Chapter 2: The Dress They Never Saw Coming
At 11:47 p.m., my studio smelled of hot steam, scorched thread, and desperation.
Rain tapped against the tall windows overlooking a narrow street in downtown Philadelphia. The radiator clicked beneath the sill, and the old industrial sewing machine on my worktable rattled whenever I pressed the pedal too hard.
I had six hours and thirteen minutes before the final inspection.
And I had no dress.
Well, not a complete one.
I had a torn lilac train, two yards of usable lace, a handful of crystals, and a bodice that looked as though it had survived a fight with a lawn mower.
I spread everything across the table.
Then I pulled open the bottom drawer.
Inside lay the fabric I'd been saving for the collection I hoped to create after winning the competition.
Midnight-sapphire silk.
It was the color of the ocean just before a storm swallowed the horizon. In soft light, it looked almost black. Under direct light, it revealed deep blue undertones that shimmered like stars beneath dark water.
I'd purchased it six months earlier from a small fabric supplier who was closing his shop. I'd intended to use it for the final gown of my first independent collection.
Now it was my only chance.
I ran my fingers over the silk.
My father had once told me that a good designer didn't simply make clothes.
A good designer understood what a person needed to become when they put them on.
For years, I'd thought he meant confidence.
Tonight, I understood something else.
Sometimes a dress wasn't supposed to make you look beautiful.
Sometimes it was supposed to remind you that you were still standing.
I turned on the task lamp and pulled out my sketchbook.
The original lilac design was delicate, romantic, almost fragile.
That was exactly what Vanessa had wanted to destroy.
So I began drawing something different.
A fitted midnight-sapphire bodice with an asymmetrical neckline. A sculpted waist. A sweeping skirt with hidden layers of lilac beneath the blue, visible only when the fabric moved.
The crystals would no longer form a traditional train.
I'd scatter them in a spiral from the left shoulder to the hem, like a galaxy being pulled into orbit.
The damaged lace would become an inset along the back, framed by sapphire silk.
The torn lilac lining would be transformed into a secret flash of color beneath the skirt.
It wouldn't be the same gown.
It would be the gown that came after it.
At 12:15 a.m., I began cutting.
At 12:42, I realized I didn't have enough matching thread.
At 12:48, I found an unopened spool tucked inside a tin of buttons.
At 1:10, the first seam split.
I ripped it out and started again.
At 1:36, my phone rang.
Vanessa.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“What?”” I asked.
“Don't take that tone with me,” she said.
I kept sewing.
“What do you want?””
“Your stepsister is worried about you.””
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“That's new.””
“She thinks you might do something foolish tomorrow.””
“Like show up with a dress?””
“Like make accusations you can't support. Maya has a future to protect, Nia. You need to understand that.””
I guided the silk beneath the presser foot.
“Then she should have designed her own gown.””
“You're making this personal.””
“It became personal when you put my dress in the trash.””
“I was trying to save you from humiliating yourself.””
I stopped sewing.
The needle remained buried in the fabric.
“Vanessa, do you hear yourself?””
She exhaled sharply.
“Your father spoiled you. He made you believe that talent alone would carry you through life.””
“No. He made me believe I didn't have to steal from someone else to succeed.””
Silence.
Then Vanessa's voice dropped.
“Be careful tomorrow. You have no idea how much influence Maya has with the people running that competition.””
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
That last sentence bothered me more than the insults.
Influence.
Maya had never been interested in fashion until I began entering design competitions. She used to complain that my sewing machine was too loud and my sketches made the house look messy.
Then, six months ago, she had suddenly started calling herself a creative director.
She'd hired a photographer.
She'd bought expensive fashion magazines.
And she'd begun asking strange questions about my studio.
Where did I keep my patterns?
When did I usually work?
Did I ever leave the spare key with anyone?
At the time, I'd thought she was trying to learn.
Now, every memory had sharpened edges.
I pushed the thought aside.
I had no time for suspicion.
I had a dress to build.
At 2:20 a.m., I attached the new bodice to the skirt.
At 3:05, I hand-sewed the first crystals into the spiral pattern.
At 3:44, I realized the damaged lace could not be used in the way I'd planned.
I sat back and looked at it.
The lace was delicate, with tiny embroidered flowers stitched into a pattern of winding vines. Some sections had been torn, but others remained intact.
I thought about the sketch Maya had stolen.
Then I smiled.
A design could be copied.
But the decisions made while building it were harder to steal.
I cut the remaining lace into narrow strips and placed them beneath the transparent panels at the back of the gown. The flowers appeared to float against the dark blue silk.
The torn edges disappeared into the seams.
The damage became part of the structure.
By 4:30 a.m., the gown was taking shape.
At 5:12, I tried it on.
The bodice fit perfectly, but the skirt hung too heavily on the left side. I pinned the excess fabric, stepped onto the small platform in front of the mirror, and turned.
The crystals caught the light.
For one breathless second, the gown looked as if the night sky had wrapped itself around me.
Then the zipper broke.
I stared at the open seam.
“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.””
I yanked the zipper free and searched the supply drawer.
Nothing.
No replacement zipper.
No matching hook-and-eye set.
I could hear the clock ticking above the door.
Six twenty.
I had less than two hours before I needed to leave.
My hands shook as I dug through an old tin of fasteners.
At the bottom, beneath a collection of mismatched snaps, I found a packet of tiny metal hooks I'd bought for a vintage wedding dress.
I could create a concealed closure by hand.
It would take time.
It would hurt my fingers.
But it would work.
I threaded a needle.
At 6:41, my phone vibrated again.
This time, it was a message from my friend and former design-school classmate, Tessa.
*TESSA:* Are you awake?
I sent her a photograph of the gown on the mannequin.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
*TESSA:* Nia. Tell me that's yours.
*ME:* It is.
*TESSA:* I just saw Maya's preview post.
My stomach tightened.
*ME:* What preview post?
Tessa sent a screenshot.
Maya stood in a luxury hotel suite wearing a pale-lilac gown that looked almost identical to my original design.
The crystal train shimmered behind her.
The caption read:
Four months of work. One dream. Tomorrow, I show the world what I've created.
Underneath it were hundreds of comments praising her talent.
One comment came from a prominent fashion influencer.
This is the most original young-designer concept I've seen all year.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Maya hadn't merely stolen the design.
She'd finished a replica.
Which meant she had access to materials, patterns, and measurements that I hadn't given her.
My phone rang again.
Tessa.
I answered.
“How did she get the dress?”” I asked.
“I don't know,” Tessa said.
“But Nia, look at the photo carefully.””
I enlarged it.
The bodice was nearly identical to my sketch.
The train had the same crystal pattern.
Even the hidden sapphire lining appeared in the photograph.
My mouth went dry.
“How could she know about the lining?””
Tessa was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “Didn't you tell me you kept your original sketches locked in your studio?””
“Yes.””
“And nobody else has a key?””
I looked at the small brass key hanging from my own necklace.
“No one.””
Tessa inhaled.
“Then someone made a copy.””
I thought of Vanessa's warning.
I thought of Maya's questions.
And suddenly, the competition email didn't feel like an accusation against me.
It felt like the beginning of something much bigger.
At 7:02 a.m., I finished the final hook.
At 7:11, I steamed the gown.
At 7:19, I placed it inside a black garment bag and zipped it closed.
My phone lit up with a new message from an unknown number.
You should withdraw from the competition.
A second message followed.
Ask your stepmother what happened to your father's studio records.
I read it twice.
Then I called the number.
It was disconnected.
For a moment, I stood perfectly still.
The dress hung from my hand, heavy and silent.
My father had kept business records in his studio before he died. Vanessa had told me the documents were irrelevant and had been disposed of during the move.
I had never questioned her.
Not until now.
I slipped the gown over my arm, locked my studio door, and headed for the competition venue.
I would confront Maya about the design.
I would ask the judges to examine my original sketches.
And if Vanessa had something to hide about my father's studio, I would find it.
But as I reached the elevator, another email arrived.
This one was from the competition director.
Ms. Carter, your entry has been flagged for a potential authorship violation. Please report to the backstage review room before the runway presentation.
My fingers tightened around the garment bag.
They weren't simply questioning my work.
May you like
Someone had already accused me of stealing my own design.
And the person who had done it knew exactly where to strike.
