Chapter 1: The Dress They Tried to Destroy
“You destroyed everything I worked for!””
My voice shattered across the luxury fashion workroom as I stared at the white wedding gown lying in ruins on the marble floor.
Three years of my life were scattered beneath a pair of expensive heels.
The delicate French lace had been ripped from the bodice. The pearl buttons were missing. The hand-embroidered flowers I'd spent hundreds of sleepless nights creating had been slashed into useless pieces.
And standing beside the wreckage was my stepsister, Brielle.
She wore a hot pink satin dress that hugged her figure, oversized diamond earrings, and the smug expression of someone who had just gotten away with murder.
“Honestly, Camille, you should be thanking me,” she said, examining her perfectly manicured nails.
“That dress was never going to make you successful.””
I stepped toward her.
“You had no right to touch it.””
Brielle laughed.
Then she shoved me.
My back hit the velvet sofa, and a sharp pain traveled through my shoulder.
“You were never good enough anyway!”” she snapped.
Behind her stood Vanessa, my stepmother, wearing a cream pantsuit and holding a champagne glass.
She didn't look surprised.
She didn't even look concerned.
She simply watched me with the cold patience of someone observing an unpleasant stain on an expensive carpet.
“Brielle, darling,” Vanessa said, “don't ruin your evening over this.””
Then she turned toward me.
“You should accept that you've lost.””
I stared at her.
“Lost what?””
Vanessa took a small sip of champagne.
“Your opportunity. Your little fashion dream. Your place in this family. Surely you understand by now that talent isn't enough.””
I looked around the workroom.
This was my workroom.
Or at least, it had been.
The room occupied the top floor of the Bellamy House fashion studio, a prestigious atelier my late mother had dreamed of opening.
She had taught me to sew before I could properly write my name.
She taught me how to recognize silk by touch, how to shape a bodice without sacrificing movement, and how to make something extraordinary from fabric other people considered useless.
After she died, my father remarried Vanessa.
And gradually, the workroom became a battlefield.
Vanessa wanted the Bellamy name associated with luxury.
Brielle wanted the attention, the magazine covers, the invitations, and the applause.
I wanted to design.
That was apparently the greatest offense of all.
My wedding gown had been intended for the final presentation of the Bellamy House bridal collection.
It was also supposed to be my wedding dress.
My fiancé, Adrian, was scheduled to arrive that evening for a private celebration.
The gown represented everything I had worked toward.
And now it was destroyed.
I lowered myself onto the floor.
My fingers touched a piece of torn lace.
The fabric was still warm from the workroom lights.
“Why?”” I whispered.
Brielle crouched in front of me.
“Because you keep pretending you're the talented daughter,” she said.
“And I'm tired of watching everyone act like you're special.””
“You have your own collection,” I replied quietly.
Brielle's expression hardened.
“My collection?””
She stood and pointed toward the mannequins near the windows.
“Those designs are mine now. Vanessa arranged everything with the investors. You're finished.””
I looked at Vanessa.
“What is she talking about?””
Vanessa placed her champagne glass on the cutting table.
“Bellamy House needs a recognizable face. Brielle has the personality, the connections, and the appearance our clients expect.””
“And my designs?””
“Your employment agreement gives the company ownership of the pieces created under its commission.””
“That doesn't mean you can put her name on my work.””
Vanessa smiled faintly.
“Do you intend to challenge me in court?””
I said nothing.
She continued.
“Your father signed the business restructuring documents last month. The studio's creative department is now under Brielle's supervision.””
My stomach tightened.
My father had signed something without telling me.
Brielle walked toward the central table and picked up a folder.
She tossed it onto the sofa beside me.
“There's your paperwork. Read it when you stop crying.””
I opened the folder with trembling hands.
My name appeared on the first page.
So did a signature that looked disturbingly like mine.
But I hadn't signed it.
I looked up.
“What is this?””
Vanessa's expression changed for the first time.
“Administrative matters.””
“This signature isn't mine.””
Brielle rolled her eyes.
“Oh, here we go.””
I held the paper closer.
The document transferred my creative rights to Bellamy House and named Brielle as the sole designer of the upcoming bridal collection.
At the bottom was a signature dated three weeks earlier.
Someone had forged my name.
“You forged my signature,” I whispered.
Vanessa stepped closer.
“Be careful with accusations, Camille.””
I looked at her.
“You stole my work.””
“No,” she replied.
“We invested in a company. You simply failed to understand how business works.””
Brielle picked up a pair of scissors from the cutting table.
For one horrible second, I thought she intended to destroy the remaining fabric.
Instead, she snipped a loose thread from her own dress.
“Look at you,” she said.
“On the floor, crying over fabric. Maybe you should consider finding a normal job.””
I slowly closed the folder.
Something inside me had gone strangely quiet.
I didn't shout again.
I didn't beg.
I simply looked at the ruined gown.
Then I noticed something near the industrial sewing machine.
A handful of black feathers.
They had fallen from a box of decorative materials I'd been saving for an experimental eveningwear design.
Beside them lay several yards of shimmering purple fabric, black crystal embellishments, and delicate scraps of midnight-colored lace.
My mother's old design notebook sat underneath the machine.
Its leather cover was scratched.
I had almost forgotten it was there.
Brielle followed my gaze.
“What are you looking at?””
I wiped my cheek.
“Nothing.””
Vanessa checked her watch.
“Come along, Brielle. We have guests arriving.””
Brielle gave the destroyed gown one last kick.
“Don't forget to clean this up.””
The two women walked toward the glass doors.
Just before leaving, Vanessa turned around.
“One more thing, Camille. Your access card will be deactivated tonight. Take your personal belongings and don't return.””
The doors closed.
Their footsteps disappeared down the marble corridor.
For several minutes, I remained on the floor.
Then I reached for the black feathers.
They were soft.
Almost weightless.
I picked up the purple fabric and held it against the ruined wedding gown.
The colors looked impossible together.
Black.
Purple.
Silver.
A combination no one at Bellamy House had ever dared to put on a bridal runway.
I opened my mother's notebook.
On the final page was a sketch I'd never seen before.
A woman stood in a dramatic gown with enormous sculptural wings spreading behind her shoulders.
Underneath, my mother had written:
Beauty isn't always delicate. Sometimes it has teeth.
I stared at the drawing.
Then I looked at the sewing machine.
My hands stopped shaking.
I stood.
“You destroyed my dress,” I whispered toward the empty room.
I threaded the machine.
“But you didn't destroy my talent.””
And for the first time that evening, I smiled.
Because I had just realized something.
May you like
They had spent years trying to make me design what they wanted.
Tonight, I was going to create something nobody could control.
