Chapter 4: The Lie She Planned to Make Me Wear
“Your sister has just arrived here with a gown she claims is her original design.””
The committee representative's words followed me long after the call ended.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Vanessa had spent the afternoon destroying my dress, mocking my replacement, and telling me I would never win. Now she was standing at the gala with a gown that looked like the design I had hidden in my sketchbook for two years.
And she was telling people I had stolen from her.
Mom took the phone from my trembling hand.
“Emily, look at me. We are not going to let her get away with this.””
“But what if they believe her?””
“Then we'll show them the truth.””
Dad returned from the hallway, his phone pressed against his ear.
“I just spoke to the committee director. Vanessa submitted a formal complaint, along with photographs she says prove her design existed before yours.””
“What photographs?”” I asked.
Dad ended the call.
“She claims she has dated sketches and pictures of a prototype.””
My stomach dropped.
Vanessa had never shown an interest in fashion beyond shopping for expensive clothes. She couldn't sew a button without complaining that the needle was too small. Yet somehow, she had produced a design suspiciously similar to mine, complete with documentation.
“She stole my sketchbook,” I whispered.
Mom frowned.
“Are you sure?””
“No. But she knew about The Phoenix. She saw the page today, and now she's claiming the design as hers.””
Dad looked at the cream-colored paper I'd found beneath the dress form.
“Then we need to establish when she created this.””
I turned the paper over.
There was nothing on the back except a faint pencil smudge.
But something about the drawing bothered me. The lines were too clean, too precise. Vanessa had always struggled with drawing, even as a child.
I'd once watched her attempt to sketch a simple flower for a birthday card. She'd abandoned it after ten minutes.
This gown was far beyond anything I'd ever seen her create.
I examined the silver embroidery on the paper.
Then I noticed a tiny mark near the lower corner.
A small crescent-shaped stain.
My breath caught.
I'd seen that mark before.
Two years earlier, I had been sketching The Phoenix at Grandma's kitchen table when I accidentally spilled a drop of silver ink across the page. I'd tried to erase it, but the stain had remained.
It was on my original drawing.
And now it was on Vanessa's supposed design.
I grabbed my sketchbook and flipped to the page.
There it was.
The same crescent.
The same tiny indentation where my pencil had torn the paper.
Vanessa hadn't created the design.
She had copied my drawing.
But how had she obtained it?
I remembered the week before Grandma died. I had brought my sketchbook to the hospital and left it on the chair beside her bed. Vanessa had visited that afternoon, supposedly to bring Grandma some flowers.
At the time, I hadn't thought anything of it.
Now the memory felt like a door opening onto a dark room.
“She had access to my sketchbook two years ago,” I said.
Dad studied the drawing.
“Can you prove that?””
“Not yet.””
“Then we'll prove what we can.””
Mom looked at the clock.
“It's five fifteen. We need to leave.””
I changed into a simple dress while Mom carefully packed my gown into a garment bag. Dad placed my sketchbook, the suspicious drawing, and the photographs of my ruined original dress into a folder.
Before we left, I returned to my desk and opened my laptop.
I searched through my old photographs, looking for the earliest images of The Phoenix.
There were dozens.
One showed the first pencil sketch, dated October 14, two years earlier.
Another showed the design beside Grandma's sewing machine.
Then I found a photograph taken during a family gathering that December.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, my sketchbook open beside me. Grandma was helping me thread a needle.
Vanessa stood behind us.
She wasn't looking at the camera.
She was looking directly at my sketchbook.
I enlarged the photograph.
Her hand rested on the back of my chair.
And in the reflection of the kitchen window, I could see her holding up her phone, apparently taking a picture of the page.
My fingers went cold.
“Dad!””
He leaned over my shoulder.
For several seconds, he stared at the image.
Then his jaw tightened.
“Save that photograph.””
I copied it to my phone and emailed it to myself.
It wasn't definitive proof that Vanessa had stolen the design, but it established something important: she'd seen the sketch long before she claimed to have created her own version.
I shut the laptop.
“Let's go.””
The drive to the gala felt endless.
Rain streaked the windows, and the city's evening traffic crawled beneath glowing streetlights. I held my sketchbook against my chest while Mom kept one hand on my knee.
“You don't have to win tonight,” she said softly.
I stared out at the passing buildings.
“I know.””
“I'm serious, Emily. The scholarship matters, but it doesn't determine who you are.””
I swallowed.
“I don't just want to win. I want her to stop making me feel like I don't deserve anything good.””
Mom's expression softened.
“Oh, sweetheart.””
“I've spent my whole life trying not to upset her. If I got a better grade, I'd hide it. If Dad complimented my drawings, I'd pretend I wasn't that proud. I even stopped entering competitions because she always found a way to make me regret it.””
Dad looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“You should never have had to make yourself smaller to keep someone else comfortable.””
I looked down at my hands.
“Then why did we let it happen?””
The question hung in the car.
Dad didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said, “Because I kept hoping she'd grow out of it. And because I was wrong to mistake keeping the peace for keeping you safe.””
His honesty hurt more than an excuse would have.
But it also made me feel less alone.
At six twelve, we pulled up outside the Grand Bell Hotel, where the gala was being held.
The entrance glittered with chandeliers and camera flashes. Students in elegant gowns and tailored suits hurried through the glass doors, carrying garment bags and portfolios.
A banner stretched across the front of the building.
*YOUNG DESIGNERS GALA — TOMORROW'S VISIONARIES, TODAY.*
My stomach twisted.
This was supposed to be my night.
Instead, I was arriving with a replacement gown, a stolen design, and a sister determined to destroy my reputation.
A woman in a black blazer approached us near the entrance.
“Emily Carter?””
“Yes.””
“I'm Helen Brooks, the competition director. Thank you for coming.””
She glanced at the garment bag.
“I understand you've prepared a replacement.””
“I have.””
“Good. We have reserved a room where the judges can review your documentation before the presentations begin.””
I handed her the folder.
She flipped through the photographs, examining the dates and construction details.
Then she reached the photograph of Vanessa standing behind me at the kitchen table.
Her eyebrows drew together.
“Who is this?””
“My sister.””
“The contestant who submitted the competing design?””
“Yes.””
Helen studied the photograph for a long moment.
“I'll add this to the review.””
“Does she know I'm here?””
Helen's expression became guarded.
“She knows you were asked to attend. She's currently in the main ballroom.””
“Has she shown the judges her gown?””
“Yes.””
“And what did they say?””
Helen closed the folder.
“Emily, I can't discuss another contestant's review with you. But I can tell you this: the committee takes intellectual dishonesty very seriously.””
She led us through the hotel lobby and into a small conference room.
Three judges were waiting at a long table. One was a silver-haired woman in a black suit, another was a young man with round glasses, and the third was a tall designer wearing a deep burgundy jacket.
The woman introduced herself as Margaret Ellis, the head judge.
“Emily, we've reviewed the initial complaint. Before we make a decision, we'd like to hear your account.””
I sat down.
My hands trembled beneath the table.
Margaret folded her hands.
“Your sister alleges that you copied a design she developed independently. She has provided sketches dated earlier this month, along with photographs of a dress she claims to have been making for several weeks.””
“That's impossible,” I said.
“Please explain.””
I opened my sketchbook.
“I began drawing The Phoenix two years ago. I have the original pages, photographs of the development process, and dated digital images. My sister has never shown an interest in fashion design, and she had access to my sketchbook when I was developing the concept.””
The judge with the round glasses examined the pages.
“These are quite detailed.””
“They're mine.””
Margaret looked at the photograph of Vanessa behind my chair.
“This image is interesting, but it doesn't establish that she copied your work.””
“I understand.””
“Do you have any evidence that her submitted sketches were taken directly from your book?””
I placed the cream-colored sheet on the table.
“I found this in my bedroom today. It has the same ink stain and paper indentation as my original drawing. The page number is missing, but the marks are identical.””
The judges examined the paper.
The man with the round glasses held it beside the sketchbook page.
His expression changed.
“That's not merely a similar composition,” he murmured.
“The imperfections match.””
Margaret leaned forward.
“Where did you find this?””
“Beneath my dress form, after my sister left.””
Helen made a note.
The third judge, a designer named Julian Reed, looked at me carefully.
“Emily, I have one question. Why didn't you submit this particular design as your original entry?””
I hesitated.
“Because I was afraid I wasn't skilled enough to make it.””
He tilted his head.
“And today?””
“Today, my sister destroyed the gown I had spent seven months making. So I made this one instead.””
I opened the garment bag.
When I lifted the Phoenix gown onto the dress form, the room fell silent.
The silver threads caught the overhead light. The organza layers settled into graceful curves, and the sculpted bodice gave the gown a striking silhouette.
Julian rose from his chair.
“May I examine the construction?””
I nodded.
He approached the dress and studied the seams, the panel arrangement, and the embroidery.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Margaret joined him.
“The proportions are remarkably thoughtful for a garment completed in such a short time.””
“I had the design for two years,” I explained.
“I only constructed the gown today.””
Julian looked at me.
“Why the layered back?””
I swallowed.
“Because I wanted the skirt to look like wings opening. Grandma used to tell me that the most beautiful things aren't always the ones that never break. Sometimes they're the things that learn how to rise again.””
For a moment, Julian said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“That is a meaningful design philosophy.””
Margaret returned to her seat.
“We will review the evidence before making a final decision. Until then, neither you nor your sister will be disqualified.””
Relief rushed through me.
“Thank you.””
“But there is one more matter,” she continued.
“Your sister has made a serious allegation about your conduct. We must allow her an opportunity to respond to the evidence.””
The conference room door opened.
Vanessa walked in wearing a champagne-colored gown of her own.
Her hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, and a delicate diamond necklace glittered at her throat.
She looked as though she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine.
Then she saw me standing beside The Phoenix.
Her smile vanished.
For the first time that evening, Vanessa looked afraid.
Margaret gestured toward the empty chair.
“Vanessa, please sit down.””
Vanessa remained standing.
Her eyes moved from my gown to the sketchbook on the table.
Then to the cream-colored drawing.
And finally to the photograph of her standing behind me two years earlier.
She swallowed.
“Where did you get that?””
I met her gaze.
“You know exactly where I got it.””
Her face hardened.
“This is ridiculous. She's trying to ruin my career because she's jealous of me.””
Julian folded his arms.
“Then you should have no difficulty explaining why the ink stain on your submitted design matches the stain on Emily's original drawing.””
Vanessa's lips parted.
No words came out.
For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the soft ticking of the wall clock.
Then she looked at Margaret.
“I can explain.””
Margaret nodded.
“Please do.””
Vanessa glanced at me.
And when she spoke, her voice was no longer confident.
“Emily isn't the only person who ever had access to that sketchbook.””
My stomach tightened.
“What are you saying?””
Vanessa lifted her chin.
“I'm saying she wasn't the only one who could have copied the drawing.””
Margaret leaned forward.
“Are you suggesting another person stole your design?””
Vanessa's eyes flicked toward the conference room door.
May you like
Then she said the words that made my blood run cold.
“I'm saying you should ask our father what happened to Grandma's original fashion portfolio.””
