Chapter 4: The Contract My Mother Signed
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything.
The audience was still applauding inside the auditorium. Somewhere nearby, a makeup artist laughed. A stage assistant rolled a clothing rack across the hallway.
But all I could see was the envelope in my mother's hands.
And all I could hear were her words.
"I signed it.""
I looked at her.
"You signed the contract that gave Dad Grandma's designs?""
My mother closed her eyes.
"Yes.""
"Why?""
She pressed the envelope against her chest.
"Because I was twenty-one, Nia. I was young, I was pregnant with Camille, and your father told me it was temporary.""
"Temporary?""
"He said he needed my signature to secure an investment. He promised your grandmother would remain the creative director. He promised the designs would stay in the family.""
I shook my head.
"But Grandma lost everything.""
My mother nodded.
"Your father sold the company six months later.""
I stepped away from her.
"Then you knew?""
"I found out after the sale.""
"And you never told us?""
"I was ashamed.""
The word landed harder than I expected.
My mother looked down at the envelope.
"Your grandmother tried to stop the sale. She hired an attorney, but Daniel had already transferred the rights. By the time we understood what he had done, the money was gone.""
I swallowed.
"Why did Grandma keep sewing?""
My mother's eyes filled with tears.
"Because designing was the only thing he couldn't take away from her completely.""
I thought about the old wooden sewing box.
The needles.
The faded photographs.
The tiny rose engraved into the lid.
Grandma had never told me she had lost an entire collection.
She had only told me to make something people would remember.
"What's inside the envelope?"" I asked.
My mother hesitated.
"Your grandmother gave it to me before she died. She told me not to open it unless the original turquoise design was ever presented publicly again.""
I took the envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Not my mother's.
Mine.
I carefully broke the seal.
Inside were three documents, an old photograph, and a handwritten letter.
The first document was a legal agreement.
The second was a copy of the original collection registration.
The third was a letter signed by a lawyer named Thomas Reed.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
My fingers began trembling.
There was a clause in the agreement stating that the original designs would return to Evelyn Carter's family if the collection was ever publicly presented under a false attribution.
But there was another condition.
The person who exposed the misrepresentation had to be a direct descendant of Evelyn Carter.
I looked up.
"Mom, what does this mean?""
She wiped her cheek.
"It means your grandmother anticipated something like this might happen.""
I turned to the last page.
There was a handwritten note.
The work belongs to the hands that created it. But the truth belongs to the person brave enough to reveal it.
Beneath the note was a name.
Thomas Reed.
And a phone number.
Before I could say anything, my phone vibrated.
A notification from the competition organizers appeared.
*CONGRATULATIONS, NIA CARTER. YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED AS THE SHOWCASE'S EMERGING DESIGNER WINNER.*
I stared at the screen.
I had won.
The scholarship.
The internship.
The magazine feature.
Everything I had dreamed about.
Yet I couldn't smile.
Because my grandmother's letter suggested that the dress had opened a door into something much bigger than a fashion competition.
And my mother was standing in front of me, hiding a secret that had lasted more than sixteen years.
Twenty minutes later, Camille appeared backstage.
Her makeup was still perfect, but her eyes were red.
She looked at the envelope in my hands.
"Mom gave you the letter?""
I turned.
"You knew about this too?""
Camille nodded.
"I knew there was a contract.""
"Did you know Mom signed it?""
She looked toward our mother.
"Yes.""
My mother flinched.
I stared at Camille.
"How long have you known?""
"Since last year.""
"Last year?""
Camille folded her arms.
"Dad showed me some of the old documents when I started Carter Atelier.""
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"So you knew Grandma had created the original collection?""
"Yes.""
"And you knew Mom signed away the rights?""
Camille looked down.
"Yes.""
"Then why did you let me believe you were the original designer?""
Her voice rose.
"Because I didn't know what else to do!""
"That's not an answer.""
Camille stepped closer.
"You think everything has been easy for me? Dad spent years telling me I had to be exceptional. He said I was the only person in this family who could restore his reputation.""
I stared at her.
"By stealing my work?""
"He said the turquoise gown would prove I had inherited his talent.""
I laughed bitterly.
"Grandma designed it.""
"He told me that wasn't true.""
"Camille, there's a photograph of her wearing the original gown!""
"Then why didn't anyone show me?""
I held up the document.
"Because you never asked.""
She looked away.
For a moment, I saw the little girl who used to sit beside me while Grandma taught us how to sew buttons.
The girl who once cried when she broke a needle.
The girl who promised we would become designers together.
Then she said something that destroyed the last bit of sympathy I had.
"Do you know what Dad told me after you finished the dress?""
I shook my head.
"He said I should let you make it. He said your talent would make the gown more beautiful, and my name would make it valuable.""
My stomach twisted.
"So he planned it?""
Camille nodded.
"He wanted me to submit it. He said nobody would question it because I already had a brand.""
I looked at her.
"And you agreed.""
She didn't deny it.
My mother stepped between us.
"Camille, stop.""
But I wasn't finished.
"You watched me work on that gown every night. You watched me cut my fingers. You watched me stay awake until sunrise.""
My voice cracked.
"And you still put your initials on it.""
Camille began crying.
"I thought I could make it right afterward.""
"When?""
"After I won.""
"After you took the scholarship?""
She looked at me.
"Yes.""
I stepped back.
"Then you never intended to make it right.""
A stage assistant approached.
"Excuse me. Nia? The judges would like a photograph with you.""
I nodded.
As I walked away, Camille called after me.
"Nia!""
I stopped.
She wiped her face.
"There's something else you need to know.""
I turned.
"Your father is here.""
My heart stopped.
"What?""
Camille looked toward the main entrance.
"He came to watch the presentation.""
I looked at my mother.
Her face had gone completely white.
Then, from behind us, a familiar voice spoke.
"Congratulations, sweetheart.""
I turned.
Daniel Carter was standing at the end of the hallway.
And he was holding the original contract.
My father hadn't changed much.
His dark hair had a little more gray, and his expensive suit fit more tightly around his shoulders, but he still carried himself like a man who expected every room to belong to him.
He smiled at me.
It was the same smile he used when he wanted something.
"That was quite a presentation, Nia.""
I didn't answer.
He glanced at the envelope.
"Your grandmother's old paperwork. I wondered when someone would find it.""
My mother stepped forward.
"Daniel, you shouldn't be here.""
He laughed.
"Margaret, please. I came to congratulate my daughter.""
"Which one?"" I asked.
His smile faded.
He looked at me.
"Both of you.""
I held up the contract.
"Did you steal Grandma's collection?""
He sighed.
"That's a very dramatic way to describe a complicated business arrangement.""
"Did you steal it?""
"Your grandmother was a gifted designer, but she was terrible at business.""
My mother shook her head.
"Don't.""
Daniel ignored her.
"I built the company. I found the investors. I secured the showroom. I turned her sketches into a commercial collection.""
"You put your name on her work.""
"I made the work profitable.""
I looked at him.
"And you told Camille to steal my design.""
His expression hardened.
"I told Camille to protect the family brand.""
"By taking my name off the gown?""
He adjusted his cufflinks.
"Nobody in this industry gets anywhere by being sentimental.""
I felt my grandmother's photograph inside my pocket.
"Then why did you come tonight?""
For the first time, he didn't have an immediate answer.
He looked toward the auditorium.
Then at the judges' entrance.
"Because I heard you had presented the turquoise gown.""
"And?""
"And I wanted to see what you had done with it.""
I narrowed my eyes.
He leaned closer.
"Now that you've won, there are certain matters we need to discuss.""
"What matters?""
He smiled.
"The future of Carter Atelier.""
I laughed.
"You don't own my design.""
He took the contract from his jacket.
"Actually, that's exactly what we need to discuss.""
He opened it to the final page.
Then he pointed to a paragraph I hadn't noticed.
"Your mother signed this agreement. It covers every design created using the original Carter collection.""
My mother stepped forward.
"That clause was never supposed to include Nia's independent work.""
Daniel shrugged.
"Unfortunately, the wording is quite clear.""
I looked at him.
"You're saying you own my dress?""
"I'm saying the legal situation is complicated.""
He smiled again.
"And I would hate to see your beautiful victory turn into an expensive legal problem.""
Before I could answer, Helena Brooks appeared behind him.
"Mr. Carter?""
My father turned.
"Helena. Wonderful to see you.""
She held a folder against her chest.
"I believe you should speak with our legal department.""
He laughed.
"Of course.""
Helena looked at me.
"Congratulations again, Nia. But there's something you should see before you sign anything.""
She opened the folder.
Inside was a document bearing the official seal of the original design archive.
At the bottom was a date.
Sixteen years earlier.
And beside the date was a handwritten amendment.
Daniel Carter's signature had been crossed out.
Replaced by another name.
My father's expression changed.
Helena looked directly at him.
"Mr. Carter, would you care to explain why you removed the original creator from the registration?""
He stared at the document.
May you like
Then he looked at me.
And for the first time in my life, my father looked genuinely afraid.
