Chapter 2: My Mother Had Been Planning This for Months
I read the ownership dispute three times before I believed what I was seeing.
My mother hadn't simply taken my gown.
She had attempted to claim the design.
The submission portal displayed a document uploaded at 2:17 p.m., just twelve minutes before she and Brianna had entered my studio.
The document was titled:
*DESIGN OWNERSHIP TRANSFER — CARTER COLLECTION.*
My stomach tightened.
I opened it.
The first page contained my mother's name.
The second contained Brianna's.
And the final page contained a signature that looked disturbingly similar to mine.
Except I hadn't signed anything.
I leaned back in my chair.
The studio was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the corner and the ticking wall clock above my worktable.
My mother had been planning this.
I called Maya.
She answered on the second ring.
"Nia? What's wrong?""
"Someone filed an ownership dispute against my collection.""
"What?""
"My mother.""
There was a pause.
"Denise?""
"Yes.""
Maya exhaled sharply.
"Send me everything.""
I forwarded the documents.
A moment later, my phone rang again.
"Nia, this is bad," Maya said.
"I know.""
"No, listen to me. This isn't just someone trying to borrow your dress. They submitted a signed transfer claiming Brianna owns the design.""
I stared at the signature.
"That's forged.""
"Then we need to prove it.""
"I have the original sketches.""
"Good. What about the construction records?""
"Every single one.""
"Photographs?""
"Thousands.""
Maya paused.
"Then don't panic. We can fight this.""
I looked toward the mannequin.
It stood empty now, its metal arms extended like it was waiting for something that had been taken away.
"They have the dress," I whispered.
"Then we get it back.""
I shook my head.
"Not yet.""
"Nia, what do you mean?""
I glanced at the pendant around my neck.
"There's something else.""
I didn't explain.
Not even to Maya.
Because the secret inside that gown wasn't just about a hidden compartment.
It was about a woman named Evelyn Carter.
My grandmother.
She had been the only person in my family who ever believed I could become a designer.
When I was twelve, she taught me how to sew by hand. When I was fifteen, she gave me her old sewing machine. And when I turned eighteen, she handed me a small silver pendant.
Inside it was a tiny photograph of her standing in front of a fashion studio in Manhattan.
She had once owned that studio.
A small one, but a real one.
She had designed dresses for wealthy women in New York during the late 1980s and early 1990s.
Then she became ill.
The studio was sold.
Her designs disappeared.
And my mother spent the rest of her life pretending her own mother had never been anything more than a woman who liked sewing.
But Evelyn had left something behind.
A collection of original designs, legal documents, and a letter explaining that she wanted me to inherit the rights to her unfinished collection.
The inheritance had been sealed in a trust.
I discovered it six months earlier.
The pendant was the key.
And the gown was designed to carry the original documents safely to the foundation's legal review office.
I had placed authenticated copies of the inheritance records inside the hidden lining.
The originals were secured elsewhere.
If anyone tried to claim the dress, the documents would establish exactly who had designed it and why.
But there was another reason I had chosen that particular gown.
The floral embroidery matched a design my grandmother had created thirty years earlier.
A design my mother had once tried to sell under her own name.
I ended the call with Maya and opened an old photograph on my computer.
It showed my grandmother sitting at a sewing table.
Beside her was my mother, much younger, wearing a white blouse.
Behind them hung a sketch of a dress.
The same dress.
The same red flowers.
My grandmother had written a note on the back:
For the girl who will finish what I started.
I swallowed.
"She knew," I whispered.
A knock sounded at the studio door.
I quickly closed the photograph.
It was my mother's housekeeper, Gloria.
She had worked for our family for nearly twenty years and had always treated me more kindly than my mother did.
She entered carrying a small paper bag.
"I brought you something to eat.""
I smiled faintly.
"Thank you, Gloria.""
She set the bag down.
Then she noticed the empty mannequin.
"Where's your dress?""
I hesitated.
"Brianna has it.""
Gloria's expression fell.
"Again?""
I looked up.
"What do you mean?""
She glanced toward the door before lowering her voice.
"Your mother has been talking about that dress for weeks.""
My hands went still.
"Weeks?""
"She asked me whether you kept your grandmother's old documents. She wanted to know if you still wore that little silver necklace.""
My fingers closed around the pendant.
"Why?""
Gloria shook her head.
"I don't know. But yesterday, I heard her on the phone with someone. She said the dress would solve everything.""
My heart began beating faster.
"Did she say who she was talking to?""
Gloria hesitated.
"Someone named Mr. Whitmore.""
I knew that name.
Edward Whitmore was a wealthy fashion investor who had sponsored several national design competitions.
He also sat on the advisory board of the Bellamy Foundation.
I stood.
"Gloria, did my mother say anything else?""
She nodded.
"She said once Brianna wore the dress, nobody would question who designed it.""
I felt cold.
It wasn't just about stealing the gown.
My mother intended to present Brianna as its creator.
I sat down slowly.
Gloria touched my shoulder.
"Your grandmother wouldn't have wanted this.""
I looked at her.
"Did you know about the inheritance?""
Her eyes widened.
Then she reached into her handbag.
"I think it's time you saw something.""
She placed a small envelope on the worktable.
It was yellowed around the edges, with my grandmother's handwriting across the front.
*For Nia. Only when Denise tries to take what is yours.*
My throat tightened.
"Where did you get this?""
"Your grandmother gave it to me before she passed.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
Gloria's eyes filled.
"She made me promise to wait until the right moment.""
I opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was a folded letter and a photograph.
The photograph showed my grandmother standing beside a young woman in a beautiful floral gown.
The woman was my mother.
On the back, my grandmother had written:
Denise wore my designs once. She knows what happened. Don't let her rewrite the story.
I unfolded the letter.
The handwriting was shaky but unmistakable.
My darling Nia,
If you are reading this, then your mother has probably discovered the collection. She may tell you that she deserves it. She may tell you that family means sharing everything.
But there is one thing she will never tell you.
I didn't lose my studio because I failed.
I lost it because I trusted my daughter.
I stopped reading.
My fingers trembled.
Gloria pulled a chair closer.
"There's more," she whispered.
I continued.
Denise borrowed money from my business, forged my signature, and transferred my designs to a company controlled by a man named Edward Whitmore. When I discovered what she had done, she begged me not to expose her.
I chose silence because she was my daughter.
It cost me everything.
I stared at the page.
My mother had stolen from her own mother.
And now she was trying to do the same thing to me.
The letter continued.
The silver pendant is not simply a keepsake. It contains the identification code for the original trust archive. The full legal record is held by my attorney. If anyone challenges your ownership, contact the number written beneath this letter.
I turned the page over.
There was a phone number.
And a name.
*HARRISON VALE — TRUST ATTORNEY.*
I immediately searched the number.
A Manhattan law firm appeared.
The firm was still active.
Before I could call, my phone lit up.
An incoming call.
Unknown number.
I answered cautiously.
"Hello?""
A man's voice spoke.
"Is this Nia Carter?""
"Yes.""
"My name is Edward Whitmore. I believe your mother has already explained our arrangement.""
My grip tightened.
"What arrangement?""
He chuckled.
"There's no need to pretend. Brianna will be presenting the floral gown at tomorrow's private preview.""
I stared at the screen.
"That gown belongs to me.""
"Perhaps originally.""
"There's nothing perhaps about it.""
His voice became colder.
"Listen carefully, young lady. Your mother signed the transfer. Your sister has agreed to represent the collection. I would advise you not to create an embarrassing situation.""
I looked at my grandmother's letter.
Then at the pendant.
"Mr. Whitmore, do you know Evelyn Carter?""
Silence.
A long, uncomfortable silence.
Then he spoke.
"Where did you hear that name?""
I smiled without humor.
"From the woman whose designs you stole.""
The call ended.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A message from Maya.
She had examined the ownership documents.
*Maya:* Nia, I found something. The transfer was submitted using your old digital signature.
I frowned.
*Me:* What old signature?
Her reply came immediately.
*Maya:* The one you used on the apprenticeship agreement your mother made you sign when you were eighteen.
My blood ran cold.
I remembered that document.
My mother had told me it was simply permission for her to help manage my early design work.
I had signed it without reading every page.
But why was a signature from eight years ago being used now?
Another message arrived.
*Maya:* There's a clause attached to it. Your mother claims she owns every design you created while living under her roof.
I stared at the words.
Every design.
Every sketch.
Every collection.
Then I remembered something else.
The Bellamy Foundation's rules.
Any designer accused of transferring ownership without proper authorization could be disqualified until the dispute was resolved.
My mother wasn't simply trying to give Brianna my dress.
She was trying to make sure I couldn't compete at all.
And suddenly, I understood why she had been smiling when she handed the gown to my sister.
She thought she had already won.
I picked up my grandmother's letter again.
At the bottom of the final page was one additional sentence, written in darker ink.
If Whitmore is involved, ask Harrison about the original photograph from the night my studio closed.
I looked at the photograph Gloria had brought.
Then I turned it over again.
There was a tiny handwritten date.
And beneath it, a second name.
*DENISE CARTER — SEPTEMBER 14, 1994.*
May you like
My mother had been there.
But what exactly had happened that night?
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