Chapter 3: The Email That Exposed Her Jealousy
I read the email twice.
Then a third time.
The words didn't change.
*Subject: Concern Regarding Nia Carter's Participation*
The message was addressed to a member of the Carter Foundation's selection committee.
Brielle had written that I was emotionally unstable, financially irresponsible, and unlikely to represent the family appropriately at the upcoming gala.
She had also suggested that I had exaggerated my involvement in the fashion industry.
I lowered the paper.
“Why would she send this?””
Dad folded his hands.
“That's what I want to know.””
I stared at the email.
“When was it sent?””
“Two weeks ago.””
“Before I even received the invitation?””
“Yes.””
My mouth went dry.
“Did they believe her?””
Dad hesitated.
“Someone asked for clarification about your application.””
I looked down.
For six months, I'd been working toward something I had never told Brielle about.
Not because I wanted to hide it.
Because I knew exactly what would happen if she found out.
She would laugh.
She would tell me I wasn't talented enough.
She would find a way to turn my excitement into embarrassment.
But I hadn't expected her to go behind my back and try to destroy my opportunity before I even had a chance to compete.
“Dad, did she tell them I was lying?””
“She questioned your work history.””
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“That's unbelievable.””
He leaned forward.
“Nia, I need you to tell me something. Did Brielle ever ask you about your designs?””
I shook my head.
“Not really.””
“Did she know about the dress?””
“She knew I was saving money. She didn't know what it was for.””
Dad nodded slowly.
“Then she was acting on information she shouldn't have had.””
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?””
He closed the folder.
“I'll explain when I have the complete picture.””
That answer made me uneasy.
But before I could ask another question, the office door opened.
Mom entered.
She was holding a glass of water.
“Can we please stop discussing this?””
Dad looked up.
“Why?””
“Because it's becoming ugly.””
I glanced at the email.
“Mom, Brielle tried to stop me from attending the gala.””
Denise placed the glass on the desk.
“She was worried about you.””
I stared at her.
“Worried about me?””
“She thought you were putting too much pressure on yourself.””
“She told the committee I was unstable.””
Mom looked uncomfortable.
“Maybe she chose the wrong words.””
I shook my head.
“That's not a wrong choice of words. That's a lie.””
Denise turned toward Dad.
“Marcus, you need to remember that Brielle has been under a lot of pressure too.””
He looked at her.
“What pressure?””
Mom hesitated.
“Her job. Her apartment. Her relationship. Everything.””
I felt my shoulders tighten.
“So because Brielle is stressed, she gets to ruin my things?””
Mom's expression hardened.
“Don't twist my words.””
“I'm not twisting anything.””
Dad raised one hand.
“Denise, I think you should leave us alone for a moment.””
She stared at him.
“You're taking Nia's side.””
“I'm taking the side of the truth.””
Mom placed the glass down harder than necessary.
Then she walked out.
I watched the door close.
For several seconds, Dad and I remained silent.
Finally, he asked, “Do you remember what your grandmother told you about your designs?””
I nodded.
“She said I should never be ashamed of making something with my own hands.””
Dad smiled faintly.
“That's right.””
He opened a drawer and removed an old photograph.
It showed my grandmother Evelyn sitting in the backyard, wearing a royal-blue dress. I was about seven, standing beside her with a little sketchbook in my hands.
“Your grandmother believed you had an eye for details,” Dad said.
“She used to let me draw her dresses.””
“She kept those drawings.””
I looked at him.
“What?””
He nodded.
“Every single one.””
My eyes filled.
“Where?””
“Upstairs. In the storage room.””
I remembered that room.
It was filled with boxes, old photographs, and things Mom never wanted to throw away.
Dad placed the photograph back on his desk.
“Your grandmother left something for you.””
I frowned.
“What?””
He looked toward the door.
“Something she specifically asked me not to give you until you were old enough to understand what it meant.””
Before I could ask another question, my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
*You should ask your father why the foundation was supposed to be yours in the first place.*
I read it again.
Then I showed Dad.
His expression changed immediately.
“Who sent this?””
“I don't know.””
He took my phone and studied the message.
“Don't respond.””
“Dad, what does it mean?””
He returned the phone.
“Someone is trying to interfere with this family.””
I looked at the photograph of Grandma Evelyn.
“What did she leave me?””
Dad stood.
“Come with me.””
We walked upstairs to the storage room.
It was warm and smelled faintly of cardboard and old wood. Sunlight slipped through a narrow window, illuminating stacks of labeled boxes.
Dad moved several containers aside.
Then he stopped in front of a large wooden chest.
The brass lock was tarnished.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small key.
I watched him open it.
Inside were old photographs, handwritten letters, fabric samples, and a thick envelope sealed with my grandmother's initials.
E.C.
Dad lifted the envelope carefully.
“This was written three months before she passed.””
My fingers trembled.
“Is it for me?””
He nodded.
He handed it over.
My name was written across the front.
*To my granddaughter, Nia. Open when you're ready to build something of your own.*
I sat down on a nearby box.
Dad remained standing.
I carefully opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter and a document with the Carter Foundation's official seal.
I began reading.
My grandmother wrote about how much she loved watching me draw. She remembered the little dresses I'd sketched in the margins of my school notebooks. She mentioned the afternoons when I'd sit beside her while she sewed.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
I have watched people mistake Brielle's confidence for leadership and Nia's quiet nature for weakness. But the girl who listens before speaking often sees things others miss.
I swallowed.
The next line made my heart stop.
When the time comes, I want Nia to have the opportunity to lead the Evelyn Carter Creative Futures Program.
I looked at Dad.
“What is this?””
He pulled up a chair.
“Your grandmother established that program before she died. It supports young people who want to pursue creative careers.””
I looked at the document.
“Why didn't I know?””
“Because the program was placed under the foundation's administration until you reached twenty-five.””
I stared at him.
“I'm twenty-four.””
“I know.””
I looked back at the letter.
“Does Brielle know?””
Dad's silence answered me.
I lowered the paper.
“That's why she hates me.””
Dad sat beside me.
“It's more complicated than that.””
I looked at him.
“What could be more complicated?””
He took the document from my hands and turned it over.
There was another page attached.
It contained the original instructions for the program.
My grandmother had left the responsibility of selecting its future director to a small committee.
But there was one additional condition.
The person chosen would need to demonstrate a genuine commitment to helping young artists, not simply a desire for recognition.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I noticed the date at the bottom.
It had been signed six months before Grandma died.
“Dad, why are you showing me this now?””
He looked at me.
“Because the committee meets tomorrow.””
My heart began beating faster.
“Tomorrow?””
He nodded.
“And there is something else you should know.””
He stood and walked toward the chest.
From beneath several old documents, he removed a second envelope.
This one wasn't sealed.
It contained a handwritten note and a photograph.
The photograph showed Brielle standing beside our grandmother at a foundation event.
Brielle was smiling.
Grandma wasn't.
I turned the picture over.
There was a date written on the back.
It was from nearly two years before Grandma died.
“What happened here?”” I asked.
Dad took a deep breath.
“Brielle was told she could help manage the program. She believed that meant she would eventually control it.””
I looked at him.
“But Grandma chose me?””
“She wanted you to have the opportunity. She never promised you the position. You still have to earn the committee's trust.””
I nodded slowly.
That made sense.
But something didn't.
“If Brielle knew about this, why didn't she just tell me?””
Dad looked at the floor.
“Because she believed your grandmother had made a mistake.””
I felt cold.
“What mistake?””
Dad didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into the envelope and removed a final sheet of paper.
It was an internal foundation report.
Several lines had been highlighted.
I read the first highlighted paragraph.
Then I read the second.
My fingers began to shake.
There were financial discrepancies involving the Evelyn Carter Creative Futures Program.
And the person listed as the temporary administrator was Brielle.
“Dad,” I whispered.
He took the paper from me.
“I found these discrepancies last week.””
“How much money?””
He looked at me.
“Enough that I asked the foundation's independent accountant to investigate.””
I stared at him.
“Did Brielle take it?””
“I don't know yet.””
My phone vibrated again.
Another unknown number.
This time, there was an image attached.
I opened it.
It was a photograph of a document sitting on someone's desk.
The heading read:
*CONFIDENTIAL — EVELYN CARTER FOUNDATION*
Below it was a list of financial transfers.
At the bottom was a signature.
Brielle Carter.
But what made my blood run cold wasn't the signature.
It was the name of the person who had authorized the final transfer.
*Denise Carter.*
My mother.
I slowly looked up at Dad.
He had already seen the screen.
His face had gone completely still.
“Dad?””
He reached for the phone.
“Don't say anything to your mother yet.””
“Why?””
He stared at the document.
Then he said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“Because I think your sister has been hiding something from us.””
May you like
He paused.
“And I think your mother has been helping her.””
