Chapter 2: The Secret Inside the Seams
The next morning, Brianna came downstairs wearing my dress.
Not a similar dress.
Not a cheap imitation.
My dress.
She had altered the straps with safety pins and folded the train over her arm so it wouldn't drag across the kitchen floor. The colorful satin shimmered beneath the chandelier.
I stood in the doorway holding a mug of untouched coffee.
Brianna turned in front of the hallway mirror.
“Doesn't it look incredible?””
Vanessa looked up from her tablet.
“Absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. The colors make your skin glow.””
Brianna ran her hand over the bodice.
“I can't believe Nia made this. She actually has some talent.””
The words might have sounded like a compliment if she hadn't delivered them while wearing something she had stolen.
I set my mug down.
“Take it off.””
Brianna turned.
“Good morning to you, too.””
“Take off my dress.””
Vanessa placed her tablet on the counter.
“Not this again.””
“I want my property back.””
Brianna laughed.
“Property? Listen to her. She sounds like a lawyer.””
I stepped closer.
“You know exactly how much work went into that dress.””
“Then you should be proud,” she replied, smoothing the satin.
“Your work is going to help me win.””
“You can't just steal something because you like it.””
Vanessa rose from her chair.
“Watch your tone.””
“Why? Because I'm telling the truth?””
Her eyes narrowed.
“You're living in my home.””
I looked at Dad's empty chair.
“This is Dad's home, too.””
Vanessa's expression hardened.
“And he agrees with me.””
Brianna reached for a glass of orange juice.
“Honestly, Nia, you should thank me. Nobody would have noticed your little dress if I hadn't improved it.””
I stared at her.
“You destroyed it.””
“And you fixed it. See? We make a great team.””
She took a sip of juice, then deliberately placed the glass on the edge of the counter.
Her elbow nudged it.
The glass tipped.
Orange juice splashed across the fabric near the hem.
I lunged forward.
“BRIANNA!””
She jumped back, laughing.
“Oh, my God! I'm so clumsy.””
Vanessa grabbed a napkin.
“Careful, sweetheart. We don't want to stain it before the competition.””
I stood there watching them dab at the dress as if they were caring for something precious.
Something inside me went quiet.
Not because I had given up.
Because I had finally stopped expecting them to become decent people.
I turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Behind me, Brianna called, “Where are you going? Don't you want to help?””
I didn't answer.
I went straight to my bedroom, locked the door, and opened the bottom drawer again.
My mother's note lay beside the business card.
I had found it six months earlier while sorting through the last box of her belongings. At the time, I hadn't understood why she had hidden a card from a woman connected to one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the country.
Now, I knew I needed answers.
I picked up my phone.
My fingers hovered over the number.
What if Evelyn didn't remember my mother?
What if the number was disconnected?
What if this was just another dead end?
I almost put the phone down.
Then I remembered Vanessa's hand striking my face.
I remembered Brianna laughing as she watched orange juice soak into the hem.
And I pressed call.
A woman answered after four rings.
“Hartwell House. This is Evelyn.””
I swallowed.
“Hello. My name is Nia Carter. I'm sorry to call without an appointment.””
“That's all right. How can I help you?””
I looked at the note.
“My mother was named Elise Carter. She left me your number.””
Silence.
Not the ordinary pause of someone searching their memory.
A different kind of silence.
Then Evelyn spoke more quietly.
“Elise Carter?””
“Yes.””
“Are you her daughter?””
My throat tightened.
“Yes, ma'am.””
I heard a chair move on the other end.
“Oh, my goodness.””
She took a breath.
“Nia, I've been wondering about you for years.””
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“You knew my mother?””
“Knew her? Your mother changed my life.””
I didn't know what to say.
Evelyn continued.
“Where are you calling from? Are you safe?””
“I'm at home.””
“Good. Listen carefully. Did your mother leave you a sketchbook?””
“Yes.””
“And a dress design?””
I glanced at the empty hanger beside my mirror.
“Yes.””
“Have you made it?””
My pulse quickened.
“I think so. But I changed it.””
“Changed it how?””
I explained the ruined satin, the paint, and how I had transformed the stains into a new design.
Evelyn didn't interrupt.
When I finished, she let out a long breath.
“Your mother always said you would find your own way to make that dress.””
I stared at the phone.
“What does that mean?””
“Can you send me photographs of the gown?””
“I can. But someone took it.””
“Who?””
“My stepsister.””
Evelyn's voice became sharp.
“Did she steal your work?””
I looked toward the locked door.
“Yes.””
“Do you have photographs of the dress before she took it?””
I remembered the picture I had taken at sunrise.
I had sent it to myself so I could look at it whenever I needed encouragement.
“Yes.””
“Send those to me. And send photographs of your sketches, too.””
I did.
Three minutes later, my phone rang again.
This time, Evelyn sounded almost breathless.
“Nia, I need you to listen to me. Your mother wasn't simply designing a dress when she created that original pattern.””
I sat down.
“What was she doing?””
“She was preparing a collection. A collection that was supposed to launch her career internationally.””
I looked at the photograph on my phone.
“Why didn't she?””
“Because she became ill. She never finished the collection, and after her death, the business arrangements surrounding her work became complicated.””
I swallowed.
“What does that have to do with me?””
“Everything, perhaps. I can't explain the legal details over the phone without reviewing the documents. But Elise left instructions with me. If you ever completed the design, I was supposed to see it.””
My heart pounded.
“Why?””
“Because she believed the final version should belong to the person who made it their own.””
I thought about my mother sitting at her studio table, guiding my little hands through a piece of silk.
“Does that mean I can be a designer?””
Evelyn's answer came immediately.
“You already are one.””
For the first time in years, I felt someone take my dream seriously.
Then she asked, “Where is the dress now?””
“My stepsister has it.””
“Does she know about our conversation?””
“No.””
“Good. Don't confront her again. Keep every photograph, every sketch, and every message related to the dress. Can you do that?””
“Yes.””
“And Nia?””
“Yes?””
“Do not let anyone persuade you to sign anything concerning your mother's designs until you've received independent legal advice.””
I frowned.
“Sign what?””
“I don't know whether anyone will ask you to. I'm simply telling you to be careful.””
Before we hung up, Evelyn gave me an address and arranged for me to meet her at Hartwell House the following afternoon.
I wrote everything down.
Then I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the card.
For the first time since my mother died, a door had opened that didn't lead to another disappointment.
But downstairs, Brianna was already planning how to turn my work into her victory.
That evening, Dad came into my room.
He didn't knock.
He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable.
“Your stepmother says you've been giving Brianna a hard time.””
I almost laughed.
“Dad, she stole my dress.””
“She says you gave it to her.””
I stared at him.
“Why would I do that?””
“She said you wanted to help her with the competition.””
I got up and walked toward him.
“Look at me. Do you honestly believe that?””
His eyes shifted toward the floor.
“Nia, I don't want another argument in this house.””
“Neither do I.””
“Then let it go.””
I waited.
He rubbed his forehead.
“Brianna has an important opportunity. This competition could help her get into a good college.””
“And what about my graduation?””
“You can wear something else.””
I felt my throat tighten, but I forced myself to speak calmly.
“What if I told you that dress could change my life, too?””
Dad gave a tired sigh.
“It's a dress, sweetheart. Don't make it into something bigger than it is.””
I stepped aside.
“Okay.””
He looked surprised.
“Okay?””
“Yes, Dad. You're right.””
He studied me for a moment, then nodded as if he had finally solved a difficult problem.
“Good. That's all I wanted.””
He left.
I closed the door.
Then I returned to my desk and opened the photograph of the gown.
The dress was beautiful.
But it wasn't the only thing I had created.
For three months, I had been sewing a tiny label into the inside of the bodice, just beneath the lining.
It wasn't a designer's name.
It wasn't a brand.
It was a small, hand-embroidered signature.
*Nia Carter — Original Design, 2026.*
And inside the hem, beneath a row of nearly invisible stitches, I had sewn a folded piece of fabric bearing the same signature.
My mother had taught me to mark my work.
Not because I expected someone to steal it.
Because she believed every creation deserved a record of who had made it.
I had taken photographs of those details before Brianna ever touched the gown.
I had also photographed my sketches, dated each revision, and saved the receipts for the fabric and thread.
I wasn't thinking about revenge when I did it.
I was thinking about becoming a designer.
Now, that careful habit might be the one thing my stepsister couldn't take from me.
At 10:17 p.m., my phone buzzed.
A message from Brianna appeared.
It contained a photograph of her standing in front of the hallway mirror, wearing my dress.
Her caption read:
Mom says I should enter the competition under my own name. Nobody needs to know where the design came from.
A second message followed.
By the way, I found something inside the lining. Is this supposed to be here?
My blood ran cold.
Attached was a photograph of the inside of the bodice.
The fabric had been pulled apart.
My signature was visible.
And beneath it, partially exposed, was a second label I had never shown anyone.
A label in my mother's handwriting.
*Property of Elise Carter Designs. Original Collection Pattern.*
May you like
Then Brianna sent one final message.
Mom says this could be worth a fortune.
