen my dress.
She had prepared a legal claim to steal my entire collection.
And someone had helped her file it.
I opened the attached declaration.
There were several signatures.
Vanessa's.
Eleanor's.
And my father's.
But beneath them was another name.
A witness.
Someone who had supposedly watched me sign the agreement transferring my designs to Vanessa.
I knew the name.
I had seen it on the showcase staff list.
I had spoken to him backstage that afternoon.
It was the event's head photographer.
I read the final paragraph again.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice came through.
"Maya Bennett?""
"Yes. Who is this?""
"My name is Daniel Foster. I'm the attorney who handled the design registration dispute.""
I sat straighter.
"Why are you calling me?""
"Because I need you to listen carefully.""
I looked toward the hotel door.
"What is it?""
He paused.
Then he said:
"Your father didn't just sign the declaration. He submitted a document claiming you had already sold him the rights to your collection.""
My mouth went dry.
"That's impossible.""
"I thought you should know.""
"Who has the original?""
Another pause.
Then Daniel answered.
"Your father does.""
I closed my eyes.
"Can you send me a copy?""
"I can. But there's something else you need to understand.""
"What?""
His voice dropped.
"The signature on that agreement looks like yours.""
I stared at my hands.
I had never signed it.
I had never sold my designs.
I had never given anyone permission.
Then Daniel said the words that changed everything.
"Someone used a document from your mother's estate to create the agreement.""
My blood ran cold.
"My mother's estate?""
"Yes. And Maya, the document contains something very unusual.""
"What?""
He took a breath.
"The agreement was supposedly signed when you were seventeen.""
I looked at the photograph of my mother on the bedside table.
Seven years ago.
Before I had even designed the collection.
Before I had ever met the people involved in the showcase.
"That's impossible," I whispered.
Daniel's voice became urgent.
"There's one more thing. Your mother's original will names you as the sole beneficiary of a fashion company.""
I couldn't move.
"What company?""
He answered quietly.
"Bennett Atelier.""
And suddenly, I understood why my stepmother had spent so many years trying to convince me that fashion was a foolish dream.
May you like
She hadn't wanted me to abandon my talent.
She had wanted me to abandon my inheritance.
