Chapter 1: The Night My Sister Tried to Destroy Me
“You should have learned your place before you decided to outshine me.””
My older half-sister, Vanessa, said those words with a smile as she tipped an entire can of bright blue paint over the white gown I had spent seven months creating.
I watched the color spread across the silk.
Blue streaks swallowed the delicate lace. Paint dripped from the waistline to the floor, pooling around the hem I had hand-stitched one painstaking inch at a time.
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
Then I screamed.
“VANESSA!””
She stepped back, admiring her work as if she had just finished painting a masterpiece.
“Oh, relax, Emily. It's only a dress.””
Only a dress.
If she'd known what that dress meant to me, she might have understood why those three words hurt almost as much as watching her destroy it.
But Vanessa had never cared about what things meant to anyone but herself.
I was seventeen, and tonight was supposed to be the biggest night of my life: the annual Young Designers Gala, a prestigious event hosted by the local arts foundation. High school students from across the state would present their original designs to professional designers, fashion editors, and scholarship judges.
The winner would receive a full scholarship to the prestigious Marlowe School of Fashion in New York.
For seven months, I had worked toward that opportunity.
I had skipped movie nights with friends. I had spent weekends studying fabric construction instead of sleeping in. I had pricked my fingers with needles so many times that tiny scars dotted my fingertips.
My bedroom had become a miniature atelier.
Fabric swatches covered my desk. Sketches were pinned to the walls. My grandmother's old sewing machine sat beside the window, its metal frame polished by decades of use.
And hanging from the wardrobe door, protected by a translucent garment cover, had been my greatest creation.
A white gown.
Not a simple white gown, but one inspired by the movement of ocean waves beneath moonlight. The bodice featured hand-sewn pearls, the waist curved into an elegant silhouette, and the skirt fell in layers of silk organza that floated whenever I moved.
I had designed it myself.
Every seam. Every bead. Every fold.
It was the first time I had ever looked at something I created and thought, Maybe I'm actually good enough.
Now it was ruined.
Vanessa tossed the empty paint can onto my bed.
“Honestly, Emily, did you really think you could walk into that gala looking like some princess and have everyone forget I exist?””
I stared at her.
“What does this have to do with you?””
Her smile sharpened.
“Everything in this family has something to do with me.””
She was twenty-two, beautiful in the way magazine models were beautiful, and accustomed to being the center of every room. She had long honey-blonde hair, expensive clothes, and a talent for making people feel small without ever raising her voice.
Our father had married her mother when Vanessa was eight and I was three. Vanessa had never forgiven me for being the biological daughter of the man she adored.
At least, that was what I had always suspected.
She had spent years turning ordinary moments into competitions.
When I earned straight A's, she announced that grades were meaningless unless you attended an Ivy League school.
When Dad praised a drawing I made, she laughed and asked if he planned to hang it on the refrigerator beside my kindergarten artwork.
When I won a regional art contest at fourteen, she told our relatives that the judges probably felt sorry for me.
But this was different.
This wasn't a cruel comment at dinner.
This was seven months of my life dripping onto the floor.
“Why?”” I whispered.
Vanessa tilted her head.
“Why what?””
“Why would you do this to me?””
She picked a fleck of blue paint from her thumbnail.
“Because you've been unbearable lately. Every conversation is about your stupid gala. Dad talks about your designs constantly.
Mom has been helping you with fabric and sewing supplies.”” She pointed at the ruined gown.
“Someone had to remind you that you're not the only person who matters.””
“I never said I was!””
“You didn't have to.””
I grabbed the edge of my desk to keep my knees from buckling.
Vanessa walked toward the door, then paused.
“Oh, and don't bother trying to clean it. Oil-based paint, sweetheart. It won't come out.””
She gave me a small, satisfied wave.
“Have fun explaining to everyone why you can't compete.””
That was when I heard footsteps thundering up the stairs.
My mother appeared first, still wearing her work blouse, her handbag slipping from one shoulder. Dad followed close behind her.
Mom took one look at my face, then at the paint-soaked gown.
Her expression changed instantly.
“Vanessa,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet.
“Tell me you didn't do this.””
Vanessa folded her arms.
“She left it hanging where anyone could reach it.””
Mom stared at her.
“Are you listening to yourself? You deliberately destroyed something your sister spent months making!””
“It was a dress, Mom.””
“It was her competition entry!””
“Oh, please. She can make another one.””
Mom stepped closer.
“You poured paint on a handmade silk gown hours before her biggest opportunity. How can you stand there and pretend this is normal?””
Vanessa rolled her eyes.
“Because you're acting like she lost a limb. She's seventeen, not some world-famous designer.””
Dad moved toward the ruined fabric, lifting a section of the skirt with two fingers. Blue paint stained his fingertips.
“Vanessa,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment, “I want you to apologize.””
She laughed.
“You cannot be serious.””
“Apologize to your sister.””
“For what? Teaching her that the world doesn't revolve around her?””
Mom's face flushed.
“Get out of this room. Now.””
Vanessa looked at Dad, expecting him to intervene.
He didn't.
For the first time in years, she seemed genuinely surprised.
Then her expression hardened.
“Fine. But don't come crying to me when she doesn't win anything tonight.””
She brushed past Mom, deliberately knocking her shoulder against hers.
At the doorway, she turned back to look at me.
“You know what the funniest part is, Emily? Even if you had worn that thing, you still wouldn't have won. You're just a little girl playing dress-up.””
Then she left.
The door slammed.
I sank to my knees.
Mom knelt beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders while I sobbed into her blouse.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.
“I'm so sorry.””
Dad crouched beside us.
“Emily, look at me.””
I couldn't.
“Look at me, honey.””
I finally lifted my head.
His eyes were red.
“I know how much work you put into that gown. I know what tonight means to you.””
“It's over,” I choked out.
“I can't fix it. I can't make another one in a few hours.””
Dad glanced at the ruined dress.
“Then we'll find another way.””
“There isn't another way!””
My voice cracked so loudly that I startled myself.
Mom squeezed my hand.
“We'll call the organizers. We'll explain what happened. Surely they'll understand.””
I shook my head.
“They won't. The rules say the original design has to be presented tonight. They won't postpone the gala because my sister destroyed my dress.””
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Then we'll take you there anyway. You deserve to be heard.””
But I could already imagine walking into that ballroom empty-handed while everyone else displayed their creations.
I could imagine Vanessa sitting in the audience, watching me fail.
And I could imagine her telling everyone she had been right about me all along.
I pulled away from my parents and stood.
“Emily?”” Mom asked.
“I need a minute.””
“Sweetheart, don't do anything alone right now.””
“I just need a minute.””
I turned toward the wardrobe.
The ruined gown hung crookedly from its hanger, its once-white skirt now streaked with violent blue. A pearl had fallen to the floor beside a puddle of paint.
I picked it up.
It was the last pearl I'd sewn onto the bodice the night before.
I rolled it between my fingers, remembering how Grandma had taught me to thread a needle when I was nine.
Don't rush the beautiful things, Emily, she had told me. The world will rush you enough. Learn to make something worth waiting for.
My throat tightened.
Grandma had died two years earlier, but her old sewing machine remained the most treasured thing in my room.
I looked at it.
Then at the ruined gown.
Then at the small wooden box tucked beneath my bed.
Inside that box was something Vanessa had never seen.
Something I had hidden from everyone, even my parents.
My secret fashion sketchbook.
I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands and walked toward the bed.
Mom watched me carefully.
“What are you looking for?””
I pulled the box into the light.
“Another chance,” I whispered.
And when I opened the sketchbook to the design I'd been too afraid to show anyone, I realized I might still have one.
May you like
But I had less than six hours before the gala began.
And I hadn't yet sewn a single stitch.
