Chapter 4: The Drawer Beneath My Sewing Machine
I didn't go back to the competition hall.
I didn't congratulate Maya.
And I didn't ask Vanessa what she meant when she called her daughter from the other end of the corridor.
I walked straight out of the building with the brass key clenched in my fist, my sapphire gown folded over one arm and my mother's old thimble pressing against my palm inside my pocket.
The night air was cold enough to sting my cheeks.
Cars swept past the curb, carrying guests away from the competition, while the glow of the venue's chandeliers spilled across the pavement behind me.
I could still hear the announcer's voice in my head.
Maya Bennett is our next finalist.
She had stolen my design, worn my work, and accepted recognition that should have belonged to me.
But that wasn't what frightened me anymore.
It was the key.
Someone had entered my studio without my permission.
Someone had gone through the things I had spent years protecting.
And Maya had looked terrified when I picked up that little piece of brass.
I called a rideshare and gave the driver my studio address.
When I arrived twenty minutes later, the building was almost deserted.
My studio occupied a converted loft on the third floor of an old textile warehouse, above a row of independent shops and a small alterations business.
The hallway smelled of dust, damp plaster, and the coffee the building manager brewed every morning.
I unlocked the outer door and stepped inside.
My sewing machine stood beneath the window.
Dress forms lined the opposite wall.
Fabric rolls sat in their labeled bins, and my notebooks were stacked beside a framed photograph of my mother holding me at the kitchen table.
Everything looked exactly as I had left it.
That was the first thing that made me nervous.
I set the sapphire gown on the cutting table and checked the lock.
There were no fresh scratches.
No broken hinges.
No obvious signs of a forced entry.
I walked to the sewing machine.
Beneath it sat a shallow wooden drawer that I had built myself to store old pattern templates, receipts, and personal documents.
I had installed a small lock after Vanessa once visited the studio and began opening cabinets without asking.
The drawer had remained locked ever since.
I took the brass key from my pocket.
My hand hovered over the lock.
Maya's warning echoed in my head.
Don't open the drawer beneath your sewing machine.
Why would she warn me away from something she had no reason to fear?
Unless she knew exactly what was inside.
I inserted the key.
It turned smoothly.
The drawer slid open.
At first, all I saw were folded pattern papers and a small tin of spare buttons.
Then I noticed the empty space beneath them.
My original design notebook was gone.
So were the first three sketches of the lilac gown, the fabric receipts from April, and the small envelope where I kept photographs of my progress.
I had placed everything in that drawer after finishing the original design.
I remembered doing it because I had been afraid of spilling coffee on the pages.
I had even wrapped the notebook in a piece of muslin.
Now only the pale fabric remained.
I sat down hard on the stool beside the machine.
Someone had taken the evidence.
Someone had known exactly what to look for.
My phone vibrated.
Ellie.
*ELLIE:* Are you back at the studio?
I typed with shaking fingers.
*ME:* Yes. Someone has been inside.
Her reply came immediately.
*ELLIE:* What do you mean?
*ME:* My original notebook is missing. I found a duplicate key in Maya's portfolio.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then returned.
*ELLIE:* Don't touch anything else. I'm coming over.
I called her before she could send another message.
“Ellie, I need you to tell me something honestly.””
“What happened?””
“Did anyone know I kept the original sketches in that drawer?””
There was a pause.
“Not that I know of.””
“Did Vanessa ever come here?””
Another pause.
Then Ellie said, “Yes.””
My stomach tightened.
“When?””
“About three weeks ago. You had gone to pick up fabric from the supplier, and I was finishing the sleeve samples. Vanessa came in with Maya.””
I stood up.
“You never told me.””
“I didn't think it mattered at the time. Vanessa said she wanted to see where you worked because she was considering investing in your business.””
I almost laughed.
“Investing in my business?””
“She asked a lot of questions about your process. Where you kept your patterns, how you stored your sketches, whether you had digital copies.””
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“What did you tell her?””
“Nothing about the drawer. I swear. I showed her the cutting table and the fabric shelves, but you know I wouldn't give anyone access to your personal things.””
I believed Ellie.
She had spent enough nights helping me finish garments to understand what this studio meant to me.
“Did you see Maya touch anything?””
“I saw her near your sewing machine, but Vanessa called me over to look at a fabric sample. By the time I turned around, Maya was standing near the window.””
I closed my eyes.
Three weeks ago.
The same week I had noticed that the drawer lock felt unusually stiff.
I'd assumed dust had collected inside it.
“Ellie, I need you to do something for me.””
“Anything.””
“Find out whether the building's security cameras cover the third-floor corridor.””
“I'll call the manager.””
“And Ellie?””
“Yes?””
“Don't tell anyone about the key.””
“I won't.””
We ended the call.
I stood in the middle of my studio, looking at the empty drawer.
For years, I had thought the biggest obstacle between me and a career in fashion was money.
I had believed that if I worked hard enough, saved enough, and learned enough, I could eventually build something no one could take from me.
Now I understood how naïve that had been.
A design wasn't protected just because you had created it.
A locked drawer wasn't safe simply because you had the only key.
And family could be the easiest people to trust because they already knew where you kept your most valuable things.
I turned on my computer.
The screen flickered before opening my design folder.
I had photographed most of my sketches during the development process, but the original notebook contained handwritten measurements and technical notes that I had never uploaded.
I opened the April folder.
The first sketch appeared.
Then the second.
Then the photograph of the lilac gown on my mannequin, taken six weeks before Maya submitted her entry.
I leaned closer.
The image showed the dress from the front and side, with the crystal placement clearly visible.
In the corner of the photograph, the computer's date stamp showed April 12.
I saved a copy to a separate drive.
Then I uploaded another copy to an online folder and sent the link to my personal email account.
I wasn't going to make the mistake of keeping every piece of evidence in one place again.
A knock sounded at the door.
I jumped.
“It's me,” Ellie called.
I unlocked it.
She entered carrying her laptop and a paper bag from the coffee shop downstairs.
“I spoke to Mr. Harris,” she said.
“The hallway camera records continuously, but the footage is only stored for thirty days.””
“Can he show us?””
“He said we need to make a formal request because the building has other tenants.””
“Then we'll make one.””
Ellie opened her laptop on the cutting table.
“There is something else.””
She turned the screen toward me.
It showed a photograph of a printed document from the competition's registration system.
The page contained Maya's submission details, including the date and time of her entry.
Beneath the title of the lilac design was a line labeled Supporting Materials Received.
I leaned forward.
There was an attachment listed beneath it.
A scan of a handwritten page.
My handwriting.
My mother's old-fashioned way of teaching me to write had made my letters unusually distinctive, especially the capital N in my name.
The scan showed a page from my missing notebook.
But that wasn't the strangest part.
The page was dated April 19.
It included a note about changing the gown's inner waist reinforcement, followed by a small sketch of a second crystal arrangement I had never used.
Maya had submitted a page from my notebook as supporting evidence for her own entry.
“She didn't just copy the sketch,” Ellie whispered.
“She took your working notes, too.””
I stared at the screen.
“Where did you get this?””
“The competition portal still has the file listed in the submission record. Rachel sent me the public entry summary after I asked about the authorship review.””
“Can we download it?””
“I already did.””
She opened the scanned file.
At the bottom of the page, beneath my handwritten measurements, was a small rectangular stamp.
It was the stamp I used on invoices from my studio.
But the paper had something else on it.
A faint blue line, almost invisible against the white background.
I enlarged the image.
The line formed the edge of a letterhead.
Not mine.
It belonged to Bennett Atelier, the luxury fashion company Vanessa had managed for years.
I stared at it until my eyes hurt.
“Why would my notebook have her company's letterhead?””
Ellie looked equally confused.
“Maybe it was underneath the page when someone scanned it.””
I enlarged the image further.
At the top edge, almost entirely cut off, were two words.
*PRIVATE ACQUISITION.*
Beneath them was a date.
April 20.
The day after my technical notes had been written.
I felt a chill move through my chest.
“Ellie, can you read the rest of that heading?””
She adjusted the image.
Most of the text was outside the scan, but a few words remained visible.
Proposed transfer of design assets.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Transfer to whom?””
Ellie shook her head.
“I can't tell.””
I looked again at the duplicate key.
Someone had entered my studio.
Someone had taken my original sketches.
And someone had used those sketches in a document connected to Vanessa's company.
This wasn't simply about Maya wanting to win a competition.
There was a plan behind it.
A plan that had started before the gown was destroyed.
My phone rang.
The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.
I answered cautiously.
“Hello?””
“Ms. Bennett? This is Rachel Cole from the competition.””
“Yes.””
“We've completed an initial review of the material submitted by your stepsister.””
I held my breath.
“And?””
“I'm afraid the panel has discovered something concerning in the supporting documents.””
I looked at Ellie.
Rachel continued.
“The competition received a separate declaration from Bennett Atelier, claiming ownership of the design and requesting that any commercial licensing be directed through the company.””
My fingers went cold.
“Vanessa's company?””
“Yes. The declaration includes your name as the original designer, but it describes you as a contracted assistant who assigned her rights to the company.””
I couldn't speak.
Rachel lowered her voice.
“Ms. Bennett, did you ever sign an agreement transferring your designs to Bennett Atelier?””
“No.””
“Have you ever been employed by them?””
“No.””
There was a brief silence.
“Then we need to speak in person,” Rachel said.
“And I strongly advise you not to confront your family until we have secured copies of the relevant documents.””
I glanced at the open drawer.
The missing notebook.
The duplicate key.
The photograph of the company's letterhead.
I had thought someone had stolen my work to help Maya win a competition.
May you like
Now I understood that the competition might have been only the beginning.
And somewhere inside Vanessa's company, there was a document claiming that my designs belonged to her.
