Chapter 5: The Slap That Changed Everything
I opened my bedroom door just as Brianna began her performance.
She stood in the middle of the living room, tears gathering in her eyes, one hand pressed dramatically against her chest.
Vanessa was beside her, rubbing her shoulder.
Dad stood near the sofa with my printed photographs spread across the coffee table.
“She copied my ideas,” Brianna insisted.
“I told her about the gown months ago, and then she used them without asking.””
I walked down the stairs.
“That's a lie.””
Brianna spun around.
“You see? She always does this! She attacks me whenever I try to explain myself.””
I picked up the photographs from the table.
“Here are my original sketches. The dates are on every file. Here are the receipts for the fabric.
And here are the pictures of me constructing the gown at Mrs. Brooks's shop.””
Vanessa folded her arms.
“Photographs can be manipulated.””
“Then contact Mrs. Brooks. She supervised the entire process.””
Brianna's eyes flickered toward the papers.
For one second, the tears disappeared.
Then she started crying again.
“Mom, I can't believe she's doing this to me.””
Dad looked at the documents.
“Brianna, did you submit this design under your name?””
She shook her head.
“No.””
“Then why does the application say you created it?””
“Because I designed it first!””
I stepped closer.
“Show me one sketch you made before mine.””
She stared at me.
“I'm not going to play your stupid game.””
“Show me one.””
Vanessa stepped between us.
“That is enough.””
I looked directly at her.
“No. It isn't.””
Her face tightened.
“You have been disrespectful ever since I married your father.””
“I was respectful when you threw away my mother's curtains. I was respectful when you moved her photographs into the garage. I was respectful when Brianna ruined my dress and you told me to make another one.””
My voice trembled, but I continued.
“I was respectful when you stood there and told me my mother was dead, as if that meant everything she loved belonged in the trash.””
Vanessa's mouth opened.
I had never spoken to her like that.
I had never said the things I had carried inside me for two years.
“You don't get to call me disrespectful because I finally stopped letting you hurt me.””
Dad lowered his head.
Brianna wiped her cheeks.
Then she looked at the garment bag beside the staircase.
“Give me the dress.””
I turned toward her.
“What?””
“The blue dress. Give it to me.””
“No.””
She took a step forward.
“You don't need it. You have your ugly old sketches. I need the actual gown for the showcase.””
“You stole my design. You don't get to take my dress too.””
Vanessa moved toward the garment bag.
I rushed to grab it first.
“Don't touch that!””
She caught the hanger and pulled.
I held on.
“Let go, Nia!””
“No!””
The garment bag stretched between us.
Brianna grabbed the other side.
“Mom, just take it!””
“It's mine!”” I shouted.
Vanessa yanked hard enough to tear the protective cover.
The gown slipped halfway out.
I saw the white satin bodice and the midnight-blue overlay I had spent so many nights creating.
Panic surged through me.
“Please,” I whispered.
“You already ruined one dress. Please don't do this again.””
For a brief second, Vanessa looked at me.
Then she tightened her grip.
“You are going to stop making this family look bad.””
She shoved me away.
I stumbled backward.
My shoulder struck the edge of the sewing table Dad had moved into the hallway weeks earlier. Spools of thread scattered across the floor.
Before I could regain my balance, Vanessa slapped me.
The sound cracked through the room.
My head snapped sideways, and I crashed against the table.
Pain shot through my shoulder.
The garment bag fell.
Brianna snatched it up.
“Finally!””
I pushed myself upright.
“Give it back.””
Vanessa pointed at me.
“Don't you dare raise your voice at me again.””
I stared at her.
My cheek burned. My fingers trembled. My shoulder throbbed where it had struck the table.
Dad stepped forward.
“Vanessa, what the hell was that?””
She turned toward him.
“She was attacking me!””
“I saw you hit her!””
“She wouldn't let go of the dress!””
“Because it's hers!””
For the first time since Vanessa had entered our lives, my father sounded genuinely furious.
Brianna clutched the garment bag.
“Dad, stop! Mom was only trying to calm her down.””
“Put the dress down,” he ordered.
Brianna shook her head.
“No.””
“Brianna, put it down.””
She backed toward the stairs.
“You always take her side now!””
Dad moved to stop her, but Vanessa caught his arm.
“Marcus, don't humiliate your daughter!””
I looked at Brianna.
She was holding my dress as if she had won something.
As if the gown, the sketches, the countless hours of work, and my mother's memory were all trophies she could carry upstairs.
“Brianna,” I said quietly.
She stopped.
“Give it back.””
She looked at me with a smile that made my stomach turn.
“Come and get it.””
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“Maybe now she'll learn that actions have consequences.””
I could have screamed.
I could have thrown something.
I could have begged Dad to stop them.
Instead, I looked at the torn garment bag, the silver stitching, and the blue fabric falling over Brianna's arm.
Then I smiled.
Not because I was happy.
Not because the slap didn't hurt.
And certainly not because I had forgiven either of them.
I smiled because I finally understood something my mother had tried to teach me.
They could take the dress.
They could steal the design.
They could tell lies about me until the entire house believed them.
But they couldn't change the truth of who had created it.
And the foundation already had my evidence.
Brianna mistook my smile for surrender.
“There,” she said to Vanessa.
“See? She finally understands.””
Vanessa released Dad's arm.
“Take the dress upstairs, sweetheart. We'll discuss the rest tomorrow.””
Brianna turned and carried the gown away.
I watched her climb the stairs.
Then I looked at my father.
He stood beside the scattered spools of thread, his face pale.
“Nia,” he whispered.
“I'm sorry.””
I bent down and picked up a silver spool.
“Are you?””
He swallowed.
“I should have stopped this a long time ago.””
“Yes,” I said.
“You should have.””
I placed the spool on the table and walked upstairs.
Inside my bedroom, I locked the door.
My cheek had begun to swell. My shoulder hurt whenever I moved it. I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a cold cloth against my face.
Then I opened my laptop.
An email from the Bellamy Young Designers Foundation was waiting in my inbox.
The subject line read:
*URGENT: FINAL AUTHORSHIP REVIEW AND SHOWCASE INVITATION.*
I clicked it.
The committee had reviewed my original sketches, the dated photographs, the receipts, and Mrs. Brooks's statement.
They had also examined Brianna's submission.
The message contained three paragraphs.
The first confirmed that my original entry had been received before Brianna's.
The second stated that her application had been suspended pending the committee's final determination.
The third asked me to attend a private meeting the following morning.
At the bottom was a name.
Adrian Bellamy.
I knew who he was.
He was the founder of the organization, a respected figure in the fashion industry, and a man whose annual showcase had launched the careers of several young designers.
But what caught my attention was the final sentence.
Mr. Bellamy has requested your presence because your design bears a striking resemblance to a garment created by a designer whose work he has been trying to locate for nearly twenty years.
I read the sentence again.
Then I opened the attached photograph.
It showed an old gown with sculpted shoulders, a flowing white skirt, and delicate silver stitching along the seams.
The design was unmistakably similar to mine.
Beneath the photograph was a handwritten name.
Elena Carter.
My mother's name.
May you like
And suddenly, the most important question was no longer whether Brianna would be punished for stealing my dress.
It was why Adrian Bellamy had spent nearly twenty years searching for my mother—and what he knew about the future she had tried to leave me.
