Chapter 2: The Girl Behind the Sewing Machine
At 11:47 p.m., the security system announced that my access card had been deactivated.
A small red light blinked above the workroom entrance.
I didn't bother looking up.
I had already locked the door from the inside.
The destroyed wedding gown lay folded beside the cutting table. I had collected every usable piece of lace, every pearl button, and every scrap of embroidery.
Nothing was going to waste.
The black feathers were arranged in neat rows.
The purple fabric was spread across the central table.
And my mother's notebook was open beside the sewing machine.
I began with the corset.
The original wedding gown had been designed around a delicate ivory bodice, but the new design demanded something stronger.
I cut the black satin into structured panels, reinforced the seams, and shaped the waist with internal boning.
My fingers moved automatically.
One stitch.
Another.
Then another.
The machine hummed beneath the workroom lights.
At midnight, my phone vibrated.
It was Adrian.
*ADRIAN: Where are you? I just arrived at the house. Your stepmother says you've gone home.*
I stared at the message.
I typed three different responses before finally sending one.
*CAMILLE: I'm still at the studio. Something happened to the dress.*
His reply came immediately.
*ADRIAN: I'm coming upstairs.*
I looked at the clock.
Then I heard footsteps outside.
Three sharp knocks hit the glass door.
“Camille?””
It was Adrian.
I opened it.
He stood in a dark tailored suit, holding a bouquet of white roses.
His expression changed the moment he saw me.
My hair was tangled, my cheek was still swollen from the shove, and a small cut marked my finger.
“What happened to you?””
I stepped aside.
He entered the workroom.
Then he saw the gown.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
He approached the ruined fabric and carefully lifted a piece of torn lace.
“Who did this?””
“Brielle.””
His jaw tightened.
“Why?””
“Because she says the bridal collection belongs to her now.””
I showed him the document.
He read it twice.
Then he looked at the signature.
“Camille, you didn't sign this.””
“No.””
“Have you spoken to your father?””
I laughed without humor.
“He hasn't answered my calls since yesterday.””
Adrian placed the papers on the table.
“This is fraud.””
“Vanessa says I have no proof.””
“Then we'll find proof.””
I turned back toward the sewing machine.
“I don't want to spend tonight arguing with them.””
He looked at the black satin panels.
“What are you making?””
I lifted the corset.
“Something they won't expect.””
Adrian examined the fabric.
“Black?””
“Black and purple.””
He smiled slightly.
“Your mother would have loved that.””
I stopped moving.
He was right.
My mother had always encouraged me to experiment.
When I was sixteen, I had designed a black velvet dress with silver embroidery.
Vanessa had called it inappropriate.
My father had suggested I make something more commercially appealing.
My mother had simply taken the dress to a private dinner and worn it herself.
She had told everyone it was her daughter's masterpiece.
I could still remember the way she had squeezed my hand beneath the table.
“Don't let people who fear originality convince you that you're wrong,” she had whispered.
I looked down at the corset.
“I think I'm finally making something she would recognize.””
Adrian put the roses into an empty glass vase.
“Then I'm staying.””
“You don't have to.””
“I know.””
He pulled a chair beside the cutting table.
“Tell me what you need.””
I handed him a box of crystals.
“Sort these by size.””
He laughed.
“That's an incredibly romantic evening.””
“Don't complain. Some people get champagne.””
We worked through the night.
Adrian sorted crystals while I constructed the bodice.
At 1:30 a.m., I began cutting the purple tulle.
At 2:15, I attached the first layers to the skirt.
At 3:00, I started shaping the wings.
That was the hardest part.
The feathers needed to move naturally without collapsing under their own weight.
I built a lightweight internal framework, covered it with black satin, and attached individual feathers in overlapping rows.
The wings were not meant to look like costume accessories.
They needed to become part of the dress itself.
A sculptural extension of the shoulders.
A dramatic silhouette that would spread when the model moved.
At 4:10 a.m., Adrian returned from the vending machine with two coffees.
He stopped when he saw the worktable.
“Camille.””
“What?””
He pointed toward the bodice.
“That's beautiful.””
I examined the piece.
Black satin formed the structured foundation.
Purple lace traced the neckline.
Tiny crystals reflected the light like stars scattered across a night sky.
But something was missing.
I reached for the remnants of the original wedding gown.
The damaged ivory lace was still beautiful in places.
I cut a small section and placed it against the dark bodice.
Adrian watched me.
“Are you sure you want to use that?””
“Yes.””
“Doesn't it remind you of what happened?””
I looked at the lace.
“It reminds me of what I made before they tried to take it away.””
I stitched the ivory fragment into the interior lining.
Nobody would see it from the outside.
But I would know it was there.
At 5:30 a.m., the first pale light appeared beyond the windows.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a message from an unknown number.
*UNKNOWN: Stop working on that dress. Vanessa knows what you're doing.*
I frowned.
Another message arrived.
*UNKNOWN: She has already contacted the investors. If you appear at tomorrow's presentation, they will have security remove you.*
I turned the screen toward Adrian.
“Who sent this?””
He examined the number.
“Do you recognize it?””
“No.””
A third message appeared.
*UNKNOWN: And Camille? Don't trust your father. Ask him what happened to your mother's original designs.*
My fingers went cold.
I read the message again.
My mother's original designs.
For years, Vanessa had told me that most of my mother's work had been lost during the studio's financial restructuring.
She said the archives were incomplete.
She said the sketches had been damaged.
But I remembered something.
When my mother died, she had kept a private collection of drawings in a locked cabinet.
I had never been allowed to open it.
Vanessa had claimed the cabinet was empty when the house was renovated.
“Adrian,” I whispered.
“What?””
“I think there's something they haven't told me.””
He looked at the message again.
“Whoever sent this knows something.””
I saved the number.
Then I returned to the dress.
By 7:00 a.m., the skirt had taken shape.
Purple tulle cascaded from the black corset in dramatic layers.
The hem was asymmetrical, revealing delicate black lace beneath.
I added crystals along the waistline and hand-sewed the remaining feathers into the outer structure.
But the wings still needed something.
I opened my mother's notebook again.
On the inside cover, beneath her handwriting, was a tiny envelope.
I had never noticed it before.
Inside was a small photograph.
My mother stood in front of an enormous black-and-purple gown.
The dress looked almost exactly like the one I was making.
Except the wings were larger.
And the back contained an intricate pattern of silver stitching.
On the photograph, my mother had written:
For Camille, when she's ready to fly.
My throat tightened.
I turned the photograph over.
There was a date.
Twenty years earlier.
And beneath it, a name.
*THE NIGHT BAT COLLECTION — ORIGINAL DESIGN 01.*
I looked at Adrian.
“This isn't just inspiration.””
He leaned closer.
“What do you mean?””
“My mother designed something like this before I was born.””
I examined the photograph again.
The embroidery pattern was unmistakable.
It was the same unusual silver stitching I had seen in several of her old sketches.
Then I noticed a second line written beneath the title.
The complete collection is secured in the Bellamy archive.
I stared at the words.
The Bellamy archive.
The same archive Vanessa claimed no longer existed.
Adrian picked up the photograph.
“Camille, if this collection is real, why has nobody ever seen it?””
I had no answer.
But suddenly, the mysterious message made sense.
Someone knew what had happened to my mother's work.
And whoever had sent those warnings knew exactly why Vanessa was afraid of my new dress.
Before I could say anything, my phone rang.
The caller ID displayed one name.
*DAD.*
I answered.
“Camille,” my father said, his voice unusually strained.
“You need to stop what you're doing.””
I looked at the unfinished wings.
“Why?””
There was a long silence.
Then he whispered:
“Because your mother didn't die without leaving you something.””
My heart stopped.
“What did she leave me?””
May you like
My father exhaled shakily.
“Something Vanessa has spent twenty years trying to hide.””
