Chapter 1: The Dress They Tried to Destroy
“Maybe now everyone at prom will finally see what a pathetic loser you really are.””
Vanessa said it with a smile, standing in my bedroom doorway while red paint dripped from the bucket in her hands.
For one frozen second, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
My pale blue satin dress—the dress I'd spent three months saving for—was soaked in crimson. Thick streaks ran down the bodice, splattered across the skirt, and stained the carpet beneath my feet.
My phone lay on the floor, still recording.
Vanessa glanced at it and laughed.
“Oh, please tell me you got that on camera. I'd love to see the look on your face.””
I stared at her.
“What is wrong with you?””
She tilted the empty bucket, letting the last drops fall.
“I'm doing you a favor, Lily.””
“You destroyed my dress!””
“Correction. I destroyed an ugly dress that was making you feel important.””
I grabbed a handful of the ruined satin.
Three months.
Three months of waking up at five in the morning to open the bakery with Mr. Harris. Three months of missing movie nights, birthday dinners, and Saturday afternoons at the mall because every dollar mattered.
I'd bought that dress with money I earned myself.
Not my father's money.
Not the allowance Vanessa received every month without lifting a finger.
Mine.
And tonight was supposed to be the one night I could walk into a room without feeling like somebody's unwanted extra.
Vanessa examined her pale pink manicure.
“You know what the funniest part is?”” she asked.
“You actually thought you were going to look beautiful.””
“Get out.””
“Excuse me?””
“Get out of my room!””
Her smile disappeared.
She stepped forward and kicked the ruined hem away from my feet.
“Don't shout at me, Lily. Dad already thinks you're dramatic. Do you really want to give him another reason?””
The words hit harder than the paint.
Ever since my mother died two years ago, I'd become an expert at swallowing things I wanted to say.
My father, Daniel, had married Vanessa's mother, Patricia, eleven months after the funeral. He'd told me it was time for our family to heal.
I had tried.
But Vanessa took my mother's old bedroom and called it an upgrade. She borrowed my things and returned them broken. She invited her friends over and introduced me as the girl who lived upstairs.
Whenever I complained, Patricia became offended, Vanessa became innocent, and Dad asked why I couldn't just get along with my new family.
So I learned to stay quiet.
But this was different.
“You knew how much this meant to me,” I whispered.
Vanessa shrugged.
“That's why I did it.””
She tossed the bucket onto my desk.
“Anyway, have fun finding something else to wear. Oh, wait. You spent all your money on that.””
Then she turned toward the hallway.
“Try not to cry too loudly. I have a hair appointment in twenty minutes.””
The door slammed.
I stood there until her footsteps disappeared.
Then my knees gave out.
I sank to the carpet, gathering the dress against my chest as though I could somehow protect what was left of it.
The red paint smeared across my fingers.
I cried for the dress. I cried for the money. I cried because my mother wasn't there to tell me what to do.
And I cried because I knew Vanessa would tell this story differently before dinner.
She would say I'd been careless.
She would say I'd overreacted.
She might even convince my father that I'd somehow done it myself.
Eventually, I reached for the little wooden box on my nightstand.
Inside were the few things I'd kept from my mother: a silver necklace, a faded photograph, two handwritten birthday cards, and a folded scrap of paper.
I opened it carefully.
Her handwriting was small and slightly slanted.
Sometimes, sweetheart, what people try to destroy becomes the very thing that makes you extraordinary.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I looked at the dress.
The paint had spread in irregular patterns across the blue satin. Some areas were completely ruined, but others were untouched. Along the skirt, the streaks branched into thin, curved lines.
They looked almost like petals.
A strange idea began forming in my mind.
If I couldn't hide the red, I would make it the point.
If I couldn't restore the dress I'd bought, I would create something nobody else could buy.
I carried the dress to the worktable beside my sewing machine.
My mother had taught me to sew when I was eleven. She used to say that a good designer didn't simply make beautiful clothes.
A good designer gave people a reason to feel beautiful.
I switched on the lamp.
Then I took my scissors from the drawer.
The first cut was the hardest.
I sliced away the section where the paint had soaked too deeply into the fabric.
The second cut came easier.
Soon, the ruined dress was spread across the table in pieces.
I worked until the room smelled of warm fabric, machine oil, and paint.
At 10:47 p.m., I had removed the damaged bodice.
At 11:26 p.m., I had reshaped the neckline.
At 12:15 a.m., I had arranged the remaining satin into a completely different silhouette.
The first design looked terrible.
I ripped it apart.
The second was too stiff.
I started again.
My fingers cramped. My eyes burned. Once, I pricked my thumb with a needle and left a tiny spot of blood on the scrap fabric.
I cleaned it, wrapped my thumb in a bandage, and kept working.
At 2:03 a.m., I found the solution.
The red stains could become roses.
I shaped the paint-marked pieces into layered crimson petals, stitching each one into place with silver thread. I used the cleanest blue sections as the foundation and added translucent mesh from an old school costume.
The ruined skirt became an asymmetrical cascade of blue satin and crimson flowers.
At the neckline, I embroidered tiny silver veins through the petals.
Then I opened the tin of crystals my mother had given me when I was fourteen.
I had saved them for a special occasion.
This was it.
At 4:36 a.m., I finally stepped away from the machine.
The dress hung from the wardrobe door.
It wasn't the dress I'd purchased.
It was better.
The blue satin shimmered beneath the light. Crimson roses swept diagonally across the skirt, each one surrounded by delicate silver stitching. The neckline looked like a garden of flowers caught in the middle of a midnight storm.
I touched one of the petals.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I hope you would've liked it.””
My phone vibrated.
A notification appeared.
*Vanessa has posted a new story.*
I shouldn't have opened it.
But I did.
There was a picture of my ruined dress on the carpet, taken from the doorway.
The caption read:
Some people really need to learn that prom isn't for everyone.
Underneath it were laughing emojis.
Within minutes, several people from school had reacted.
Then I saw a comment from Madison, Vanessa's best friend.
Wait. Is that Lily's dress?
Vanessa replied:
Unfortunately.
I stared at the screen.
My hands began shaking.
Then another message appeared.
This time, it was from an unknown number.
Hey, Lily. I just saw Vanessa's story. Are you okay?
I typed back.
Who is this?
The answer came immediately.
Ethan. I think you should know something. Vanessa didn't just post that picture. She's been telling people what she's planning to do tonight.
My stomach tightened.
What do you mean?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally, he sent a message.
She's planning to embarrass you in front of the entire school. And Lily, I think you need to see the video.
A file appeared beneath his message.
I pressed play.
And my blood ran cold.
Because the video showed Vanessa standing in my bedroom.
But it also showed something I hadn't seen.
Someone else had been holding the camera.
Someone who had helped her carry the paint upstairs.
Someone whose face appeared clearly when the video ended.
My father's wife.
May you like
Patricia.
And she was laughing.
