Chapter 3: The Girl in the Butterfly Wings
The Bellmont Institute of Fashion occupied a restored stone building in the heart of Manhattan, with tall windows, polished marble floors, and a grand staircase that looked as though it belonged in a royal palace.
By the time Maya and I arrived, the entrance was crowded with contestants, photographers, fashion students, and parents carrying garment bags.
Some girls wore sleek black dresses.
Others arrived in dramatic sculptural gowns, metallic jumpsuits, or layered creations that shimmered beneath the morning light.
Everywhere I looked, people seemed to know exactly where they belonged.
I clutched my registration folder.
Maya noticed.
“Stop squeezing that before you turn it into confetti.””
“I think I'm going to throw up.””
“Not on the gown. That's my only rule.””
I let out a nervous laugh.
Then a woman with a tablet approached us.
“Contestant name?””
“Nia Monroe.””
She checked the list.
“Design category?””
“Emerging Couture.””
The woman glanced at my butterfly wings.
Her expression shifted from routine professionalism to genuine curiosity.
“That's quite a silhouette. Did you construct the wing mechanism yourself?””
“Yes.””
“Impressive. Follow the blue markers to the fitting area. You'll have a brief technical inspection before the preliminary walk.””
“Thank you.””
As we moved down the hallway, I noticed a large banner displaying the competition's theme:
*THE FUTURE OF AMERICAN COUTURE.*
Beneath it were photographs of previous winners. Several had gone on to work for major fashion houses. One had founded her own label before turning twenty-five.
I imagined my name among them.
Then I remembered Brianna's dress.
My confidence wavered.
Maya squeezed my fingers.
“You belong here.””
“What if the judges think I copied her?””
“Then you show them your sketches, your registration, and every photograph you've taken since the first stitch.””
“What if they don't care?””
“Then we'll make them care.””
We entered the fitting area.
Rows of mirrors lined the walls. Garment racks stood beneath bright overhead lights, and contestants moved between stations while assistants checked hems, fasteners, and structural supports.
A tall young man wearing a black staff badge approached me.
“I'm Daniel, one of the technical assistants. Can I inspect the wings?””
“Of course.””
He examined the harness, tested the fasteners, and gently lifted one of the curved frames.
“Lightweight support. Hidden attachment points. You designed the release mechanism, too?””
“Yes. It lets the wings move slightly when I turn, but it won't catch on the skirt.””
Daniel nodded.
“That's clever. Most people focus on appearance and forget the engineering.””
He stepped back.
“Your gown passes inspection.””
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
“Thank you.””
“Don't thank me yet,” he said with a grin.
“Wait until you survive the runway.””
Across the room, a burst of laughter drew my attention.
Brianna stood before a three-way mirror while Vanessa adjusted the pearl-white gown around her waist.
A woman in a tailored charcoal suit examined the dress with a measuring tape.
“Beautiful construction,” the woman said.
“Who handled the original pattern?””
Brianna answered without hesitation.
“My designer. I developed the concept, and she helped me bring it to life.””
My stomach tightened.
Vanessa caught sight of me.
Her smile was immediate and poisonous.
“Nia. I didn't think you'd actually come.””
Brianna turned.
For the first time that morning, she looked uncertain.
Her eyes traveled from my face to the butterfly wings.
Then she stared.
The gown wasn't anything like the pearl-white dress she wore.
It was brighter, bolder, and impossible to ignore.
Lavender layers swept around my legs. Pink crystals caught the light. The butterfly wings curved behind my shoulders, their translucent surfaces shimmering with every movement.
Brianna recovered quickly.
“That's... different.””
“Thank you,” I said.
“I meant unusual.””
“I know what you meant.””
Vanessa approached, lowering her voice.
“Don't make a scene. You are here to compete, not to embarrass this family.””
I looked at the pearl-white gown.
“I'm here because I earned my place.””
“You earned nothing yet.””
“Neither has Brianna.””
Vanessa's eyes narrowed.
Brianna stepped between us.
“Mom, leave it. Nia's nervous. She needs to feel important.””
Then she turned to me, smiling for the nearby contestants.
“Really, Nia, I hope you do well. Your little costume is very creative.””
Maya's mouth fell open.
“Costume?””
Brianna lifted one shoulder.
“Well, it has wings.””
Maya took a step forward.
“And your dress has a suspicious number of similarities to a gown Nia spent four months creating.””
Brianna's expression hardened.
“Are you accusing me of stealing?””
“I'm asking a question.””
“Then ask someone who cares.””
The woman with the measuring tape looked up.
“Is there a dispute about the designs?””
Vanessa immediately stepped forward.
“No dispute at all. The girls are sisters. They're simply competitive.””
Brianna laughed.
“Exactly. Nia has always admired my taste.””
I could feel my pulse in my throat.
Every instinct told me to expose her right there.
But the competition had rules. The judges would evaluate the finished garments, and formal complaints had to be submitted with supporting documentation.
I had the documents.
What I didn't have was proof that Brianna's gown contained my registered label.
Not yet.
I leaned toward her.
“You should check the inside of your bodice.””
Her smile faltered.
Only for a second.
Then she laughed too loudly.
“Why? Did you sew something ugly in there?””
“Something important.””
Brianna's fingers moved instinctively toward her waist.
Vanessa noticed.
“What are you talking about?””
“Nothing,” Brianna snapped.
For the first time, I saw fear beneath her confidence.
A volunteer called for contestants to take their places for the preliminary lineup.
Brianna turned away, but not before whispering, “You'd better pray that little stunt works.””
I watched her walk toward the stage entrance.
Maya leaned close.
“What did you mean about the inside of her bodice?””
I opened my folder and showed her the registration documents.
“Every official version of my design has the same identifying label sewn into the inner bodice. I put it there before the dress was destroyed.””
Maya's eyes widened.
“You think she took the original dress?””
“Or copied the label.””
“Would she be stupid enough to do that?””
I glanced at Brianna's pearl-white gown.
“She thought nobody would ever check.””
A bell rang.
Contestants began filing toward the runway.
The preliminary walk took place in a long hall illuminated by white spotlights. Three judges sat behind a black table at the far end, each with a tablet and a printed evaluation sheet.
I recognized the woman in the center from fashion magazines.
Elise Laurent.
A celebrated couture designer whose work had been worn by actors, musicians, and members of European royalty. She was famous for spotting technical mistakes that other judges overlooked.
She was also known for refusing to reward a beautiful garment if the person wearing it couldn't explain how it had been made.
As I approached the lineup, I heard her speaking to another judge.
“The future of fashion isn't just about spectacle,” Elise said.
“It's about authorship. If a designer cannot defend the originality of a piece, the beauty is meaningless.””
My hands went cold.
Brianna was standing two places ahead of me.
She heard it, too.
Her fingers closed around the side of her skirt.
Then she glanced back at me.
The stage manager raised a hand.
“Contestants, prepare for your entrance. Walk to the center mark, pause for the judges, turn, and exit through the left aisle.””
A girl in a gold gown went first.
Then a contestant in a black sculptural dress.
Then Brianna.
She stepped into the light as though she'd been born beneath it.
Her pearl-white skirt moved in perfect waves. The bodice caught the spotlights, and the audience murmured appreciatively.
Vanessa sat in the front row, smiling with unmistakable pride.
Brianna reached the center mark and turned slowly.
One judge leaned toward another.
Elise watched without smiling.
Brianna returned backstage, passing me with her chin lifted.
“See?”” she whispered.
“This is what winning looks like.””
I didn't answer.
The stage manager called my name.
“Nia Monroe, you're next.””
For one terrible moment, my legs refused to move.
I remembered the trash can.
The torn seam.
Vanessa's cold fingers around my wrist.
Brianna asking whether I could prove anything.
Then I remembered Maya kneeling beside the ruined gown, refusing to let me believe it was the end.
I remembered my grandmother teaching me to guide fabric beneath the needle.
And I remembered the first time I had drawn the butterfly wings, imagining a woman who could spread them without asking permission.
I stepped forward.
The lights struck the gown.
For a second, the entire room seemed to change color.
Lavender and rose pink shimmered across the runway. The crystal beads flashed like tiny stars, and the butterfly wings opened gently as I turned.
A whisper moved through the audience.
Then another.
I walked to the center mark.
I lifted my chin.
And I turned.
The wings caught the air, revealing layers of translucent fabric that seemed to float behind me. The pearls along the neckline glowed softly against the pink and lavender, preserving the elegance of my original design while transforming it into something entirely new.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody called it a costume.
For a moment, nobody spoke at all.
Then a woman near the front whispered, “Oh, my goodness.””
Someone else began clapping.
The applause spread through the hall.
I heard Maya cheering from the side aisle.
I saw Daniel grinning near the technical station.
Even the contestants waiting backstage leaned forward to watch.
At the judges' table, one of the evaluators stopped writing.
Elise Laurent leaned toward the stage.
Her eyes followed the line of the wings, then the construction of the bodice, then the precise pearl arrangement at my waist.
She looked less like a judge watching a performance and more like a designer trying to solve a puzzle.
I returned backstage with my knees trembling.
Maya grabbed me in a fierce hug.
“You did it!””
“I thought my heart was going to stop.””
“Your heart can file a complaint later. Right now, you're magnificent.””
I laughed, breathless and dizzy.
Across the room, Brianna stood motionless.
She wasn't looking at my face.
She was staring at my gown.
More specifically, at the pearl detail along the waist.
I saw her lips move.
“No.””
Vanessa hurried toward her.
“What is it?””
Brianna grabbed her mother's arm.
“She used it.””
“Used what?””
“The pearl arrangement. The exact one.””
Vanessa's gaze snapped toward me.
For the first time, her composure cracked.
“That's impossible.””
Brianna shook her head.
“She must have copied it from my gown.””
I turned slowly.
“You mean the gown you copied from mine?””
Her face reddened.
“You can't prove that.””
Before I could answer, a staff member approached carrying a clipboard.
“Contestants, please remain in the waiting area. The judges are conducting a design verification before the final round.””
Brianna swallowed.
Vanessa grabbed her hand.
“Say nothing,” she whispered.
“Let me handle this.””
But Elise Laurent had already stood from her chair.
She was holding a small document retrieved during the technical inspection of Brianna's gown.
Her expression was unreadable.
“Miss Monroe,” Elise called.
Both Brianna and I turned.
Elise looked directly at Brianna.
“I have a question about the construction of your pearl-white design.””
Brianna forced a smile.
“Of course.””
Elise lifted the document.
“Your submission claims that this gown was developed from your original concept. Is that correct?””
“Yes,” Brianna replied quickly.
“Every detail was my idea.””
Elise nodded once.
“Then perhaps you can explain why the interior label identifies a different designer.””
Brianna went completely still.
Vanessa's hand slipped from her daughter's arm.
Elise turned the document so the other judges could see it.
Then she looked at Brianna with a calmness that somehow made the moment even more terrifying.
“Brianna, why is Nia's registered design mark on your gown?””
May you like
The room fell silent.
And for the first time in her life, my stepsister had absolutely nothing to say.
