Chapter 4: The Daughter Who Claimed My Hands
I read the document until the words blurred.
Brianna had submitted my design to the Bellamy Young Designers Foundation.
Not a similar design.
Not an interpretation.
My design.
The photograph showed the sculpted bodice I had sketched three months earlier, the asymmetrical skirt I had created after the paint incident, and the silver stitching pattern I had developed at Mrs. Brooks's shop.
She had even copied the name I had written beneath the final drawing.
Midnight Promise.
I sat motionless before my laptop.
Then I noticed the submission date.
Brianna had sent her application two days before the deadline.
She had included a statement claiming that the gown was an original design inspired by her late grandmother's love of fashion.
My mother's name appeared in the second paragraph.
Elena Carter.
I felt physically sick.
Brianna had never met my mother long enough to know her favorite color.
She had never heard her sing while sewing. She had never watched her turn scraps into flowers or seen her work until midnight because a customer needed a dress the next morning.
Yet she had used my mother's memory to make her lie sound convincing.
I picked up my phone and called Mrs. Brooks.
She answered immediately.
“Nia?””
“Brianna stole my design.””
“What do you mean?””
I emailed her the document.
A few minutes later, my phone rang again.
Mrs. Brooks sounded furious.
“She submitted your work under her own name?””
“Yes.””
“Did you give her permission?””
“No.””
“Then we will challenge it.””
I stared at the screen.
“What if the foundation believes her?””
“They won't if we give them the evidence.””
I opened the folder containing my photographs.
“I have the sketches.””
“Good.””
“I have the fabric receipts.””
“Excellent.””
“I have photographs from every stage of construction.””
Mrs. Brooks paused.
“Then, sweetheart, she has made a very serious mistake.””
I wanted to believe her, but my chest felt tight.
“There's something else,” I said.
“She wrote that the dress was inspired by my mother's work.””
Mrs. Brooks was silent for a moment.
“Then we make sure the committee understands exactly whose work it is.””
The following morning, I arrived at the shop before sunrise.
Mrs. Brooks had already prepared a folder containing my original sketches, dated photographs, fabric receipts, and a written statement confirming that I had designed and constructed the gown under her supervision.
She also had me write a detailed account of the paint incident.
“Keep it factual,” she advised.
“Dates, times, what happened, who was present. Don't exaggerate. The truth is enough.””
I wrote everything.
When I finished, she read the statement carefully.
“Are you comfortable submitting this?””
“Yes.””
“Then we'll send it.””
She attached the evidence to an email addressed to the foundation's review committee.
Before clicking send, she looked at me.
“Once this goes out, Brianna may become angry.””
“She already is.””
“Her mother may become angry too.””
“They already are.””
Mrs. Brooks nodded.
“Then you understand what you're choosing.””
I looked at the photographs of my dress.
“I understand.””
She sent the email.
For the first time in days, I felt as if I had done something besides react to other people's cruelty.
I had defended myself.
That afternoon, the foundation replied.
They had temporarily suspended Brianna's application pending review and requested that both applicants provide additional documentation.
They also confirmed that my original submission had been received before the competing entry.
Mrs. Brooks read the email twice.
“That is good news.””
“But they haven't ruled in my favor.””
“No. They are being careful. That's what a professional organization should do.””
I nodded.
Then she handed me a garment bag.
Inside was my finished gown.
I had spent the previous evening completing the final silver stitching. Mrs. Brooks had pressed the satin and secured the delicate overlay so that it would fall correctly when I walked.
I touched the fabric.
It felt like a miracle.
“It's beautiful,” I whispered.
“It's yours,” Mrs. Brooks replied.
I carried it home with both hands wrapped around the garment bag.
I planned to keep it in my locked bedroom until the final submission appointment.
But when I reached the house, Vanessa was waiting in the hallway.
“Where have you been?””
“At work.””
She looked at the garment bag.
“What is that?””
“My graduation dress.””
She held out her hand.
“Let me see it.””
“No.””
Her eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?””
“I said no.””
She stepped closer.
“Nia, I am not going to ask you twice.””
I gripped the bag.
“You already destroyed the first dress by refusing to hold Brianna accountable. I'm not letting either of you touch this one.””
Her face flushed.
“How dare you accuse me of destroying anything?””
“You watched Brianna ruin my gown and called it an accident.””
“Because you had no proof!””
“I have proof of everything now.””
For the first time, Vanessa looked uncertain.
Then Brianna appeared at the top of the stairs.
Her eyes locked onto the garment bag.
“What is that?””
“My dress.””
She came down slowly.
“Let me see.””
“No.””
Brianna looked at her mother.
“Mom, she's hiding something.””
Vanessa reached for the bag.
I stepped back.
“Don't touch it.””
Her expression changed.
“You will not speak to me that way in my own house.””
“Then stop trying to take my things.””
Brianna moved between us.
“Just let us see it, Nia.””
“No.””
Her voice dropped.
“You know what? Fine. Keep your little dress. It's not like you're going to win anything.””
I walked upstairs without answering.
Behind me, I heard Vanessa whisper, “We'll deal with her.””
I locked my bedroom door and placed the gown inside my wardrobe.
Then I took photographs of the room, the garment bag, and the lock.
I wasn't going to give them another opportunity to claim that I had imagined what happened.
At seven that evening, Dad knocked on my door.
“Nia? Can I come in?””
I hesitated before opening it.
He stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets.
“Your stepmother says you've accused Brianna of stealing your design.””
“She did.””
“She's upset.””
I stared at him.
“Dad, do you even know what she submitted?””
“No.””
“Then why are you asking me to make her feel better?””
He looked uncomfortable.
“I'm not asking that. I just want you two to stop fighting.””
I opened my laptop and showed him the foundation's email.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
His expression changed when he saw the photograph of Brianna's submission.
“This is your dress?””
“Yes.””
“And she said she designed it?””
“Yes.””
He sat on the edge of my bed.
“Why would she do something like this?””
I almost laughed.
“Because she thinks she can.””
Dad looked at the screen for a long time.
“I'm going to speak to her.””
I wanted to believe him.
But before he left, I asked one question.
“Dad, if she had stolen a designer's work instead of mine, would you still call it a family fight?””
He didn't answer.
He walked downstairs.
Twenty minutes later, I heard shouting.
Brianna's voice came first.
“She never told me she was entering that competition!””
Dad answered, “That doesn't give you the right to claim her work!””
Vanessa interrupted.
“Marcus, you're taking the word of a child who has been trying to turn this family against us!””
“I'm looking at the documents!””
“And I'm looking at a daughter who is being bullied!””
I sat beside my door, listening.
For once, Dad wasn't immediately backing down.
Then Brianna said something that made the entire house go silent.
“She stole the design from me first!””
I stood up.
My hand moved toward the door.
May you like
Because I knew exactly what she was about to claim.
And I wanted to hear whether my father would believe her.
