Chapter 1: Your Little Gown Belongs in the Trash
“Your little gown belongs in the trash.””
Vanessa said it with a smile.
Then she grabbed the crystal train of my pale-lilac competition gown and ripped.
The sound was small at first. A sharp little crackle of thread giving way.
Then came the tearing.
Hundreds of hand-sewn crystals scattered across the white workroom floor like broken pieces of ice. The delicate train I'd spent four months creating separated from the bodice, and Vanessa dropped it into the metal trash bin beside her.
I stood frozen, a needle still between my fingers.
Across the cutting table, my stepsister Maya lifted her champagne-colored coffee cup and examined her nails.
“Oh, Mom,” she said.
“You didn't have to do that. Nia was actually getting somewhere with this one.””
Vanessa brushed a crystal from her sleeve.
“Getting somewhere? Sweetheart, a dress doesn't become fashion just because someone stays awake all night sewing it.””
Maya laughed.
I didn't.
Because tomorrow morning, the three finalists of the prestigious Bellamy Young Designers Competition would be announced. The winner would receive fifty thousand dollars, a six-month apprenticeship with a luxury fashion house, and a chance to show a collection at New York Fashion Week.
I'd worked every night after my shifts at a neighborhood alterations shop to finish that gown.
I'd sold my grandmother's gold bracelet to buy the original French lace.
I'd pricked my fingers so many times that tiny brown spots stained the inside of my sewing gloves.
And Vanessa had just destroyed it in less than ten seconds.
“Why?”” I whispered.
Vanessa turned toward me, looking almost offended by the question.
“Excuse me?””
“Why would you do that?””
She glanced at the ruined train.
“Because you need to understand something, Nia. This family has invested a great deal in Maya's future. We aren't going to let you embarrass her with some homemade costume.””
“It's not a costume.””
“Then perhaps you should stop dressing like someone who can't afford a real designer.””
My cheeks burned.
I was twenty-three years old, and I had lived in Vanessa's house since I was fourteen, when my father married her. I had learned early that there were two kinds of people in that house.
Maya was the daughter who deserved opportunities.
I was the girl who should be grateful for leftovers.
When Maya wanted an expensive sewing machine, Vanessa bought her two.
When I asked for money to enroll in a design course, Vanessa told me to find a job.
When my father was still alive, he used to stand behind me while I sketched dresses at the kitchen table.
He would tap the pencil in my hand and say, “Nia, the world is full of people who will tell you what you can't do. Don't make their job easier by believing them.””
He had been gone for three years.
And somehow, Vanessa had grown crueler with every passing month.
I looked at the trash bin.
The crystals were still sparkling.
My fingers began to shake.
“Pick it up,” I said.
Vanessa blinked.
“What?””
“Pick up the train.””
Maya lowered her cup.
For one brief second, nobody moved.
Then Vanessa laughed.
“Oh, this is precious. You're giving orders now?””
“You destroyed something that belongs to me.””
“Everything in this workroom was paid for with money from this household.””
“My fabric was purchased with my own money.””
“And where did you get the money to live here? To eat? To use the electricity while you played dress-up?””
I swallowed hard.
“Dad left me money.””
Her smile vanished for half a second.
There it was.
The one subject Vanessa hated more than my sewing.
My father had left a modest inheritance in my name, along with a small studio space he'd purchased years earlier for his own business. Vanessa had insisted the money was too complicated for me to manage after his death.
She'd promised to handle everything.
I had been grieving. I had trusted her.
By the time I finally asked questions, most of the money had disappeared into legal fees, household expenses, and investments I had never authorized.
Or so she claimed.
“Don't start with that again,” Vanessa said sharply.
“Your father is gone. You should stop using his name whenever you don't get what you want.””
Maya set her cup down.
“Mom, leave her alone. Honestly, it's embarrassing enough watching her pretend she can compete with actual designers.””
She reached into the leather portfolio resting beside her chair and pulled out a sheet of paper.
My stomach tightened.
I knew that paper.
It was my design sketch.
The original.
I'd drawn the gown on thick ivory paper, with tiny handwritten notes marking every seam, every crystal placement, and every fold of the skirt.
The upper bodice was inspired by moonlight on water. The train was supposed to catch the light with every step, giving the illusion that the wearer was walking through a field of stars.
I'd kept the sketch in a locked drawer in my studio.
“How did you get that?”” I asked.
Maya held it up.
“Relax. I borrowed it.””
“That's mine.””
“Not anymore.””
She turned the page toward Vanessa.
“Look. I already entered your design under my name.””
The room seemed to tilt.
I stared at her.
“You what?””
Maya shrugged.
“I submitted the concept last week. The judges loved it.””
“You stole my design.””
“Prove it.””
“I have the original sketches. I have the progress photographs. I have every version of the pattern.””
“And I have an official competition entry with my name on it.””
She tapped the portfolio.
“Guess whose name the judges will see first.””
Vanessa folded her arms.
“Maya has always had a natural eye for fashion. Perhaps this is simply a lesson in understanding your own limitations.””
I looked from one woman to the other.
Their expressions were different, but the cruelty was the same.
Vanessa looked pleased with herself.
Maya looked entertained.
Neither of them seemed to understand that they had just taken something far more important than a dress.
They had taken the one thing I'd built entirely for myself.
I walked to the trash bin.
My knees felt strangely weak.
The train lay crumpled beneath a paper towel and a discarded coffee sleeve. Several crystals had detached completely. The delicate lilac lining was torn down the center, and a section of lace had been sliced by the sharp metal edge of the bin.
I reached in and lifted the fabric.
One of the crystals caught on my fingertip.
A bead of blood appeared.
I stared at it.
Then I sat down on the floor.
Not because I wanted to surrender.
Because my legs would no longer hold me.
For several seconds, the room was silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Maya leaned toward Vanessa.
“Do you think she'll cry?””
Vanessa answered without lowering her voice.
“She always does eventually.””
I closed my eyes.
I could hear my father's voice again, faint but stubborn.
Don't make their job easier by believing them.
I looked at the torn lace in my hands.
Then I looked at the sketch in Maya's portfolio.
A terrible thought formed in my mind.
If Maya had entered my design under her own name, she had probably copied more than the drawing.
She might have seen the notes about the construction.
She might have copied the measurements.
She might even have known about the hidden detail I'd planned to add beneath the bodice: a small sapphire-blue lining visible only when the wearer turned.
That detail was the signature of my first collection.
It was the one part of the design I had never shown anyone.
I rose slowly.
Vanessa glanced at the clock.
“Where are you going?””
“To my studio.””
Maya laughed.
“To cry over more fabric?””
I stopped at the doorway.
“No,” I said.
“To finish my dress.””
Vanessa shook her head.
“You have until eight tomorrow morning to submit the final gown for inspection. There's no way you'll finish another one in time.””
I looked back at her.
“Then you should probably enjoy tonight.””
Her expression hardened.
“Don't threaten me, Nia.””
“I'm not.””
I picked up the ruined train and placed it carefully in my arms.
“I'm promising myself something.””
Maya rolled her eyes.
“Here we go.””
I held her gaze.
“You can ruin the dress, but you can't ruin the designer.””
For the first time that evening, Maya's smile faltered.
I walked out before either of them could answer.
Behind me, I heard Vanessa tell her daughter not to worry.
“Nia has never finished anything without someone helping her,” she said.
“By morning, she'll come begging us to fix this.””
I kept walking.
Because Vanessa was right about one thing.
I had until eight in the morning.
But she was wrong about who would be begging.
When I reached the front door, my phone vibrated.
An email from the Bellamy competition had arrived.
*SUBJECT: FINALIST PRESENTATION — IMPORTANT UPDATE*
I opened it with trembling fingers.
The first line made my blood run cold.
All finalists must present their original design documentation alongside their finished garments.
And beneath that announcement was a second message.
May you like
A message from the competition's head judge.
Ms. Nia Carter, please contact me immediately regarding a discrepancy in the authorship of your submitted design.
