Chapter 6: The Night My Stepfister Stole My Future
At 6:30 p.m., Brianna walked into the Whitmore Young Designers reception wearing my dress.
At 6:42 p.m., a photographer asked her who had created it.
And at 6:43 p.m., my stepsister smiled for the cameras and said, "I designed it myself.""
I wasn't there to hear her say it.
But I would soon learn that those seven words had set off a chain of events that neither she nor my stepmother could stop.
After Eleanor Whitmore's call, I sat beside my sewing machine and tried to control my breathing. My cheek had swollen where Vanessa had slapped me, and my elbow throbbed every time I moved it. The house was quiet except for the television downstairs.
I could have called the police about the assault.
I could have stormed into the living room and demanded my dress back.
Instead, I followed Daniel Price's advice. I preserved the recording, photographed my injury, and wrote down everything I remembered about the confrontation.
At 6:51 p.m., my phone rang.
It was Tessa.
"Nia, I just saw Brianna's story.""
My stomach tightened.
"What story?""
"She's at some fancy fashion event. She's wearing your gown.""
I closed my eyes.
"Send me the screenshot.""
A moment later, the image appeared.
Brianna stood beneath a chandelier, her hair styled in soft waves, her makeup flawless. The ivory satin caught the light, and the silver embroidery shimmered across her waist.
She looked beautiful.
That was the part that hurt most.
I had spent three months creating that dress. I had pricked my fingers, ruined countless scraps of fabric, and stayed awake until sunrise perfecting the smallest details.
Now Brianna was receiving compliments for work she had tried to destroy.
Tessa sent another message.
*Tessa:* She's telling everyone it's her original design.
I stared at the screen.
Then I noticed the caption beneath Brianna's photograph.
My first couture creation. Proof that dreams become reality when you work hard enough.
I let out a short, bitter laugh.
Work hard enough?
She had never spent a single hour making that gown.
She hadn't even bothered to learn how to thread a sewing machine.
My phone rang again.
This time, it was Eleanor.
"Nia, are you looking at the photographs?""
"Yes.""
"Good. Save every public post you can access. Daniel has already contacted the event organizers to request that they preserve the original images and any statements made during the reception.""
"Can they make her take the dress off?""
"Not immediately, and we won't make claims before we establish the facts. But the committee has been informed that there is a dispute over the design.""
I swallowed.
"What happens now?""
"We let the evidence speak.""
For the first time that evening, I felt something other than helplessness.
Eleanor continued.
"I also spoke with the committee chair. They have agreed to review your original sketches, the photographs of your construction process, and the gown itself tomorrow. Your attendance is essential.""
"I'll be there.""
"One more thing, Nia. Do you have any photographs of your mother wearing or working on her original designs?""
I remembered the torn photograph I had taped together.
"I have one picture of her with you.""
"Bring it.""
After we hung up, I opened my sketchbook and carefully placed the photograph between two sheets of paper.
Then I began collecting everything I had.
My original sketches.
Receipts for the satin and embroidery thread.
Photographs of the gown before Brianna damaged it.
Photographs of the repaired gown.
The email from Whitmore Atelier.
The recording of Vanessa's slap.
I put everything in a folder and placed it inside my schoolbag.
At 8:15 p.m., the front door opened.
Brianna entered first, carrying a bouquet of flowers and a gift bag from an expensive boutique. Vanessa followed, wearing the pleased expression she reserved for evenings when her daughter had received attention.
Dad came in behind them.
I stood at the top of the stairs.
Brianna spotted me.
"Oh, you're still awake.""
I looked at the garment bag she was carrying.
The gown was inside.
"Give me my dress.""
She laughed.
"Your dress?""
"Yes.""
She set the garment bag on the sofa.
"Actually, I think you'll find it belongs to me now.""
Vanessa removed her earrings.
"Nia, please don't start another argument. Brianna had a wonderful evening, and we should all be happy for her.""
"Did she tell everyone she designed it?""
Brianna's smile faltered.
"What's that supposed to mean?""
"I saw the photographs.""
She crossed her arms.
"So?""
"So you lied.""
Her expression hardened.
"I wore it. That's all.""
"You told the photographers it was your original design.""
"How do you know that?""
"Because people can read.""
Vanessa stepped between us.
"That's enough.""
I looked directly at her.
"No. It isn't.""
Her mouth fell open.
For two years, I had avoided looking her in the eye when she was angry. I had learned to keep my voice low, apologize quickly, and retreat to my bedroom before a disagreement became a punishment.
But something had changed.
Perhaps it was the slap.
Perhaps it was the realization that my father would never defend me unless he decided to defend himself first.
Or perhaps I was simply tired.
"You hit me today," I said.
"You took my dress, and now you're helping Brianna pretend she made it.""
Vanessa's cheeks reddened.
"I slapped you because you were being disrespectful.""
"You hit me because I wouldn't hand over something that belonged to me.""
"Don't twist my words!""
Dad stepped forward.
"Both of you, stop.""
I turned toward him.
"Did you hear what she said downstairs? Did you hear her telling Brianna to hide where the dress came from?""
His expression changed.
Vanessa stared at me.
"How would you know what I said?""
I didn't answer.
Brianna suddenly looked nervous.
"What are you talking about?""
I held up my phone.
"I recorded the conversation.""
For the first time that evening, nobody spoke.
Then Vanessa laughed.
It was a sharp, unpleasant sound.
"You recorded us? In my house?""
"I recorded what happened.""
"That's disgusting.""
"What's disgusting is hitting a seventeen-year-old girl because she won't surrender her own work.""
Dad looked at my swollen cheek.
His face went pale.
"Nia, let me see.""
I stepped back.
"You had your chance to look.""
He lowered his hand.
Brianna grabbed the garment bag.
"Mom, let's go upstairs.""
But before she could leave, her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
The color drained from her face.
"Hello?""
She listened.
Then her expression changed from confusion to panic.
"Wait. What do you mean?""
Vanessa approached her.
"Who is it?""
Brianna held up one finger, still listening.
"No, I designed it. I can prove it.""
A pause.
"Tomorrow? You want me there tomorrow?""
She ended the call and stared at her phone.
Vanessa seized her arm.
"What happened?""
Brianna's voice trembled.
"The showcase committee wants to see the original designer tomorrow morning.""
I remained still.
She turned toward me.
For the first time in my life, Brianna looked at me without contempt.
She looked afraid.
Then she asked the question that told me she understood more than she wanted to admit.
"Nia, what have you done?""
I looked at the garment bag.
May you like
"Nothing you didn't do yourself.""
And for the first time, my stepsister had no answer.
