Chapter 2: The Price of Being Invisible
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
The photograph showed my dress from the front, its silver embroidery shining against the midnight-blue silk.
I recognized the picture immediately.
I had taken it in my bedroom three nights earlier.
The original was saved on my laptop.
The copy in front of me had been printed on glossy paper.
And beneath it, someone had written a title in elegant black lettering.
*Brianna Vale — Starlight Collection.*
My stepsister's name.
My design.
My mother's lace.
I looked at Vanessa.
“What is this?””
She stirred her coffee.
“An opportunity.””
“An opportunity for whom?””
“For Brianna, naturally.””
I picked up the photograph with trembling fingers.
“You stole my picture.””
“Don't be dramatic.””
“You printed my design and put her name on it.””
Vanessa sighed as though I were a difficult employee who had misunderstood a simple instruction.
“The competition committee doesn't need to know every detail of how a garment was developed. Brianna has the confidence and presentation skills to represent the family beautifully.””
“The family?”” I repeated.
“This is my dress.””
Brianna entered the kitchen wearing a pink silk robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.
She took one look at the photograph and smiled.
“Mom said you'd make a scene.””
I turned toward her.
“You knew about this?””
“Of course.””
“You can't enter my design.””
“Why not? You made it for a competition. I'm entering the competition.””
“Under your name!””
Brianna opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of orange juice.
“It's just a dress, Nia.””
The words landed harder than a slap.
Just a dress.
She had no idea what it had cost me to make it. She had never sat beside my mother at that old sewing table. She had never watched her hands grow weak as the illness took over. She had never held that little wooden box and wondered whether the world would ever let her feel close to someone she had lost.
To Brianna, the dress was a shortcut to a scholarship.
To me, it was three months of work and eight years of grief, transformed into something beautiful.
“You can't do this,” I said.
Vanessa set down her coffee cup.
“Actually, I can.””
She opened a folder and slid a printed document across the table.
It was a declaration stating that Brianna Vale was the original designer of the gown and that all submitted materials were her intellectual property.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
I stared at it.
The letters were close enough to look convincing.
But I had never signed that document.
“That's a forgery.””
Vanessa's expression hardened.
“Be very careful with your accusations.””
“I never signed this.””
“Your father authorized the family to help Brianna prepare her entry.””
“My father doesn't own my designs!””
“Lower your voice.””
“No.””
The word came out before I could stop it.
Brianna stopped pouring her juice.
Vanessa rose slowly from her chair.
“You live in this house because Marcus provides for you. You eat the food he buys. You use the electricity he pays for. And you think you can stand here and speak to me as though you're some independent businesswoman?””
I swallowed.
“This has nothing to do with money.””
“Everything has to do with money, Nia. Your little hobby has consumed enough of it already.””
“I bought the materials with my own savings.””
“And who paid for the roof over your head while you saved?””
Brianna leaned against the counter, watching with open amusement.
“Just let me wear the dress,” she said.
“You'll still have your sketches.””
I turned to her.
“You're asking me to hand you my future.””
She shrugged.
“I'm asking you not to ruin mine.””
For a moment, I saw the truth beneath her carefully arranged expression.
She wasn't simply borrowing my design.
She was afraid.
Brianna had spent her entire life being told she was special, but she had never built anything that proved it. She could dance when someone taught her the steps. She could pose when a photographer told her where to stand. She could charm a room when her mother prepared the introduction.
But she couldn't create The Last Light.
And she knew it.
I looked at Vanessa again.
“I won't sign anything.””
“You already have.””
“I didn't.””
Vanessa closed the folder.
“Then perhaps the competition committee should decide whose signature it is.””
She walked out of the kitchen.
Brianna followed, but paused in the doorway.
“You could make this easy,” she said.
I held up the forged declaration.
“You could stop being a thief.””
Her face turned red.
“Mom was right about you.””
“About what?””
“That nobody will ever love you if you keep acting like you're better than everyone else.””
Then she disappeared upstairs.
I stood alone beside the breakfast table, staring at the fake signature.
My hands were shaking so badly that the paper rattled.
I wanted to call Dad immediately, but I knew what he would say.
He would ask me to calm down.
He would promise to talk to Vanessa.
He would tell me that family disagreements could be resolved if everyone stopped making accusations.
And somehow, by the end of the conversation, I would be the one apologizing.
Still, I called him at work.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?””
“No, Dad. Vanessa is entering Brianna in my competition using my dress.””
There was a pause.
“What do you mean, using your dress?””
“She has photographs of my design and a declaration with a forged signature. Brianna knows about it.””
“Slow down, Nia.””
“I am talking slowly.””
“Don't get upset. I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding.””
I closed my eyes.
“Can you come home and look at the document?””
“I have a meeting in twenty minutes.””
“Dad, please.””
“I'll talk to Vanessa tonight, all right?””
“She has already decided what she's doing.””
“Nia, she's your stepmother. Let's not turn this into a war.””
I stared at the kitchen doorway.
“She turned it into a war when she stole my work.””
“Nia—”
I ended the call.
It was the first time I had ever hung up on my father.
I felt sick afterward.
But I also felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Anger.
Not the hot, helpless anger that made me cry into my pillow.
Something colder.
Something that told me I had spent too long waiting for other people to decide that I deserved fairness.
I went upstairs, locked my bedroom door, and opened my laptop.
First, I backed up every photograph of the dress.
Then I exported the original files, including the images that showed the construction process, the timestamps, and the details of the embroidery before the gown was completed.
I copied my design registration certificate.
I photographed the handwritten notes in my sketchbook.
Finally, I emailed everything to Mrs. Ellis.
Her reply arrived eleven minutes later.
Do not confront them without evidence. Save everything. Come see me first thing tomorrow.
I read the message twice.
Then I did something else.
I called the competition's official office.
A woman named Patricia answered.
“Good afternoon, Young American Designers Competition.””
“My name is Nia Carter. I submitted an original gown called The Last Light.””
“Yes, Miss Carter. I have your entry here.””
“Someone has submitted my design under another person's name. I need to know how to protect my entry.””
Her voice became more serious.
“Do you have evidence of original authorship?””
“Yes.””
“Then send it to our integrity office immediately. Please don't alter any original files. We'll review the documentation.””
I thanked her and sent the evidence before I could lose my nerve.
For the first time that morning, I felt a little less helpless.
Then I heard footsteps outside my bedroom.
The doorknob turned.
Locked.
“Nia?”” Vanessa called.
I closed my laptop.
“What?””
“Open the door.””
“I'm working.””
“This is important.””
I waited.
Her voice softened.
“Darling, I've been thinking. Perhaps I was too harsh this morning.””
That was new.
Vanessa didn't apologize.
Not even when she was wrong.
I opened the door but kept one hand on the knob.
She held a garment bag.
“Brianna would like to try the dress on.””
“No.””
Her smile faltered.
“She has a fitting with the school photographer tomorrow. We need to make sure it suits her.””
“You're not taking the dress.””
Vanessa looked past me into the bedroom.
“I don't think you understand the position you're putting yourself in.””
“I understand perfectly.””
Her eyes settled on the laptop.
“Have you sent those files to someone?””
I said nothing.
For a second, the mask slipped.
Her mouth tightened. Her fingers curled around the garment bag.
Then she smiled again.
“Your father will be very disappointed when he learns you've been trying to destroy Brianna's future.””
She turned and walked away.
I locked the door.
That night, I pushed my dresser against it and slept with the garment bag beside my bed.
At six in the morning, I woke to a strange silence.
The house was usually full of little sounds: the kitchen faucet, the heating system, Vanessa's heels against the hallway floor.
Now there was nothing.
I reached behind the dresser and opened my wardrobe.
The garment bag was still there.
My heart slowed.
Then I unzipped it.
The dress was gone.
In its place lay a white envelope.
My name was written across the front in Brianna's handwriting.
Inside was a note.
You should have let me have it.
Beneath the note was a photograph of Brianna standing in my dress.
May you like
And on the back, someone had written a date.
The day of the statewide final.
