Chapter 2: The Dress Nobody Was Supposed to See
At 11:17 p.m., I had three ruined pattern pieces, a bleeding thumb, and a dress that looked as if it had been attacked by an extremely artistic vampire.
I stared at the worktable.
The crimson paint had dried unevenly in some places, while other sections remained sticky. Every time I tried to remove a stain, the fabric grew weaker.
My first design wasn't going to work.
I pulled the thread from the needle and leaned back in my chair.
For one terrible moment, I considered throwing everything into the trash.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Vanessa appeared.
How's the funeral for your ugly little dress going?
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
Mom says you need to clean the carpet before Dad sees it. You made a huge mess.
I glanced at the floor.
The paint was everywhere, including the trail Vanessa had deliberately left with her heel.
She had destroyed my dress, and somehow I was still expected to clean up after her.
I typed a response.
You poured paint on me. I'm telling Dad.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Go ahead. Tell him. Let's see who he believes.
I put the phone facedown.
For years, I had treated Vanessa's cruelty like bad weather. I waited for it to pass, hoping that if I stayed quiet, the damage would eventually stop.
It never did.
I returned to the dress.
This time, I stopped trying to preserve the original design.
I cut the damaged bodice into separate panels, removing the sections where the paint had soaked through too deeply. Then I opened Mom's oldest sewing box, searching through faded buttons, lace, and scraps of fabric.
At the bottom, I found a length of dark blue satin.
I recognized it immediately.
It had come from one of Mom's evening dresses, the one she'd worn to a charity dinner years earlier. I'd been little enough to fall asleep beneath the banquet table while she talked to people whose names I couldn't pronounce.
She'd brought the leftover fabric home after shortening the dress.
I held it against the damaged skirt.
The colors matched almost perfectly.
"Okay, Mom," I whispered.
"Let's see what we can do.""
I worked until midnight, then one, then two.
I reshaped the neckline, added a structured panel across the waist, and used the dark satin to replace the worst-damaged section of the skirt.
The red paint became the foundation of an embroidered rose. I cut away the ragged edges, layered translucent red organza over the remaining stains, and stitched the petals into place.
The dress was becoming something different.
Something I hadn't planned.
At 2:26 a.m., the back seam split.
I stared at it.
"No," I whispered.
I tried again.
The fabric pulled apart.
My throat tightened. The design had become heavier than the original material could support, and I didn't have enough matching satin to replace the entire back.
I was about to search for another solution when I remembered the old formal gown hanging in the far corner of my closet.
It had belonged to Mom.
After she died, I couldn't bring myself to donate it. I'd kept it inside a protective garment bag, telling myself I'd eventually find a reason to take it out.
I unzipped the bag.
The gown was black, elegant, and slightly outdated. Mom had worn it to a winter gala, and I remembered how she'd spun around the living room while I clapped.
I touched the fabric.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Then I took out my scissors.
I couldn't save the gown as it was, but its lining was strong, and the black satin would reinforce the back of my new dress. I carefully removed the sections I needed, leaving the original gown's bodice and sleeves intact.
By four in the morning, the back seam held.
By five, the crimson rose was complete.
I stepped away from the machine.
The dress had a fitted dark blue bodice, a flowing skirt that shifted from blue to black, and a sweeping red rose stretching from the waist toward the hem. Fine silver stitching outlined the petals, catching the lamplight.
It wasn't the dress I'd bought.
It was something I had created.
I slipped it on and faced the mirror.
For a long time, I didn't say anything.
The girl staring back at me looked tired. Her eyes were swollen, and a small bandage covered her thumb.
But the dress was beautiful.
Not perfect.
Beautiful.
I thought about my mother, about all the things she'd taught me without realizing I would someday need them to survive.
Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.
I hurriedly pulled on a robe and covered the dress with a sheet.
My bedroom door opened without a knock.
Patricia stood there holding a cup of coffee.
Her gaze traveled across the sewing machine, the scraps on the floor, and the empty paint bucket near my dresser.
"Good Lord," she said.
"What happened in here?""
"Vanessa happened.""
Patricia took a slow sip of coffee.
"She told me you were being dramatic about your dress.""
"She poured red paint on it.""
"Well, you must have upset her somehow.""
I stared at her.
"She came into my room carrying a bucket of paint.""
"Perhaps she was trying to make a joke.""
"Does that look like a joke to you?""
Patricia's eyes settled on the red stains across the carpet.
She placed her cup on my dresser, right beside the bucket.
"Your father has enough to worry about without the two of you fighting over a school dance.""
"She destroyed something I paid for.""
"And you're making another one, apparently."" Patricia lifted the sheet covering my worktable.
"What is all this?""
I snatched the sheet back.
"Don't touch it.""
Her expression hardened.
"Excuse me?""
"It's my work.""
She gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
"Your work? You're playing dress-up with scraps of fabric. Don't pretend you're some kind of designer.""
She walked toward the door, then paused.
"By the way, your father has an important business dinner tonight. I expect you to stay out of the way. Vanessa is going with him, and we don't need you making a scene.""
I looked at the clock.
Prom was less than fourteen hours away.
"I have plans.""
Patricia turned.
"What plans?""
"Prom.""
She laughed.
"You're still going?""
I didn't answer.
She shook her head, as if I'd disappointed her by refusing to understand my place.
"Fine. But don't expect your father to drive you. Vanessa needs the car.""
Then she left.
I heard her footsteps retreat downstairs.
For several minutes, I stood motionless.
Then I looked at the dress again.
They were so certain I would surrender.
So certain that money, beauty, and family influence made them untouchable.
I folded the dress carefully and hung it inside my closet.
At six in the morning, I finally lay down for a short nap.
When I woke two hours later, my phone showed a missed call from my father.
I called him back.
He answered immediately.
"Claire, we need to talk.""
My stomach tightened.
"About what?""
There was a pause.
Then Dad said, "Vanessa told me you threatened to ruin her life because she accidentally spilled paint on your dress.""
I gripped the phone.
"She didn't spill anything. She threw it at me.""
"Please don't start arguing.""
"I'm telling you what happened.""
"I know you're upset, sweetheart, but Vanessa says you were screaming at her and threatening her.""
"Because she destroyed my dress!""
Dad exhaled.
"Can we please have one peaceful evening? Patricia's already stressed. Just apologize to Vanessa, and we'll figure something out.""
I looked at the closet where my new dress hung.
Something inside me went very still.
"No, Dad.""
Silence.
"What did you say?""
"I said no. I'm not apologizing for something she did to me.""
He sounded genuinely surprised.
"Claire, don't make this harder than it needs to be.""
I ended the call before I could say something I'd regret.
Then I opened my closet and took out the dress.
May you like
I had eight hours to get ready.
And for the first time in years, I wasn't going to ask permission to be happy.
