Chapter 2: The Woman Wearing My Name
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
I stared at the paper Evelyn had given me.
My original gown was on the runway.
Not in storage.
Not in a delivery truck.
Not missing.
Somebody was wearing it.
"Who?"" I whispered.
Evelyn glanced toward the dressing-room entrance.
"Celeste.""
My fingers tightened around the paper.
"She's wearing my dress?""
"No. She's not.""
"Then who is?""
Evelyn took a slow breath.
"A model named Vanessa Reed. Celeste hired her privately.""
I looked down at the imitation gown in my hands.
The realization hit me so hard that I had to sit down.
Celeste hadn't simply copied my design.
She had taken the original gown and arranged for someone else to present it.
She had replaced my work with a cheap imitation and expected me to either stay quiet or look foolish when I protested.
"Why would she do this?"" I asked.
Evelyn's eyes softened.
"Because she believes she can.""
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?""
"Celeste's family has sponsored this event for years. Her father sits on the foundation's advisory board. She knows people. She knows how the system works.""
"But she can't just steal someone's dress.""
Evelyn gave a humorless smile.
"People with enough money often discover that they can get away with things until someone makes it expensive for them.""
I looked toward the stage.
The opening ceremony would begin in less than an hour.
My original gown was out there somewhere.
And I was standing in a dressing room with a counterfeit.
"I need to find the organizers.""
Evelyn caught my wrist.
"Wait.""
"Why?""
"Because if you walk into that office without evidence, Celeste will say you're making a desperate attempt to discredit a competing designer.""
"She stole my work!""
"I believe you.""
"Then help me.""
Evelyn glanced toward the hallway.
"I am going to. But first, I need you to understand something.""
She lowered her voice.
"I wasn't supposed to be here last night.""
I frowned.
"What?""
"I came to the venue to check on the sponsor displays. Around ten, I heard someone arguing in the production office.""
"Who?""
"Celeste and a man named Richard.""
I knew the name.
Richard Monroe.
Celeste's father.
He was one of the largest financial contributors to the showcase.
Evelyn continued.
"I heard him say, 'You can't keep doing this. One day somebody will recognize the original.''"
My stomach twisted.
"And Celeste?""
Evelyn looked directly at me.
"She said, 'By the time anyone notices, the award will be mine.''"
I felt sick.
"Did you record it?""
"No. I wish I had.""
"Then nobody will believe us.""
Evelyn reached into her handbag and removed a small black flash drive.
"Not necessarily.""
I stared at it.
"What is that?""
"Security footage from the loading corridor.""
She explained that she had requested access to the venue's sponsor-monitoring system after noticing several unusual deliveries the previous evening.
One camera had captured a woman carrying a long garment bag into Celeste's private dressing suite.
Another had captured the same woman leaving without it.
"Can you prove it's my gown?""
"I think so.""
"Why do you have this?""
Evelyn hesitated.
"Because I know what it's like to have someone take credit for your work.""
There was something in her voice that made me stop asking questions.
Before I could respond, a production assistant rushed into the room.
"All designers to the main floor! We begin in twenty minutes!""
Evelyn slipped the flash drive back into her handbag.
"Listen carefully, Nia. Do not leave this building.""
I stood.
"I wasn't planning to.""
"And don't let Celeste get you alone.""
The assistant called again.
"Ms. Carter? We need you at the registration desk.""
I looked at Evelyn.
"Thank you.""
She nodded.
"Save your anger. You're going to need a clear head.""
I followed the assistant into the corridor.
The main hall was magnificent.
A long white runway stretched through rows of seated guests. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and enormous screens displayed the showcase's golden logo.
Fashion journalists occupied the front rows.
Photographers tested their cameras.
A string quartet played near the entrance.
It was exactly the kind of room I had dreamed of entering.
Except now I felt like an intruder.
At the registration desk, a young woman checked my name.
"Nia Carter?""
"Yes.""
She searched the computer.
Then frowned.
"You're listed as withdrawn.""
I blinked.
"What?""
She turned the monitor slightly.
Beside my name was a status marker.
WITHDRAWN — PARTICIPANT REQUEST.
"I didn't withdraw.""
The assistant looked uncomfortable.
"That's what the system says.""
"Who entered it?""
"I'm not authorized to disclose that.""
"Please call the production director.""
She hesitated.
"Ms. Carter, I really don't want to make this difficult.""
I stared at her.
"Neither do I. But someone has just withdrawn me from a competition I never agreed to leave.""
The young woman picked up the phone.
A minute later, the production director arrived.
His name was Martin Hale, a thin man with silver hair and an expensive watch.
"Nia, what's the problem?""
"Someone marked me as withdrawn.""
Martin glanced at the screen.
"Yes. We received the request yesterday.""
"From whom?""
"Your representative.""
"I don't have a representative.""
He frowned.
"Celeste Monroe submitted the withdrawal authorization.""
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Celeste is my production liaison. She has no authority to withdraw me.""
Martin sighed.
"She submitted the required paperwork.""
"Then show it to me.""
"Nia, we have a schedule to maintain.""
"Show me the paperwork.""
He looked around.
Several people had begun watching us.
Finally, he opened a file on his tablet and turned it toward me.
There was my name.
My signature.
My address.
And a typed statement saying I had voluntarily withdrawn due to personal circumstances.
I stared at the signature.
It was almost perfect.
Almost.
The real signature I used had a small upward stroke at the end of my surname.
This one didn't.
"That's forged.""
Martin's expression hardened.
"Please be careful with your language.""
"Look at it. That's not my signature.""
He closed the file.
"I suggest you take this up with Ms. Monroe after the event.""
"After the event? She's presenting my dress tonight!""
His eyes flickered.
For a brief moment, I saw something.
Recognition.
He knew.
"Mr. Hale," I said quietly, "do you know where my gown is?""
He straightened his jacket.
"I have no idea what you're talking about.""
Then he walked away.
I stood there, trembling.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Tasha.
*Nia, turn on the livestream. Something is happening.*
I opened the showcase's official page.
A countdown appeared.
Then the camera switched to the stage.
The host walked into the spotlight.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the annual Emerging Designers Showcase!""
Applause filled the hall.
I watched the screen.
The host introduced the judges.
The first designer presented a collection inspired by architectural forms.
The second showed a series of tailored evening gowns.
Then the announcer said a name that made my stomach turn.
"Please welcome Celeste Monroe, presenting her signature creation from the Aurora-inspired collection!""
The crowd applauded.
The stage lights brightened.
And there she was.
Vanessa Reed walked onto the runway wearing my gown.
My actual gown.
The fitted pale aqua-silver fabric shimmered beneath the lights.
The jeweled collar reflected the chandeliers.
The braided ponytail I had specifically requested for the model had been recreated almost exactly.
Even the tiny arrangement of crystals at the waist was mine.
I covered my mouth.
Tasha called immediately.
"Nia! Tell me that's not what I think it is!""
"It is.""
"That's your dress!""
"I know.""
"Call the police!""
"I need proof.""
Tasha was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "I'm coming.""
"No. Stay there. I don't want you getting involved.""
"Nia, somebody stole three months of your life.""
"I know.""
"Then don't let them steal your voice too.""
The livestream camera followed Vanessa down the runway.
Celeste appeared beside the judges, smiling.
She wore a white tailored suit and diamond earrings.
She looked completely comfortable.
As if she hadn't spent the morning destroying another woman's career.
One judge leaned toward her and said something.
Celeste laughed.
The audience applauded.
Then the host invited her to speak.
Celeste stepped onto the stage.
"Fashion has always been about identity," she began.
"About finding the courage to turn something deeply personal into something the world can see.""
I nearly laughed.
She continued.
"This gown represents three months of research, experimentation, and craftsmanship. It reflects my belief that a woman should never apologize for taking up space.""
My hands shook.
Three months.
My three months.
My burned fingers.
My mother's old sewing machine.
My sleepless nights.
All reduced to a speech delivered by a woman who had never sewn a single stitch.
Celeste gestured toward Vanessa.
"Every detail was created to interact with the environment, revealing a hidden message when exposed to specialized lighting.""
I went cold.
She knew about the UV effect.
Of course she did.
She had copied that too.
Then the camera cut to the audience.
A woman in burgundy sat near the front row.
Evelyn.
She wasn't applauding.
She was watching Celeste with a look of controlled fury.
I ran toward her.
"Evelyn!""
She turned.
"What happened?""
"She's presenting the dress right now.""
"I know.""
"How did she get the UV details?""
Evelyn looked at me.
"Did you send her the technical specifications?""
I swallowed.
"Only the initial photographs.""
"Then she must have had access to the original.""
"How do we stop her?""
Evelyn stood.
"There's a technical presentation scheduled before the final award. The lighting director will activate the UV system.""
I stared at her.
"That's when the hidden lettering appears.""
"Exactly.""
"But Celeste has copied everything.""
Evelyn shook her head.
"Not everything.""
"What do you mean?""
She looked toward the runway.
"Did you tell anyone about the second signature?""
I blinked.
The second signature.
My mother and I had added something after I submitted the original photographs.
A microscopic QR pattern woven into the inside of the collar.
It linked to a private archive containing the original sketches, dated construction videos, purchase receipts, and photographs of every stage of the gown's creation.
The code was almost invisible to the naked eye.
It wasn't part of the competition entry.
It was my insurance policy.
"No," I whispered.
Evelyn smiled.
"Good.""
I looked at the stage.
Vanessa had reached the end of the runway.
The audience was applauding.
Celeste bowed.
And then, to my horror, the host announced:
"Let's hear it once more for Celeste Monroe!""
The applause grew louder.
I turned to Evelyn.
"Can the QR code be scanned from the audience?""
"Only if the screen displays it clearly.""
"Then we need to make sure it does.""
Evelyn nodded.
She looked toward the lighting booth.
"I know someone.""
For the first time that morning, I felt a tiny spark of hope.
But it didn't last.
A security guard approached us.
"Ms. Carter?""
I turned.
"Yes?""
"Mr. Monroe would like to speak with you.""
I looked toward the entrance.
Richard Monroe stood near the private sponsor lounge.
May you like
He was holding a leather folder.
And he was smiling.
