Chapter 9: The Woman Who Wanted the Roses
For a long time, I simply stared at the email.
The photograph showed Brianna standing in our living room, wearing my crimson rose wings. She was smiling at the camera, her hands resting on the black velvet veins.
The image had been taken before the competition.
Before the black paint.
Before Brianna admitted she hadn't made the costume.
And beneath it, Vanessa had written a letter to Bellweather Design House.
I am writing on behalf of the Hayes family regarding the rose angel design. The attached photograph shows a completed version of the original concept, developed by my daughter, Brianna Hayes. We are interested in discussing potential licensing opportunities.
I read the sentence again.
Developed by my daughter.
Not created by Nia.
Not inspired by Evelyn Rose.
Vanessa had tried to place Brianna's name on a design that belonged to my mother, using a costume I had spent three hundred hours creating.
Dad leaned over my shoulder.
“She sent this before the competition?””
“Last week.””
He looked ill.
“Why would she do that?””
I pointed to the next paragraph.
The letter mentioned an upcoming collection of Halloween-themed theatrical costumes and requested a meeting to discuss commercial reproduction.
Vanessa had not been trying to win five thousand dollars.
The competition was a showcase.
She wanted photographs of Brianna wearing the costume. She wanted the audience to associate the design with her daughter. She wanted a public record that could support the claim she had already sent to the company.
The award would have been useful.
But the real prize was the design itself.
“She was going to sell it,” I whispered.
Dad shook his head.
“We can't know that for certain. She was seeking a licensing discussion, but we need to see what she intended to do next.””
I turned toward him.
“Dad, she told the company Brianna created the design.””
“Yes.””
“She used my costume as evidence.””
“Yes.””
“And she knew the original design belonged to Mom.””
He looked at the letter.
“Yes.””
I waited for him to say something else.
Instead, he pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I don't know how to explain this.””
“Then don't explain it. Help me stop her.””
He looked up.
For once, he didn't ask me to calm down or consider Vanessa's feelings.
“What do you need?””
The question surprised me.
“I need Bellweather to know that the design is disputed. I need the competition organizers to preserve the evidence. And I need the original archive protected.””
He nodded.
“Then that's what we'll do.””
We contacted Patricia immediately.
She reviewed the email and advised us not to respond directly to Vanessa or make public claims beyond what we could substantiate. Instead, she would notify Bellweather that the licensing claim was disputed, provide the relevant estate documentation, and request that the company suspend any discussions until ownership could be clarified.
She also contacted the competition organizers, who had already begun reviewing the evidence from the previous evening.
By noon, the situation had changed.
The event manager confirmed that the temporary badge assigned to Vanessa had been used to enter the prop room. Security footage showed a person carrying a small container and approaching the table where the wings had been placed.
The image wasn't clear enough to identify the person's face conclusively, but the clothing matched what Vanessa had been wearing that afternoon.
The organizers also found a message on the event's volunteer communication system.
At 4:06 p.m., Vanessa had asked whether the UV spotlight could be removed from the final sequence because it might damage certain fabrics.
The request had been denied.
Two minutes later, the access badge was used to enter the prop room.
I read the timeline at the kitchen table.
The sequence was chillingly precise.
Vanessa had tried to cancel the blacklight first.
When that failed, she had apparently tried to destroy the signature.
When that failed, she had attempted to leave with the archive folder.
Every time one door closed, she had searched for another way to keep the truth hidden.
Dad called her.
She didn't answer.
He sent a message asking her to come home so they could speak with Patricia present.
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
*VANESSA:* I have nothing to discuss with you while you're allowing Nia to manipulate you.
Dad placed the phone on the table.
“I think she's afraid.””
I looked at him.
“Of what?””
He glanced at the documents.
“Of losing control.””
That afternoon, Brianna came home alone.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. Her makeup had been scrubbed away, leaving her eyes red and swollen.
“Where's Mom?”” Dad asked.
“She went to a hotel.””
He looked surprised.
“Why?””
Brianna laughed bitterly.
“Because she says everyone has betrayed her.””
She looked at me.
“Happy now?””
I closed the folder.
“No.””
“Everyone is talking about us. My friends are sending me screenshots. Someone posted the competition video online.””
“I didn't post it.””
“I know that. But it's everywhere.””
She dropped into a chair.
“People are calling me a thief.””
“You told them you made something you didn't make.””
“I know!””
Her voice cracked.
For a moment, I saw the girl who had once sat beside me on the living room floor, sharing a bowl of popcorn while we watched old horror movies. Before Vanessa taught her that being admired mattered more than being honest.
Brianna covered her face.
“I didn't think it would get this bad.””
I stared at her.
“What did you think would happen?””
She lowered her hands.
“Mom said the company would be interested in the design. She said if the costume won, we'd have proof that people wanted it.””
“And if it didn't win?””
“She said we'd still have the photographs.””
I felt cold.
“So you knew she planned to contact the company.””
Brianna looked away.
“I knew she was talking to someone.””
“Did you know she was claiming you created the design?””
She hesitated.
Then she nodded.
“Did you know she took the original archive?””
“I didn't know about the archive until yesterday.””
I studied her face.
“Did you know she painted over my signature?””
Brianna's eyes filled with tears again.
“No.””
I believed that part.
But belief didn't erase what she had done.
“You wore my costume,” I said.
“You stood onstage and told hundreds of people you made it. You watched me try to explain the truth, and you kept lying.””
“I was scared.””
“So was I.””
She looked at me.
For the first time, she seemed to understand that fear was not something only she experienced.
“I thought if I refused Mom, she'd turn on me,” she whispered.
“She always says I have to be grateful for everything she does. She tells me I'm nothing without her help.””
I felt a painful recognition.
Vanessa had used different words on each of us, but the message was the same.
You owe me.
You cannot survive without me.
You must do what I say.
“Why didn't you tell me?”” I asked.
Brianna gave a small, broken laugh.
“Because I wanted to win.””
The honesty was ugly.
It was also the first thing she had said that sounded entirely her own.
I looked down at my hands.
“I can't forgive you just because you're sorry now.””
“I know.””
“You need to admit what happened. Not just to me. To the judges.
To the company. To anyone you told that you made the costume.””
Brianna nodded.
“Will you help me?””
I shook my head.
“I'll tell the truth about what happened. I won't lie for you. But you have to decide what kind of person you want to be.””
She stared at me for a long time.
Then she whispered, “Okay.””
That evening, Brianna wrote a statement.
She admitted that she had taken the costume without permission, that she had presented it as her own work, and that she had known Vanessa intended to contact Bellweather about the design.
She also stated that she had not painted over the signature and had not entered the prop room.
The competition organizers accepted the statement as part of their review.
Bellweather responded through its legal department, confirming that it had suspended all discussions regarding the rose angel design pending clarification of ownership and authorization.
Patricia advised us that the estate records supported our position, though any formal dispute would need to be handled through the appropriate legal process.
For the first time, Vanessa's plan was no longer moving forward.
But she wasn't finished.
At eight that night, my phone rang.
Her name appeared on the screen.
I hesitated before answering.
“What do you want?””
Her voice sounded strangely calm.
“Nia, I think we should talk.””
“About what?””
“About how to fix this before it gets worse.””
I glanced at the folder on the table.
“You could start by admitting what you did.””
“I made mistakes.””
“You stole my costume.””
“I was trying to help Brianna.””
“You painted over my signature.””
“I was trying to protect her.””
“You tried to transfer Mom's designs without permission.””
Silence.
Then Vanessa said, “You don't understand what that collection could have meant for this family.””
I felt anger rise in my chest.
“It wasn't yours to give away.””
“Your mother is gone, Nia. Those designs have been sitting in boxes for years. What good are they doing anyone?””
“They belong to her estate.””
“And what does that mean? That you get to keep everything forever? That nobody else can benefit from what she created?””
“That's not what I said.””
“You have no idea what it takes to build a future. I was trying to create an opportunity for Brianna.””
“By lying about who made the work?””
“By giving her a chance!””
I took a slow breath.
“Why couldn't you give her a chance without taking mine?””
Vanessa said nothing.
For a moment, I heard only the faint hum of traffic on her end of the call.
Then her voice became quiet.
“Because you were always the one with the talent.””
I froze.
“What?””
“You heard me.””
Her words came slowly, almost reluctantly.
“Your mother taught you everything. She left you the notebooks, the sewing box, the patterns. Even after she died, everyone kept telling stories about how gifted you were. Your father looked at you and saw her.””
I gripped the phone.
“So you took my work because you were jealous of my mother?””
“Don't twist my words.””
“Then explain them.””
Vanessa's voice sharpened.
“I wanted Brianna to have something that was hers. Something that could make people notice her.””
“So you decided to give her something that belonged to me.””
“I thought I could make it work.””
“You thought you could erase me.””
The silence that followed was long.
Then Vanessa whispered, “You don't know what it feels like to be invisible in your own home.””
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, I said, “I know exactly what that feels like.””
She hung up.
I stood in the kitchen, holding the phone against my ear.
Her confession had not been complete. She hadn't admitted to the paint or the unauthorized transfer.
But for the first time, she had revealed the reason beneath her actions.
She had seen my talent as a threat.
She had mistaken my mother's legacy for a competition she needed to win.
And she had used Brianna as a weapon against me.
The next morning, Patricia called with an update.
Bellweather had reviewed the documents and confirmed that Vanessa's licensing inquiry had not been authorized by the estate. The company had also agreed to preserve all correspondence related to the proposed transfer.
The competition committee had reached its own decision.
Brianna's entry had been disqualified for misrepresenting the creator of the costume. The judges had also removed her from consideration for the prize because the entry violated the competition's originality rules.
My portfolio, however, remained eligible.
The committee had requested a final presentation of my original work, using the photographs, sketches, and surviving rose crown.
I stared at the message.
“They want me to present again?””
Dad smiled faintly.
“If you want to.””
I looked at the rose crown on my desk.
It wasn't the costume I had imagined wearing.
It wasn't the magnificent pair of wings I had spent three hundred hours creating.
But it was mine.
“Yes,” I said.
“I want to.””
That afternoon, I returned to the community arts center.
The auditorium was quieter than it had been the night before. The organizers had postponed the final award announcement while they reviewed the evidence.
Mr. Collins met me backstage.
“We've preserved the damaged wings and the access records,” he said.
“The committee also received Brianna's statement.””
I nodded.
“Thank you.””
He looked at my crown.
“Ready to show them what you made?””
I took a breath.
“Yes.””
As I waited near the curtain, I noticed a woman standing beside the front row.
She wore a charcoal suit and carried a leather portfolio.
When she saw me, she approached.
“Are you Nia Hayes?””
“Yes.””
“My name is Eleanor Price. I'm a representative from Bellweather Design House.””
My heart began to pound.
She opened her portfolio and showed me a printed copy of the licensing inquiry.
“We received a proposal involving your rose angel design. After reviewing the documents, we suspended the discussion. But we'd like to understand the history of the work directly from you.””
I looked at her carefully.
“You know my mother created the original design?””
“We have correspondence confirming that she developed the concept. We also have your recent construction records, which appear to establish that you created the specific costume presented at the competition.””
She paused.
“We're not here to take anything from you.””
I didn't answer immediately.
I had heard too many promises from people who wanted something.
Eleanor seemed to understand.
“We'd like to discuss a possible exhibition of Evelyn Rose's work, with your permission and the estate's authorization. No transfer, no licensing agreement, and no commercial use would proceed without proper consent.””
I glanced toward the stage.
“What would happen to the designs?””
“They would be presented with clear attribution to your mother and to you where appropriate. We'd also be interested in discussing your own original work separately, if that's something you want.””
I felt my eyes sting.
For weeks, I had fought simply to have someone acknowledge that I had made the costume.
Now a representative from the company my mother had once hoped to work with was asking to see my work.
Not because Vanessa had claimed it.
Because the evidence had led them back to me.
“I'd like to talk about it,” I said.
“But my father's attorney will need to be involved.””
“Of course.””
She handed me her card.
Then she stepped aside as the stage manager called my name.
I walked toward the lights.
Behind me, the auditorium began to fill with applause.
And for the first time, I wasn't afraid of what the audience might discover.
I was ready for them to see it.
But as I reached the curtain, my phone vibrated.
A message from Vanessa.
*VANESSA:* If you go on that stage, I'll tell everyone what your mother did before she died.
I stopped.
The words blurred before my eyes.
Then a second message appeared.
*VANESSA:* You think she's the hero of this story. Ask your father why he never told you the truth about her final contract.
I turned toward the audience.
My father stood near the front row, watching me with a worried expression.
For the first time since the competition began, I wondered whether Vanessa still had one secret left.
May you like
One secret powerful enough to change everything I thought I knew about my mother.
And this time, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it.
