Chapter 2: The Secret Beneath the Sewing Box
I didn't sleep that night.
At 2:13 a.m., I was still sitting on the studio floor, surrounded by fabric scraps, photographs, and the contents of my grandmother's sewing box.
The old photograph lay in front of me.
Grandmother Evelyn.
My mother.
And the turquoise gown.
I turned it over again.
The first Carter girl was never given credit.
Seven words.
Seven words that suddenly made my sister's behavior feel much bigger than a stolen design.
I called my mother.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Nia? Do you know what time it is?""
"Mom, I need to ask you something.""
There was a pause.
"Is something wrong?""
I held the photograph tightly.
"Did Grandma ever design a turquoise gown?""
Silence.
Then I heard my mother sit up.
"Where did you find that photograph?""
"In her sewing box.""
Another silence.
"Nia, you shouldn't be going through those things tonight.""
"Why?""
"Because it's late, and you have the competition tomorrow.""
"Mom, whose design was it?""
She exhaled.
"Your grandmother's.""
I closed my eyes.
"Then why did she write that the first Carter girl was never given credit?""
My mother didn't answer.
"Mom?""
"Some stories are better left alone.""
I stood up.
"Not when they're happening again.""
The line went quiet.
Then my mother said something I had never expected.
"Camille knows?""
"Knows what?""
"About the original gown.""
I looked toward the mannequin.
"She stole my design.""
My mother made a small, broken sound.
"Then it really is happening again.""
At seven the next morning, I arrived at the studio before anyone else.
The competition was scheduled for that evening.
I had less than twelve hours to decide what I was going to do.
I spread my sketches across the worktable and examined the gown.
Camille had added her initials to the bodice, but she hadn't changed the structure.
The original train was still there.
So were the thousands of crystals I had sewn by hand.
I could remove her emblem.
But that would destroy several hours of delicate work.
I could also bring the original sketchbook and attempt to prove ownership.
But I had a stronger idea.
The gown itself could tell the story.
I took out a small magnifying lamp and examined the bottom of the train.
There, beneath the folds, were the tiny crystals spelling NIA CARTER.
Camille hadn't noticed them.
She had assumed the lettering was decorative.
I smiled for the first time that morning.
Then I heard the front door open.
"You're here early.""
Camille walked into the studio wearing a tailored black suit.
Her straight dark hair fell neatly over her shoulders. A gold watch glinted at her wrist.
She looked at the gown.
"Good. I was hoping you'd finish the final adjustments.""
I didn't look up.
"They're finished.""
"Perfect. My driver will collect it at noon.""
"No.""
Camille stopped.
"What?""
"I'm bringing it myself.""
She laughed.
"Don't be ridiculous. You're not on the official guest list as a designer.""
"I am a finalist.""
"You're listed as a student assistant.""
I looked directly at her.
"Then someone needs to correct the paperwork.""
Her expression changed.
"Nia, I don't have time for this.""
"Neither do I.""
She walked toward the table and picked up my grandmother's photograph.
For one terrible second, I thought she would recognize it.
Instead, she placed it down carelessly.
"What's this?""
"Grandma's.""
"Put it away. We have enough distractions.""
I reached for it.
Camille caught my wrist.
"Listen. I know you're upset about the dress, but you need to understand something. This competition is important to me.""
"It's important to me too.""
"You've barely been out of this town. You don't understand how this industry works.""
"Maybe that's why you think you can steal from me.""
Her fingers tightened.
Then she released me.
"Be careful what you accuse me of.""
I stared at her.
"Be careful what you wear.""
For a moment, the room was completely silent.
Then Camille laughed.
"Fine. Keep your little dramatic speeches. Just make sure that gown is ready.""
She walked out.
I waited until the door closed.
Then I picked up the photograph and noticed something I had missed.
The younger version of my mother was holding a piece of paper.
On it was a handwritten design label.
At the bottom, beneath the name Evelyn Carter, was another name.
MARGARET CARTER.
My mother's full name.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was a date.
Sixteen years before Camille was born.
I immediately called Mom.
This time, she answered before the first ring finished.
"Mom, I need the whole story.""
I heard her breathing.
Then she said, "Come home after the competition. I'll tell you everything.""
"Why not now?""
"Because your sister is not the only person who has been lying to you.""
My heart began pounding.
"What does that mean?""
But she had already hung up.
At noon, I carried the gown into the back of a small delivery van.
I had refused Camille's offer to send a driver.
The dress was too important to leave in someone else's hands.
As we drove toward the downtown exhibition center, I watched the city move past the window.
Billboards.
Traffic lights.
People rushing along the sidewalks with coffee cups and shopping bags.
It was strange to think that somewhere inside the enormous building ahead, people would soon decide whether my future mattered.
When I arrived, the lobby was already crowded.
Designers carried garment bags.
Models hurried between dressing rooms.
Photographers tested their cameras.
A large screen displayed the names of the ten finalists.
I found Camille's name immediately.
CAMILLE CARTER — CARTER ATELIER.
I searched for mine.
Nothing.
I approached the registration desk.
"Excuse me. I'm Nia Carter.""
The young woman behind the computer smiled politely.
"Are you here with Ms. Camille Carter?""
"No. I'm a finalist.""
She checked the screen.
"I'm sorry, but I don't see your name.""
"Could you check again?""
She typed.
Then frowned.
"You're listed as a technical assistant.""
I felt my throat tighten.
"That's incorrect.""
"I'm afraid I can't change the official roster.""
"Who submitted the entry?""
"Ms. Carter's representative.""
"Which Ms. Carter?""
The woman hesitated.
"Camille.""
I stared at her.
My own sister had submitted my work under her name and removed me from the finalist list.
Before I could speak, a familiar voice came from behind me.
"Is there a problem?""
I turned.
Camille stood near the entrance.
She had changed into a black tailored suit with a white silk blouse.
Her hair was perfectly straight.
Her smile was perfect too.
"Everything all right, Nia?""
I looked at the registration clerk.
"She entered my design under her name.""
Camille laughed lightly.
"Oh, sweetheart. We discussed this.""
"No, we didn't.""
She turned toward the clerk.
"She's been helping me with the construction. She's very talented, but she gets emotional when deadlines approach.""
The clerk nodded awkwardly.
Camille placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Come on. I'll show you where the assistants wait.""
I stepped away.
"Don't touch me.""
Her smile disappeared.
For the first time, people nearby began looking at us.
Camille leaned closer.
"Do you want to embarrass yourself in front of everyone?""
"No. I want my name back.""
She looked toward the stage.
Then she lowered her voice.
"Here's what's going to happen. You'll stay backstage, help with the final preparations, and after I win, I'll tell everyone you contributed.""
"You already promised that.""
"And I'm still promising.""
"That's not enough.""
Her eyes hardened.
"Then you get nothing.""
She turned and walked away.
I watched her disappear into the crowd.
Then someone gently touched my elbow.
A tall woman in a navy blazer stood beside me.
She was in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a small pair of glasses.
"Are you Nia Carter?""
I nodded.
"I'm sorry. Do I know you?""
She extended her hand.
"I'm Helena Brooks. I'm one of the guest judges.""
I shook it.
She glanced at the garment bag.
"Is that the turquoise gown?""
"Yes.""
"Did you design it?""
I hesitated.
Then I remembered my grandmother.
"Every stitch.""
Helena studied my face.
"Interesting.""
She opened a small folder.
"Your sister submitted a design portfolio with this exact gown. But there was something unusual about it.""
My stomach tightened.
"What?""
"The original sketches were missing.""
I stared at her.
Helena leaned closer.
"Tell me something, Nia. Do you have proof that this design belongs to you?""
I looked down at the garment bag.
Then I looked back at her.
"Yes.""
Her eyebrows rose.
"Where?""
I opened the bag just enough to reveal the inside of the train.
Helena examined the delicate crystal lettering.
Her expression changed.
She looked at me.
Then she looked at the letters again.
"Nia Carter," she whispered.
"Yes.""
"Who knew this was here?""
"Nobody.""
Helena closed the garment bag carefully.
"Don't change a thing.""
She handed me a card.
"Meet me near the judges' entrance at six-thirty. And bring your original sketches.""
Before I could ask why, she walked away.
I stood there holding the card.
For the first time all day, I felt something other than fear.
Hope.
But it didn't last long.
At 5:42 p.m., while I was preparing the gown backstage, my phone rang.
It was my mother.
I answered immediately.
"Mom?""
Her voice was shaking.
"Nia, listen carefully. I found something in the old family records.""
"What?""
"Your grandmother didn't just design that turquoise gown.""
I gripped the phone.
"What do you mean?""
My mother took a breath.
"She created an entire collection. And the person who took credit for it wasn't your sister.""
I froze.
"Then who was it?""
My mother whispered a name.
"Your father.""
I stopped breathing.
Before I could ask another question, she added:
"And Camille knows.""
At 6:30 p.m., the runway doors opened.
I was standing backstage, surrounded by models, makeup artists, and racks of expensive gowns.
The air smelled of hairspray, perfume, and hot fabric.
My turquoise gown hung from a padded clothing rack.
I had not removed Camille's initials.
I had not changed the bodice.
And I had not touched the train.
I wanted the judges to see exactly what she had submitted.
Exactly what I had created.
Camille appeared beside me.
She looked nervous now.
Not frightened.
Just irritated that the evening wasn't going according to her plans.
"Have you seen my gown?""
I nodded toward the rack.
"It's there.""
She checked the neckline.
Then the skirt.
Then the train.
"Good.""
She turned toward me.
"You're going to help me get dressed.""
I stepped back.
"No.""
Her eyes narrowed.
"What?""
"I'm not your assistant.""
Camille grabbed my arm.
"Stop playing games. The model is waiting.""
I pulled away.
"Then dress her yourself.""
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You have no idea what you've done.""
I looked at her.
"Neither do you.""
A stage assistant approached.
"Camille Carter? You're up in five minutes.""
Camille straightened her jacket.
Then she gave me one final look.
"Don't leave.""
She walked toward the dressing area.
I waited until she was gone.
Then I took out my grandmother's photograph.
On the back, beneath the old handwritten message, I noticed a tiny line I hadn't seen before.
A reference number.
And beneath it, three words:
ORIGINAL PATTERN ARCHIVE.
I opened my phone and searched the number.
A document appeared.
It was an archived registration from sixteen years earlier.
The designer listed was Evelyn Carter.
But the second name on the record was not Margaret Carter.
It was Daniel Carter.
My father.
And attached to the archive was a photograph of the original turquoise gown.
It looked almost exactly like mine.
Except for one detail.
The original gown had no crystal initials.
Instead, its train carried a handwritten message sewn into the lining:
For the daughter who will finish what we started.
My phone vibrated again.
An email had arrived from Helena Brooks.
Subject: *URGENT — YOUR ENTRY HAS BEEN RESTORED.*
I opened it.
The message contained one sentence.
The judges have requested that the original designer present the final gown.
I looked toward the runway.
Then toward Camille's dressing room.
May you like
And suddenly, I understood why my mother had sounded so terrified.
Because my sister wasn't the only person who stood to lose everything that night.
