Chapter 4: The Judge Who Knew My Mother
At 4:18 a.m., my stepmother tried to destroy the only thing that could prove my mother had ever existed as a designer.
Vanessa lunged for the photograph on my desk.
I snatched it away.
“Give that to me!”” she shouted.
“No.””
Her face twisted with disbelief.
“You don't get to tell me no in my own house.””
I held the photograph against my chest.
“Then why are you so afraid of a picture?””
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of my mother's old sewing machine.
Vanessa looked at Brianna, who stood in the doorway clutching her phone.
“Get out,” Vanessa ordered her daughter.
Brianna frowned.
“But the competition—”
“I said GET OUT!””
Brianna retreated into the hallway, but she didn't leave. I could see her shadow beneath the door.
Vanessa turned back to me.
“Listen carefully, Nia. Your father was a sentimental man. He kept things he should have thrown away. He made promises he couldn't afford to keep.””
“Carter House Fashion belongs to me.””
“You have a piece of paper with your name on it. That doesn't mean you understand what it represents.””
“Then explain it.””
She laughed bitterly.
“You think you're ready to run a fashion company? You can't even take care of yourself.””
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“I can take care of myself. I've been doing it since Dad died.””
“Really?”” She gestured at the bandage covering my left eye.
“Look at you. You can't even see properly.””
The words struck exactly where she intended.
But something had changed.
For the first time, her cruelty didn't make me want to disappear.
It made me want to understand why she needed me to feel powerless.
I lifted my chin.
“Get out of my room.””
Vanessa stared at me.
Then she grabbed the torn ownership document from my desk and shoved it into her handbag.
“Fine. Keep your little photograph. Keep your childish dreams. But if you go to that competition tomorrow, don't expect me to protect you from the consequences.””
She marched out and slammed the door.
I locked it.
Then I sank into my chair, my body shaking.
My phone still displayed Eleanor Hayes's message.
Your mother was the most extraordinary designer this competition has ever seen.
I typed a reply.
What did my mother design?
The response came almost immediately.
I cannot explain everything over text. Please come to the competition venue at eight tomorrow morning. Bring your father's documents, and do not tell Vanessa that I contacted you.
Another message appeared.
There is something you need to see.
I stared at the screen.
Eight o'clock.
The competition began at nine.
I had less than four hours to finish my gown, and I still hadn't attached the second wing.
I turned toward the dress form.
The white organza shimmered beneath the desk lamp. The sapphire pieces caught the light like tiny fragments of a midnight sky.
My mother's photograph lay beside the machine.
I picked it up again.
She was standing in front of a grand building with glass doors and an enormous sign above the entrance.
CARTER HOUSE FASHION.
Behind her stood my father, his hand resting on her shoulder.
Both of them were smiling.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.
Eighteen years earlier.
And beneath it, in my mother's handwriting, were five words.
The beginning of everything, Nia.
I pressed the photograph to my heart.
“I'm going to find out,” I whispered.
Then I returned to the sewing machine.
By 6:35 a.m., my gown was nearly finished.
My eyes burned. My back felt as though someone had driven a metal rod through it, and I had consumed so much coffee that my hands trembled whenever I lifted the needle.
Still, I kept sewing.
I attached the second wing, reinforced the bodice, and secured the mirrored pieces along the edges. The final step was the sapphire embroidery that would run from the neckline to the train.
I had originally planned to use thousands of tiny crystals.
There wasn't enough time.
Instead, I threaded the remaining blue beads onto silver wire and stitched them into sweeping patterns that resembled ocean waves.
The effect was unexpected.
Under the light, the gown seemed to move even when the mannequin stood perfectly still.
I stepped back.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I had made something that left me speechless.
Then my injured eye began to throb.
I grabbed the edge of the table.
A wave of dizziness passed through me.
“Not now,” I whispered.
I sat down and waited for the room to stop spinning.
My doctor had warned me not to strain myself excessively. He had also warned me that any sudden change in pain or vision required medical attention.
I checked my phone.
There were no new messages from the hospital.
I took a breath, drank some water, and decided I would seek medical advice if the pain worsened.
The dress needed only a final fastening.
I sewed it in place.
At 6:52 a.m., Phoenix Rising was complete.
I stood before the mirror wearing my oldest jeans and a plain white shirt, looking at the gown as if it belonged to another person.
The white fabric flowed into a dramatic train. Silver lines curved across the bodice, and the sapphire details seemed to glow against the pale material.
It wasn't the dress I had planned to make.
It was something different.
Something born from desperation, grief, and a refusal to surrender.
I touched the edge of the skirt.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I hope this is enough.””
A knock sounded at the door.
“Nia?”” Brianna called.
I didn't answer.
“Open the door. Please.””
I hesitated before unlocking it.
Brianna stood in the hallway, still wearing her pajamas. Her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes, and she looked as though she hadn't slept.
She glanced at the gown.
For the first time in my life, she didn't make a joke.
“You made that overnight?””
“Yes.””
She stepped into the room.
“It's beautiful.””
I stared at her.
“Are you here to ask me to fix your dress?””
“No.””
She looked down at her hands.
“Mom says the competition is going to disqualify me.””
“You entered a dress you didn't make under your own name.””
“I know.””
“You laughed when I begged you to give it back.””
“I know, Nia.””
Her voice cracked.
I waited.
Brianna took a shaky breath.
“I didn't think it would become this serious. Mom told me you had plenty of other designs and that you could just make another dress.””
I stared at her.
“She told you that?””
Brianna nodded.
“She said you wouldn't win anyway. She said the competition was just an excuse for you to get money out of Dad's estate.””
I felt cold.
“What does that mean?””
Brianna looked toward the hallway.
“I don't know everything. But last night, I heard her talking to someone on the phone. She said if you won, the trust documents might be examined.””
My stomach tightened.
“Who was she talking to?””
“I don't know. She called him Mr. Grant.””
I repeated the name silently.
Mr. Grant.
Brianna looked at the dress again.
“Can I ask you something?””
“What?””
“Do you really think you can win?””
I studied her face.
For once, she seemed genuinely frightened rather than merely upset about losing something she wanted.
“I don't know,” I answered honestly.
“But I'm going to try.””
She nodded.
Then she did something I never expected.
She reached into the pocket of her pajama trousers and pulled out one of my mother's earrings.
The gold setting was scratched, but the small sapphire remained intact.
“I found this under the dining table,” she said.
“I should have picked up the other one, too.””
I took it from her.
“Thank you.””
Brianna swallowed.
“I know saying sorry doesn't fix anything.””
“No, it doesn't.””
She flinched.
I wasn't trying to hurt her.
I simply refused to pretend that a single apology could erase what she had done.
She glanced at the door.
“Mom is downstairs. She's waiting for a car to take you to the competition.””
I frowned.
“Why would she do that?””
“Because she wants you there.””
A chill moved through me.
“Why?””
Brianna looked at me.
“Because Mr. Grant is going to be there, too.””
Before I could ask another question, she hurried away.
I stood alone in the doorway, holding my mother's earring.
Mr. Grant.
The man Vanessa had apparently been speaking to.
The man who might know something about my father's money.
And now he was going to be at the competition.
I looked at the clock.
7:08 a.m.
I packed the torn ownership document, my father's letter, the photograph, and the brass key into a small folder.
Then I placed the gown carefully inside a garment bag.
I was going to the competition.
But I was no longer going simply to win a prize.
I was going to discover why my stepmother was so terrified of the truth.
The competition venue was a magnificent hotel ballroom in downtown Chicago.
By 7:55 a.m., the entrance was already crowded with contestants, photographers, and fashion students carrying garment bags.
I stepped out of the car and adjusted the strap of my bag.
The morning air was cold against my face.
For a moment, I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the glass doors.
My father's photograph had shown my mother standing in front of a building much like this one.
I wondered whether she had felt frightened when she first entered a room filled with people who might judge her work.
Then I remembered her handwriting.
The beginning of everything, Nia.
I took a breath and walked inside.
A woman in a black tailored suit approached me almost immediately.
“Nia Carter?””
“Yes.””
“I'm Eleanor Hayes.””
She was in her early sixties, with silver-streaked hair and sharp gray eyes. She carried herself with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being listened to.
But when she looked at me, her expression softened.
“You have your mother's eyes,” she said.
My hand instinctively rose toward my bandage.
Eleanor noticed.
“Oh, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”
“It's okay.””
She glanced at the garment bag.
“Is that your entry?””
“Yes.””
“May I see it?””
I hesitated.
Then I unzipped the bag enough to reveal the sapphire-blue embroidery.
Eleanor's breath caught.
She stepped closer, studying the stitches.
“Where did you learn to create this pattern?””
“I designed it myself.””
She touched one of the silver curves without disturbing the fabric.
“Interesting.””
“What?””
She looked at me.
“Your mother used a similar technique in her final collection.””
I felt my heart begin to pound.
“What was her final collection?””
Eleanor didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she led me toward a private meeting room.
Inside, a long table stood beneath a wall of framed fashion photographs. Most featured designers I recognized from magazines.
But one photograph made me stop.
A younger version of my mother stood on a runway, wearing a white gown with sapphire-blue wings.
My knees nearly buckled.
It was Phoenix Rising.
Not exactly the same design.
But close enough that I could barely breathe.
Eleanor followed my gaze.
“Your mother created that gown eighteen years ago,” she said.
“It was supposed to be the centerpiece of her collection.””
I stared at the photograph.
“Why have I never seen it?””
“Because the collection was never released.””
“Why?””
Eleanor's expression grew grave.
“Because the night before the presentation, the designs disappeared. Your mother was accused of stealing work from another designer, and the collection was withdrawn.””
I looked at her.
“My mother would never steal anyone's work.””
“I know.””
The certainty in her voice startled me.
“You knew her?””
“Very well. I was one of the judges at the time. I believed her, but I couldn't prove what happened.””
She opened a drawer and removed an old folder.
Inside were photographs, sketches, and newspaper clippings.
One headline read:
*PROMISING DESIGNER WITHDRAWS AFTER PLAGIARISM ALLEGATIONS.*
Another showed my mother's face.
Beneath it was a quote attributed to an unnamed company representative.
The collection was never the property of the designer.
I felt sick.
“Who said that?””
Eleanor closed the folder.
“Vanessa Carter.””
The room seemed to tilt.
“My stepmother?””
“Yes.””
I gripped the back of a chair.
“That doesn't make sense. Vanessa wasn't a designer.””
“No. But at the time, she worked in the business office of Carter House Fashion.””
I stared at the photograph again.
My mother had created a collection.
The collection had disappeared.
Vanessa had publicly denied that it belonged to her.
And eighteen years later, she had stolen my dress.
I thought of the trust, the missing education money, and the ownership document hidden beneath the sewing machine.
“Did my mother lose the company?””
Eleanor nodded slowly.
“Shortly after the scandal, your father took control of the business. He said your mother needed time away from the industry.””
“But she never returned.””
“No.””
I looked down at my hands.
My mother had died when I was young. I had always believed she had simply wanted a quiet life.
Now I wondered how much of that life had been forced upon her.
Eleanor placed a photograph on the table.
It showed my mother standing beside a woman with dark hair and a familiar face.
Vanessa.
Both were smiling.
But someone had drawn a thick red line through Vanessa's face.
On the back of the photograph was a handwritten note.
She knows where the original designs are.
I looked up.
“Who wrote this?””
Eleanor shook her head.
“I don't know. It was sent to me anonymously three years ago.””
“Why didn't you tell the police?””
“I tried. Without evidence, the case went nowhere.””
She reached across the table and gently covered my hand.
“Nia, I need you to understand something. Your mother wasn't simply talented. She was extraordinary. And I believe someone deliberately destroyed her career.””
My throat tightened.
“Who?””
Eleanor's eyes shifted toward the meeting room door.
“I think the person responsible is about to walk through that door.””
The handle turned.
Vanessa entered wearing a cream designer suit and a diamond necklace.
Beside her stood a tall man in a charcoal-gray suit, carrying a leather portfolio.
His eyes immediately settled on the document folder in my hands.
He smiled.
It was the kind of smile that made my skin crawl.
“Miss Carter,” he said.
“I've been looking forward to meeting you.””
Eleanor rose sharply.
“Graham Grant.””
The man's smile widened.
“Mrs. Hayes.””
I stared at him.
Mr. Grant.
The name Brianna had mentioned.
He extended his hand.
“I represent the interests of Carter House Fashion. And I'm afraid we have a problem.””
I didn't take his hand.
“What problem?””
He placed his portfolio on the table and opened it.
Inside was a document bearing my name.
A signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
And beneath it, a statement declaring that I had voluntarily surrendered all rights to my father's company.
Graham Grant looked directly at me.
“According to this agreement, Miss Carter, you no longer own Carter House Fashion.””
Then he turned toward Vanessa.
“And as you know, Mrs. Carter, the original collection belongs to the company.””
Vanessa smiled.
For the first time that morning, she looked completely confident.
But Eleanor had already reached for the photograph of my mother.
And when she turned it over, I saw the words written on the back.
The original designs are hidden where the first gown was made.
I thought of my mother's sewing machine.
The brass key.
And the sealed compartment beneath its wooden base.
I looked at Mr. Grant.
Then at Vanessa.
Neither of them knew what I had found.
May you like
Not yet.
And I was beginning to understand why they had spent eighteen years making sure I never learned the truth.
