Chapter 4: The Design That Existed Before I Made It
The photograph lay between us like a challenge.
I leaned closer.
The dress in the image was unmistakably mine. The same metallic mesh. The same blue foundation. The same asymmetrical lines.
Except the photograph had been taken before I designed it.
Six weeks earlier.
“I've never seen this image,” I said.
The judge in the green jacket introduced herself as Eleanor Shaw, the creative director of the showcase. The two men beside her were members of the judging panel, both wearing expressions that suggested they'd heard every possible excuse from desperate contestants.
Eleanor tapped the photograph.
“Then explain why someone submitted it under your name.””
“I can't.””
“Do you recognize the location?””
“No.””
“Have you shared your sketches with anyone outside your personal circle?””
I thought about the months of work, the photographs I'd posted, the sketches I'd shared with Naomi, and the occasional pictures I'd uploaded to my private design account.
“Some early sketches, yes. But nothing that resembles this.””
Eleanor slid a second page toward me.
It contained a screenshot of an email sent to the competition six weeks earlier.
The sender had used an anonymous address.
The message read:
The entrant Claire Bennett has copied a design from an independent archive. Please investigate before awarding her any recognition.
Below the message was a link to a private image folder.
My stomach tightened.
“What's in the folder?”” I asked.
“Several images of your registered garment, apparently taken during development.””
“That's impossible.””
One of the judges, a man with narrow glasses, folded his arms.
“Ms. Bennett, we don't need you to agree with the evidence. We need you to explain it.””
“I can show you my original sketches. I can show you the dates on my files. I can show you the fabric receipts and the photographs from the reconstruction. But I didn't steal this design.””
Eleanor studied me.
“Do you understand why we're concerned?””
“Yes. But I'm concerned, too.””
I pointed to the photograph.
“If this was submitted six weeks ago, someone had access to an image of my design before I created it. Either someone has manipulated the evidence, or someone has been monitoring my work.””
The man with glasses exchanged a glance with Eleanor.
Naomi shifted beside me.
“Claire has been working on her designs in her own room. She hasn't had a studio or an assistant. If these images exist, someone must have taken them.””
Eleanor looked at Naomi.
“Do you have evidence of that?””
“We have photographs documenting the dress's reconstruction. And Claire's original sketches.””
“That's useful,” Eleanor said.
“But it doesn't resolve the earlier complaint.””
She stood and walked to the window.
For several seconds, she watched the crowd gathering outside the conference room.
Then she turned back.
“The showcase has a reputation to protect. We can't allow a designer to compete if there is credible evidence of plagiarism.””
I nodded.
“I understand.””
“However, we also can't allow someone to be disqualified based on fabricated evidence. We will investigate the original submission. Until then, your entry remains under review.””
“How long?””
“Until noon.””
I looked at the clock.
It was 8:37 a.m.
Three hours.
Eleanor closed the folder.
“One more thing. The person who submitted the complaint against you this morning was not the same person who sent the anonymous email six weeks ago.””
My heart skipped.
“Are you certain?””
“The accounts are different. The first sender used an anonymous address. The second submission came from an identifiable account registered to Madison Bennett.””
Naomi's head snapped up.
“So Madison knew about the earlier complaint?””
“We haven't established that.””
I looked at Eleanor.
“Can I see the earlier images?””
“Not yet. They're part of the review.””
I stood.
“Then I want to submit a formal statement.””
“Of course.””
“And I want the committee to preserve every file associated with these complaints.””
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
“You seem very certain about what you need.””
“My mother taught me that if you can't make someone treat you fairly, you can at least make sure they have to explain why they didn't.””
For the first time, Eleanor smiled.
“Your mother sounds like she was a sensible woman.””
“She was.””
I left the conference room with Naomi at my side.
The hallway seemed louder than before. Designers hurried past, models carried shoes and makeup bags, and volunteers called out registration numbers.
But all I could think about was the anonymous email.
Someone had known about my design six weeks before the competition.
Someone had been watching me.
And Madison had just happened to destroy the garment the night before I was supposed to present it.
The coincidences were beginning to feel deliberate.
Naomi pulled me into an empty alcove.
“Tell me you're thinking what I'm thinking.””
“That Madison might be involved?””
“I'm thinking she's absolutely involved.””
“Maybe. But the first complaint came six weeks ago. Madison wouldn't have known what I was going to make last night.””
“Unless she had access to your sketches.””
I shook my head.
“She saw the original dress. She didn't see the new design until last night.””
Naomi's eyes narrowed.
“Then someone else knew.””
I remembered the estate sale.
The theater fabric.
The strange metallic mesh that had inspired the reconstruction.
I had bought it from an estate outside Portland belonging to a retired costume designer named Evelyn Price.
I'd never met her. The estate company had sold dozens of boxes of old materials, and I had chosen the fabric because it looked unlike anything I'd seen before.
Could the original design have belonged to her?
I pulled out my phone and searched my email for the estate-sale receipt.
There it was.
The seller's name.
Evelyn Price.
A contact number.
I called.
A woman answered after five rings.
“Price residence.””
“Hello. My name is Claire Bennett. I bought some costume fabric at your estate sale six months ago.””
“Which fabric?””
“Silk ribbons woven through metallic mesh. Blue, silver, and violet.””
Silence.
Then the woman said, “Where did you get my number?””
“It was on the receipt.””
“Did you use the fabric?””
“Yes.””
Another pause.
“What did you make?””
I looked down at the dress.
“A gown.””
The woman exhaled slowly.
“Then you need to come here.””
My pulse quickened.
“Why?””
“Because that fabric wasn't supposed to be sold.””
I gripped the phone.
“What do you mean?””
“Evelyn's daughter handled the estate sale. She was told to keep the costume archives together. Some of the materials were part of an unfinished collection.””
“Whose collection?””
The woman lowered her voice.
“My sister's.””
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
“Who was your sister?””
“Evelyn Price was my sister. I'm Margaret.””
“But you said the collection belonged to your sister.””
“It did. My other sister.””
I stared at the wall.
“I'm sorry. I'm confused.””
“Evelyn wasn't the designer. She was the archivist. Our sister, Vivian, designed costumes for the theater for nearly forty years. She died before she could finish her final collection.””
I looked at the dress again.
The metallic mesh caught the hallway lights.
“Did Vivian design something similar to this?””
Margaret was silent long enough that I checked whether the call had disconnected.
Then she said, “Send me a photograph.””
I did.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Finally, my phone buzzed.
Margaret had sent me a photograph of an old sketch.
The drawing showed a woman in a long, flowing gown made from layered silk ribbons and metallic mesh.
The silhouette was different.
But the fabric was unmistakable.
At the bottom of the sketch was a handwritten title.
After the Ashes.
I couldn't breathe.
I had given my dress the same name without ever seeing Vivian's work.
Naomi leaned over my shoulder.
“Oh, my God.””
My phone rang again.
Margaret's voice was trembling.
“Claire, I need you to listen carefully. My sister's collection was never published. Only three people knew the title of that final design.””
“Who?””
“Vivian, Evelyn, and the person who stole her original sketches.””
I stared at the photograph.
“Who stole them?””
Margaret didn't answer immediately.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.
“An apprentice named Patricia Bennett.””
My knees weakened.
Patricia.
Madison's mother.
The woman who had married my father.
The woman who had laughed when Madison destroyed my dress.
I looked at Naomi.
She had heard every word.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Margaret said something that made my blood turn cold.
“Claire, if Patricia is in your family, you need to know what happened to Vivian's collection. Because the design she stole wasn't just a dress.””
“What was it?””
May you like
Margaret took a shaky breath.
“It was evidence.””
