Chapter 5: My Mother's Last Warning
I read the sentence again.
Then a third time.
Do not trust Vanessa Carter.
The paper trembled between my fingers.
“Daddy,” I whispered, “why would Mom write this?””
My father sat heavily in the chair beside the sewing table.
“I don't know.””
“But you married Vanessa after Mom died.””
“Yes.””
“You trusted her with me.””
His eyes dropped.
“I did.””
I stepped away from the table.
“How could you not know?””
The question came out louder than I intended.
My father didn't defend himself.
He didn't tell me that he had suffered, or that he had been injured, or that he had lost ten years of his life.
He simply looked at me.
“You're right to ask that.””
I hated how much his answer hurt.
I wanted him to tell me that everything had been a misunderstanding.
That my mother had been mistaken.
That Vanessa had somehow changed after the letter was written.
But the evidence was sitting in my hands.
“Did Mom know Vanessa was dangerous?”” I asked.
“I think she suspected something.””
“What?””
My father looked at the notebook.
“Your mother and I built Carter Atelier from nothing. We had one small studio, two sewing machines, and more debt than we could afford. Then our designs started attracting attention.
Investors came forward. We began negotiating licensing agreements with international fashion houses.””
He opened the notebook.
Inside were sketches of gowns, handwritten notes, and small pieces of fabric carefully taped to the pages.
My mother had labeled each design with a date.
“This was her final collection,” he said.
“The collection she was working on before she died.””
I turned a page.
A magnificent midnight-blue gown filled the paper.
The dress had a sweeping skirt and enormous sculpted wings made from layers of embroidered silk.
I recognized the technique immediately.
It was similar to the one I had used for my crimson gown.
“It's beautiful.””
“It was supposed to be the centerpiece of our next collection. Your mother called it The Phoenix. She wanted it to represent the idea that something beautiful could rise from terrible loss.””
I looked at the sketch.
“Why did Vanessa mention the blueprints?””
My father ran his thumb over the edge of the page.
“Because your mother discovered that someone had been copying our designs before they were released.””
“Who?””
“We suspected a business partner. Your mother found discrepancies in the licensing records and discovered that several confidential sketches had been sent to an outside company.””
“Victor Hale?””
“Possibly. He handled some of our contracts. But your mother didn't have enough evidence to confront him.””
I looked down at the letter.
“Did she write this before she died?””
“Yes. The date is three days before the accident that killed her.””
My chest tightened.
Three days.
My mother had known something was wrong just three days before she died.
“Did she tell the police?””
“She was planning to meet a lawyer. She wanted to make sure the company and its designs were protected before she confronted anyone.””
“Then she died.””
My father nodded.
“And I disappeared less than a year later.””
The room fell silent.
I turned another page in the notebook.
A sheet of tracing paper slipped from between the pages and floated to the floor.
I bent to retrieve it.
On it was a detailed drawing of the blue-winged gown, accompanied by a list of measurements, fabric specifications, and a handwritten note.
Original construction plans. Keep separate from the licensing file.
At the bottom, my mother had written a name.
*V. Carter.*
I stared at it.
“Vanessa?””
My father leaned over my shoulder.
The color drained from his face.
“That's her handwriting.””
I looked up.
“Are you sure?””
“I'd recognize it anywhere. She worked in our office before we married. She helped organize contracts and financial records.””
“Why would Mom write her name on the plans?””
“I don't know.””
I turned the paper over.
On the back was a second note.
If the collection disappears, the original blueprints will prove who created it.
My hands went cold.
“Someone stole the collection.””
My father closed the notebook.
“Yes.””
“And Mom left proof.””
“Apparently.””
I looked at the cabinet.
“Where is the rest of it?””
He glanced at the old shelves.
“That's what I've been trying to find.””
I stared at him.
“For six months?””
He nodded.
“The investigator found evidence that the original collection was transferred to a private storage facility shortly after your mother's death. The company listed on the paperwork no longer exists. The facility's records were destroyed in a fire.””
“Convenient.””
“Very.””
I looked at the letter again.
My mother had left me a warning, but not a name.
She had left me a notebook, but not the complete story.
And she had hidden something important enough that someone had apparently spent years trying to bury it.
I slipped the letter back into its envelope.
“We need to find the original blueprints.””
My father studied me.
“Nia, this could become dangerous.””
I raised my chin.
“Someone stole my mother's work. Someone tried to erase you. And Vanessa spent ten years telling me I was worthless while living in a house built with the money you earned.””
My voice shook, but I didn't stop.
“I'm not walking away.””
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he smiled faintly.
“You sound like your mother.””
I looked down at the notebook.
“I hope I look like her, too.””
“You do.””
He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“More than you know.””
At eleven the following morning, my father and I sat across from an attorney named Rebecca Shaw in a downtown office overlooking the city.
Rebecca had represented Carter Atelier before my father's disappearance. She was in her late fifties, with silver-framed glasses and a voice that made every sentence sound like a warning.
She examined the letter, the notebook, and the forged ownership agreement.
When she finished, she removed her glasses.
“This is worse than I expected.””
My father leaned forward.
“Can you explain the legal position?””
“The agreement Victor Hale sent to the competition is almost certainly invalid if the dates and signatures are as you describe. But we need to establish who created it, how it was used, and who benefited.””
“What about the original collection?”” I asked.
Rebecca looked at me.
“If those designs were transferred without proper authorization, the transfer can be challenged. But we need the original records.””
“Where do we find them?””
She opened a drawer and removed a thick file.
“Before Eleanor died, she placed several documents in a private archive. The archive was managed by a company called Northbridge Records.””
My father frowned.
“I remember Northbridge.””
“It's no longer operating under that name. The company was acquired by a private records group seven years ago.””
Rebecca handed him a sheet of paper.
“The acquisition records show that a substantial portion of the Carter Atelier archive was transferred to a storage facility outside Boston.””
My heart raced.
“Then the blueprints could still exist?””
“They could. But there is another problem.””
Rebecca pointed to a line in the file.
“The archive was accessed two weeks ago by someone using authorization connected to the old company.””
My father leaned forward.
“Who?””
Rebecca turned the page.
“Vanessa Carter.””
I stared at the name.
“No.””
Rebecca nodded grimly.
“She signed for a box labeled Eleanor Carter — Private Collection.””
My father's hands tightened around the edge of the desk.
“What happened to the box?””
“The facility says it was removed by an authorized courier.””
“Who hired the courier?””
“They're checking the records.””
I looked at my father.
Vanessa had gone to the archive two weeks ago.
Before my competition.
Before my father's public return.
Before she destroyed my trophy.
She hadn't been reacting to my success.
She had been preparing for something.
Rebecca opened another document.
“There is one more thing you should know. The storage company sent a notice to the old business address three days ago. Someone attempted to claim ownership of the remaining Carter Atelier designs.””
My father stared at the paper.
“Who filed the claim?””
Rebecca hesitated.
Then she turned it toward us.
The claimant's name was printed in bold letters.
*BRIANNA CARTER.*
My stomach dropped.
“Brianna?””
Rebecca nodded.
“The application states that she is the sole surviving heir to the creative estate and that the designs were developed under her supervision.””
I felt sick.
“She has never created anything.””
My father closed his eyes briefly.
“She's claiming your mother's work.””
“And mine,” I whispered.
Because the designs I had used in my crimson gown were inspired by the techniques my mother had taught me.
If Brianna could convince the world that she owned the original collection, she could try to claim my design as well.
Rebecca placed the document back into the folder.
“We need to act before the claim is approved.””
My father rose.
“Tell us what to do.””
“First, we'll challenge the ownership filing. Second, we'll secure the original documents. Third, Nia needs to preserve every sketch, photograph, and piece of evidence connected to her gown.””
I thought of the notebook in my bag.
The broken trophy.
The recording of Brianna destroying my dress.
For the first time, I realized that the violence backstage might not have been a simple tantrum.
Brianna had been furious because I won.
But perhaps she had also been frightened because my victory threatened a lie that had lasted for years.
My father looked at me.
“We'll get through this together.””
I nodded.
Then Rebecca's phone rang.
She listened for several seconds, her expression growing increasingly tense.
Finally, she hung up.
“The storage facility has located the courier record.””
My father leaned forward.
“Who collected the box?””
Rebecca looked directly at me.
“Someone using Brianna's identification.””
I felt the room tilt.
Rebecca continued.
“And the courier signed a declaration stating that the box contained no original designs, only personal effects.””
I gripped the arms of my chair.
“That's a lie.””
“Probably,” Rebecca said.
“But there's something else.””
She slid a photograph across the desk.
It showed a wooden crate with a faded label.
*ELEANOR CARTER — PHOENIX COLLECTION.*
Someone had written another message across the label in black marker.
DESTROY AFTER DELIVERY.
And beneath those words was a signature.
Not Brianna's.
Not Vanessa's.
A signature my father recognized immediately.
“Victor Hale,” he whispered.
Then he looked at Rebecca.
“Find that courier.””
Rebecca nodded.
“I will.””
But as we left the office, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
An unknown number had sent me a message.
There was no greeting.
No explanation.
Only a photograph of my mother's sewing room, taken from inside the house.
May you like
And beneath it, six words:
*STOP LOOKING, OR YOU'LL LOSE HIM AGAIN.*
