Chapter 1: The Dress She Tried to Destroy
“Look at you, pretending you're going to be the prettiest girl at prom.””
I froze in front of my bedroom mirror.
Vanessa stood in the doorway, holding a metal bucket filled with red paint. Her manicured fingers curled around the handle, and her lips stretched into a smile I had learned to fear.
I looked down at my pale blue dress.
Six months of work.
Four months saving for the fabric. Two months working extra shifts at Miller's Bakery. Hundreds of hours sewing, measuring, cutting, and starting over whenever a seam wasn't perfect.
It was the first dress I'd ever made entirely by myself.
And tonight was supposed to be my first real prom.
“Vanessa,” I whispered, “what are you doing?””
She stepped inside, letting the bedroom door swing shut behind her.
“Admiring your little masterpiece.””
“Put the bucket down.””
“Why? Are you afraid I'll ruin it?””
I stared at her.
Something about the way she held that bucket made my stomach tighten.
“Please don't start,” I said.
“I just want to get ready.””
Vanessa laughed.
“Get ready for what? You actually think people are going to notice you tonight?””
She walked around me, examining the dress as if she were inspecting something she planned to throw away.
“The neckline is homemade. The fabric looks cheap. And those little beads?”” She touched one with her fingernail.
“How embarrassing.””
“They're Swarovski crystals,” I replied quietly.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize Cinderella had a credit card.””
I turned away.
Vanessa had always been like this.
Our parents had married three years earlier. My father had died when I was twelve, and my mother passed away two years later after a long illness.
When Richard married Patricia, I thought I might finally have a family again.
Instead, I became the girl who lived upstairs.
Vanessa got the master bedroom, designer clothes, expensive vacations, and a new car for her sixteenth birthday.
I got a smaller room, an allowance that never existed, and constant reminders that I should be grateful Richard had taken me in.
I never asked for much.
I worked at the bakery after school. I bought my own clothes. I paid for my school supplies and saved every dollar I could.
The dress was supposed to be different.
It was something I had made for myself.
Something nobody could take credit for.
Vanessa knew that.
And she hated it.
“Your mother would be embarrassed seeing you dressed like that,” she said.
My hands tightened around the vanity.
“Don't talk about my mother.””
“Why? She couldn't afford to buy you a proper prom dress. I guess you had to make one.””
“Get out.””
Vanessa tilted her head.
Then she lifted the bucket.
I barely had time to step backward.
The red paint came flying.
It struck my chest, splashed across the bodice, and poured down the pale blue skirt.
I screamed.
Thick crimson streaks spread over the fabric, dripping onto the carpet.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Vanessa dropped the empty bucket onto my bed.
“There,” she said.
“Now you have nothing to wear.””
I stared at her.
“Why would you do that?””
She shrugged.
“Because I can.””
“You destroyed something I spent six months making!””
“And?””
Her answer was so casual that it hurt more than the paint.
She picked up her phone and took a photograph of me standing beside the ruined gown.
“Hold still,” she said.
“This is hilarious.””
“Delete that.””
“Why? Afraid everyone will see your little fashion disaster?””
“Vanessa, delete it!””
She slipped the phone into her purse.
“Try not to cry too loudly. Mom's getting ready downstairs.””
Then she walked out.
I heard her bedroom door slam.
A few seconds later, Patricia called from downstairs.
“Vanessa, darling! Your hair appointment is in twenty minutes!””
“Coming, Mom!””
Her voice sounded cheerful.
As if nothing had happened.
As if I hadn't just screamed loud enough for the entire house to hear.
I sank onto the floor.
The dress lay across my legs, heavy with paint. My hands trembled as I tried to wipe away a stain.
It only spread.
I pressed my palms against my face.
I wanted my mother.
I wanted her to walk through the door, sit beside me, and tell me that everything would be okay.
But she wasn't coming.
Nobody was.
After several minutes, I forced myself to stand.
I carried the ruined gown to my sewing table.
My mother's old sewing machine sat beside the window. She had taught me to use it when I was nine.
I remembered her hands guiding mine through the fabric.
“Emma, sweetheart, never throw away something just because it doesn't look the way you imagined.””
I opened my sketchbook.
Most of the pages contained dresses I had dreamed of making someday.
Then I found one particular design.
A dramatic evening gown covered in sculpted roses.
I looked at the paint.
It hadn't spread evenly. Some sections had soaked into the material, while others had formed thick, raised patterns along the folds.
The red streaks looked almost like petals.
I pulled out my scissors.
At 8:47 p.m., I cut the first section of stained fabric.
At 9:15, I removed the original neckline.
At 10:00, I began reshaping the bodice.
My phone buzzed.
It was Lily, my best friend.
Lily: Are you okay? I heard something happened.
Me: Vanessa ruined my dress.
Her reply came immediately.
Lily: WHAT? I'm coming over.
Me: Don't. I have an idea.
Lily: Emma, what kind of idea?
I stared at the fabric.
Me: I'm going to make something better.
For the next several hours, my bedroom became a workshop.
I used the red-stained sections to create fabric roses. I stitched silver thread around their edges and added tiny crystals to their centers.
The original pale blue fabric became the foundation for a new design.
By midnight, my fingers were sore.
At two in the morning, the first rose was finished.
At four-thirty, the gown had a dramatic off-shoulder neckline and layers of sheer fabric that floated around the skirt.
I stepped away from the sewing machine.
Outside, the sky was changing from black to gray.
The dress was finished.
It wasn't the dress I had planned to wear.
It was better.
I stood in front of the mirror.
For the first time that night, I smiled.
Then my phone rang.
Lily.
“Emma, you need to check your email,” she said breathlessly.
“Good morning to you, too.””
“I'm serious. The academy just changed the prom scholarship announcement.””
I frowned.
“What announcement?””
“The scholarship. The one for the city's most prestigious fashion design academy.””
I looked at the gown.
“What about it?””
“They're not just judging the best-dressed student anymore. They're looking for the most original design.””
My heart began beating faster.
“And?””
“And the winner gets a full scholarship. Tuition, materials, and a paid summer internship with a major fashion house.””
I gripped the phone.
“Lily, I didn't even submit anything.””
There was a pause.
Then she said something that made my smile disappear.
“Emma, the judges have already received photographs of the dresses students submitted.””
“So?””
“Someone sent them a picture of your ruined dress.””
I stopped breathing.
“What?””
“It's circulating in the prom group chat, too.””
I looked at the red paint stains on the carpet.
“Who sent it?””
Lily hesitated.
“Emma, I think you already know.””
I did.
But before I could answer, another notification appeared.
An email from the academy.
*Subject: Important Notice Regarding Your Scholarship Application.*
I opened it.
May you like
And the first sentence made my blood run cold.
Dear Emma, we have received a formal complaint alleging that your submitted design contains copied elements and was created using another student's original work.
