Chapter 2: The Girl Who Wore My Future
I found the first proof of what Brianna had done at 10:17 that morning.
It was a photograph posted to her fashion account.
Brianna stood in front of a full-length mirror at a downtown photography studio, wearing my aqua gown.
My gown.
The sculpted neckline I had spent eleven nights perfecting curved around her shoulders. The fitted waist sat exactly where I had designed it. The skirt spilled across the studio floor in waves of blue and green.
Even the tiny asymmetry at the left hip was there.
I had done that deliberately because my mother once told me that perfection without personality looked like something made in a factory.
Brianna had copied every detail.
The caption read:
*Three months of work. One dream. My original design for the Atlanta Emerging Designers Gala.*
Below it, people were already congratulating her.
This is incredible!
You are so talented.
Girl, that neckline is everything.
I stared until the letters blurred.
Then I noticed a comment from Vanessa.
*So proud of my beautiful girl. You were born to do this.*
I felt something inside me go very still.
My phone slipped in my hand.
I called Brianna.
She rejected the call.
I called again.
She rejected it a second time.
Then a message arrived.
*Stop embarrassing yourself.*
I typed back.
*You stole my dress. Take the post down.*
Her reply came almost instantly.
*Prove it.*
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at those two words.
Prove it.
The sketches were mine. The progress photographs were mine. The receipts were mine. The video of me sewing the neckline was mine.
But Brianna was wearing the finished dress, standing beneath professional lighting, smiling for a camera while the world congratulated her.
I could already imagine what would happen if I accused her publicly.
Vanessa would say I had given her permission.
My father would ask why I couldn't be happy for my sister.
And Brianna would cry just convincingly enough to turn me into the villain.
I had seen that performance before.
At fourteen, I had confronted her after she took my mother's leather jacket to a party. She returned it with a cigarette burn near the cuff.
When I cried, Vanessa said I was being cruel because Brianna had complimented the jacket and wanted to feel close to our family.
At sixteen, Brianna wore my shoes to school and returned them with the heel broken.
Vanessa told me that money was tight and I should stop being materialistic.
But this time, the thing she had taken was worth more than a jacket or a pair of shoes.
It was my chance to leave.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the gala's official submission portal.
My application was still there.
Nia Carter.
Design title: Tidal Light.
Original submission date: three months earlier.
I downloaded the confirmation receipt and saved a screenshot.
Then I opened my private authentication page.
Every photograph had a timestamp. Every stage of construction was documented. My mother's old sewing machine appeared in the background of nearly every image.
There was even a short clip of me standing in front of the mirror, holding the completed bodice against my chest.
In the video, I was smiling.
I hadn't realized how rarely I smiled anymore until I saw it.
I saved everything to a flash drive and uploaded copies to a separate account.
Then I called Maya.
She answered on the first ring.
“Tell me you found the dress.””
I turned the laptop toward the camera.
Maya's expression changed as she read Brianna's caption.
“Oh, absolutely not.””
“She took it.””
“I can see that.””
“She says it's hers.””
Maya leaned so close to the screen that her face filled the frame.
“Nia, we have to tell the organizers.””
“I know.””
“Today.””
“I know.””
“Then why are you sitting there?””
Because I was afraid.
Because the people who had stolen from me were the same people I had to eat breakfast with.
Because a part of me still wanted my father to walk into the room, see what had happened, and say the words I had been waiting years to hear.
I believe you.
Instead, I closed the laptop.
“I need to talk to my dad first.””
Maya's face softened.
“Why?””
“Because if I go straight to the organizers, Vanessa will say I humiliated the family.””
“And if you don't?””
I looked at the photograph again.
“Brianna gets my future.””
Maya was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “Your father doesn't get to decide whether your work belongs to you.””
“I know.””
“Do you?””
I had no answer.
My father, Daniel Carter, had married Vanessa five years after my mother died. At first, I had wanted to like her. I had wanted to believe our family could grow without replacing the people we had lost.
Brianna came with Vanessa, and I tried to treat her like a sister.
I shared my room when she stayed over during the first months of the marriage. I helped her with school assignments. I lent her clothes and covered for her when she missed curfew.
But the more I gave, the more everyone expected me to give.
When I protested, Vanessa called me difficult.
When Brianna cried, my father asked me to apologize.
He wasn't cruel. That almost made it worse.
He worked long hours managing commercial properties around Atlanta. He wanted peace when he came home, and Vanessa had learned that the easiest way to provide it was to make me responsible for every argument.
I found him in the garage that afternoon, checking the oil in his car.
“Dad?””
He looked up.
“Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?””
I showed him the photograph.
He studied it, then frowned.
“That's a beautiful dress.””
“It's mine.””
His expression shifted.
“What do you mean?””
“Brianna took it from my room. She posted it as her own design.””
He wiped his hands with a rag.
“Are you sure she didn't use your design as inspiration?””
“Dad, look at the neckline. Look at the seam at the hip. Look at the stitching. I made every part of that dress.””
He looked at the photograph again.
“I'll talk to Vanessa.””
“No. I need you to listen to me.””
“I am listening.””
“She stole it.””
His jaw tightened.
“Watch your language.””
I stared at him.
“Stealing isn't a bad word when it's what happened.””
“I'm not saying you're wrong, Nia. I'm saying we need to handle this carefully.””
“Carefully for whom?””
He set the rag down.
“Don't do that.””
“Do what?””
“Turn this into a fight between you and Brianna.””
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“She entered a competition wearing my dress and claimed she designed it. How is that not already a fight?””
“Maybe there's been a misunderstanding.””
“A misunderstanding doesn't take eleven nights of sewing.””
He rubbed his forehead.
“I'll speak to her.””
“And if she lies?””
“Then we'll work it out.””
I waited.
He didn't offer to come with me to the gala. He didn't ask to see my records. He didn't call Brianna downstairs.
He simply returned to the car.
That was when I realized I couldn't depend on him to protect me from the truth.
I would have to protect it myself.
That evening, I went to the alterations shop where I worked part-time. Mrs. Evelyn Brooks, the owner, was pinning a hem when I entered.
She looked at my face and put the garment down.
“What's happened, baby?””
I tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
She led me into the back room, where the scent of steam and pressed cotton filled the air. I showed her the photograph.
Mrs. Brooks adjusted her glasses.
“Did you make this?””
“Yes.””
“Can you prove it?””
I nodded.
“Then don't waste your breath begging somebody to believe you. Put your evidence in order.””
She pulled a chair toward me.
“People will tell you that family matters more than pride. Sometimes they mean love. Sometimes they mean they want you to stay quiet because your silence is convenient.””
I looked down at my hands.
“I don't want to destroy my family.””
“Then don't destroy it. Tell the truth and let everyone decide what they want to do with it.””
She helped me print the dated photographs and organize my receipts. She even wrote a short statement confirming that she had watched me work on the gown during my breaks and had seen the early prototypes before Brianna's photograph appeared.
By eight that evening, I had a folder of evidence.
At home, Vanessa was waiting in the living room.
Brianna sat beside her, dressed in a cream sweater and jeans. She looked innocent enough to be posing for a family Christmas card.
My father stood near the fireplace.
Vanessa folded her arms.
“We need to discuss your behavior.””
I placed my folder on the coffee table.
“Good. I brought something to discuss.””
Brianna glanced at it.
Her smile faded.
Vanessa continued as though I hadn't spoken.
“Your father tells me you have been accusing Brianna of stealing your design.””
“I haven't been accusing her. She did steal it.””
Brianna's eyes filled with tears.
“There you go again.””
“Show them the pictures.””
She blinked.
“What?””
“The photographs of you wearing my dress. Show them.””
“I don't have to prove anything to you.””
“Then prove it to the gala organizers.””
Vanessa stepped forward.
“You will not threaten my daughter.””
“I'm not threatening her. I'm asking her to stop claiming my work.””
My father raised his hand.
“Enough. Both of you.””
I looked at him.
“Dad, please. Just look at the folder.””
He hesitated, then opened it.
He examined the original sketches, the dated construction photographs, and the submission confirmation.
His expression grew more serious with each page.
Brianna stood abruptly.
“Those could have been made afterward!””
“The application was submitted three months ago,” I said.
“The organizers have the original file.””
Vanessa snatched a photograph from his hand.
“Why would you keep all this? It's a dress, Nia. You act as though somebody has stolen your identity.””
I looked at her.
For once, I didn't lower my eyes.
“She stole my work and claimed my identity. That's exactly what happened.””
Brianna turned to my father.
“Dad, she has always hated me. She can't stand that I might actually succeed at something.””
He looked between us.
“Brianna, did you take the dress from Nia's room?””
Her mouth opened.
Then Vanessa answered for her.
“She borrowed it.””
I stared at her.
“Without asking?””
Vanessa lifted her chin.
“Brianna needed a dress for her portfolio. You have plenty of other designs.””
“That dress is my gala entry.””
“You can make another one.””
The words landed with such casual cruelty that I almost laughed.
Three months of work.
Eleven nights on a neckline.
My mother's voice in every stitch.
And Vanessa thought I could simply make another one.
I turned toward Brianna.
“You have until tomorrow morning to tell the organizers the truth.””
She wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Or what?””
“Or I'll show them everything.””
Her tears stopped.
For a fraction of a second, her face revealed something hard and furious.
Then she smiled.
“You really think anyone will believe you over me?””
She picked up her handbag and headed for the stairs.
At the first step, she paused.
“Oh, and Nia?””
I said nothing.
“Make sure you watch the gala livestream.””
She climbed out of sight.
I turned to my father, hoping he would finally say something that mattered.
Instead, he closed the folder and handed it back to me.
“Please don't make this worse than it has to be.””
I took the folder.
Then I walked upstairs.
In my room, I opened the gala's submission portal and searched for the contact information of the judging committee.
Before I could send my complaint, an email arrived.
The subject line read:
*Atlanta Emerging Designers Gala — Finalist Confirmation.*
I opened it.
May you like
The committee had reviewed the submissions.
And my name was not on the finalist list.
