Chapter 2: The Girl Who Sewed Her Own Wings
At 10:17 a.m., the competition coordinator announced that all final garments had to be registered by 6:00 p.m.
I had less than eight hours.
My original gown was gone.
My entry had been reduced to a bare mannequin and a few scattered crystals.
And I had no replacement design.
I stood in the middle of the workroom, surrounded by scraps.
Then I rolled up my sleeves.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself.
“Let's begin.””
I started by examining everything I could salvage.
There were several meters of blush-pink silk left over from a previous designer's collection. A small quantity of gold metallic mesh. Some champagne organza. Two boxes of clear crystals and a bundle of decorative feather-shaped appliqués.
The materials weren't expensive.
They weren't even particularly fashionable.
But they had possibilities.
I spread everything across the worktable.
Then I opened my sketchbook.
The first page showed The Blue Hour.
I stared at it for a long time.
My original design had been about the beauty of darkness. The way stars appeared brightest against a midnight sky.
But now I wanted something different.
Something that didn't need darkness to shine.
I turned to a blank page.
I drew a fitted bodice with a sculpted sweetheart neckline.
Then I extended the shoulders into dramatic structures resembling folded wings.
The skirt would begin at the waist with layers of blush silk, gradually transitioning into champagne and gold.
The back would carry two enormous feathered wings, extending outward and upward.
Not decorative wings.
Architectural wings.
Wings that looked as though they could lift the entire gown off the ground.
I stared at the sketch.
A name appeared in my mind.
Born to Rise.
I wrote it beneath the drawing.
Then I checked the clock.
10:43 a.m.
The first challenge was constructing the foundation.
I measured the available silk and realized there wasn't enough for a traditional full ball gown.
So I decided to build volume using layered panels, carefully arranged to create the illusion of a much larger skirt.
I cut the first section.
Then another.
And another.
The scissors moved quickly through the fabric.
By noon, the table was covered in pink scraps.
Tessa returned with two coffees.
She stopped when she saw the drawing.
“Is that your new design?””
I nodded.
She placed the coffee beside me.
“Nia, that's incredible.””
“It's still a sketch.””
“It's a very ambitious sketch.””
I laughed softly.
“I know.””
Tessa studied the wing structure.
“How are you going to make those stand up?””
“Wire support, layered organza, and flexible mesh.””
“You have all that?””
“Not yet.””
She glanced toward the materials storage area.
“Come with me.””
We hurried down a narrow corridor to a supply room.
Inside were boxes of discontinued materials, damaged sample pieces, and equipment that had been stored for years.
Tessa searched through the shelves.
“What exactly are we looking for?””
“Lightweight millinery wire. Gold mesh. Anything that can hold a curved shape without making the wings too heavy.””
She pulled out a box.
“What about this?””
Inside were rolls of flexible gold-colored wire used for theatrical costumes.
I almost hugged her.
“That's perfect.””
We also found a damaged frame from an old display costume.
I examined it carefully.
The metal was bent, but the structure was strong.
“Can I borrow this?””
Tessa grinned.
“Consider it rescued.””
Back in the workroom, I began constructing the wing framework.
I shaped the wire into two enormous curved structures, then covered them with layers of champagne mesh.
The feather-shaped materials were attached one by one.
Some were made of fabric.
Others were thin pieces of gold-coated leather.
I arranged them in overlapping layers, like the feathers of a bird.
Every few minutes, I stepped back to examine the silhouette.
The wings were too narrow.
Then too heavy.
Then uneven.
I adjusted the wire.
I removed entire sections.
I rebuilt the left wing twice.
At 1:30 p.m., the first version collapsed.
A sharp metallic snap sounded behind me.
Tessa turned.
“Oh, no.””
I stared at the twisted structure.
For several seconds, I didn't speak.
Then I laughed.
Tessa looked at me.
“Are you okay?””
“No.””
She winced.
I picked up the broken frame.
“But I will be.””
I sat on the floor and examined the damage.
The wire hadn't failed because the structure was weak.
It had failed because I had placed too much weight near the center.
I could distribute the feathers differently.
I could use more mesh and less metallic material.
I could reinforce the base with a hidden harness attached to the bodice.
The solution came together slowly.
By 2:15 p.m., the wings stood upright.
They were enormous.
And beautiful.
Tessa stepped back.
“Oh, my goodness.””
I smiled.
“Now we need a dress.””
The bodice took another hour.
I used blush silk as the base, shaping it carefully around the mannequin. Gold filigree embroidery framed the neckline and curved down toward the waist.
I placed small crystals between the gold patterns.
Not randomly.
Each crystal had a purpose.
Some caught the light from the front.
Others reflected it from the sides.
The result was delicate but dramatic.
At the waist, I added a narrow gold belt that connected to the wing framework.
The skirt required more imagination.
I cut the pink silk into long, flowing panels and layered them with champagne organza.
Instead of making every layer identical, I varied the lengths.
Some fell to the floor.
Others lifted slightly, revealing gold fabric beneath.
When the model walked, the layers would move independently.
The skirt would seem to float.
I worked without stopping.
At 3:40 p.m., someone approached my table.
It was Marcus Bell, the competition's technical supervisor.
He was a tall man with silver hair and round glasses.
He examined the gown.
“Is this the replacement entry?””
“Yes.””
He looked at the clock.
“You understand registration closes in a little over two hours?””
“I do.””
“Your original gown was removed from the competition floor. I was told there had been a family disagreement.””
I stopped sewing.
“Who told you that?””
“Mrs. Whitmore.””
Of course.
I set down my scissors.
“Then she didn't tell you the truth.””
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“What happened?””
“My stepsister took my gown. My stepmother slapped me when I refused to give it to her.””
His expression hardened.
“Was this reported?””
“No. I was busy trying to finish another gown.””
Marcus looked at the pink silk.
Then at the wings.
He didn't immediately respond.
Finally, he said, “I need to see the registration paperwork for your original entry.””
“I have it.””
“Good. Keep it somewhere safe. I'll need to verify the situation before the runway.””
I nodded.
He leaned closer to inspect the embroidery.
“Who taught you this technique?””
“My mother.””
“She's very talented.””
“She was.””
Marcus looked at me.
Then he nodded quietly.
“Finish the dress, Ms. Carter.””
He walked away.
I returned to the machine.
At 4:15 p.m., I attached the final skirt panels.
At 4:32 p.m., I began placing the crystals.
At 4:50 p.m., I discovered that the right wing was slightly lower than the left.
I adjusted the harness.
At 5:03 p.m., I finished the back closure.
At 5:11 p.m., I stepped away from the mannequin.
For the first time, I could see the entire gown.
The blush-pink fabric looked soft as rose petals.
The gold embroidery shimmered along the bodice.
The crystals created tiny points of light.
And the wings...
They were magnificent.
Each feather was individually shaped and layered. The outer edges curved upward, giving the gown a powerful silhouette.
It didn't look like a dress.
It looked like a declaration.
Tessa approached with a measuring tape.
“It's time to register.””
I looked at the gown.
Then at the small silver pin in my hand.
I had sewn it into a hidden pocket inside the train.
It would be my mother's little piece of the design.
I smiled.
“Let's go.””
The registration desk was already crowded.
Several designers stood in line, accompanied by assistants and models.
When I arrived, the receptionist looked at my garment bag.
“Name?””
“Nia Carter.””
She checked her screen.
“Your original entry is already listed as withdrawn.””
My stomach tightened.
“What?””
She turned the monitor slightly.
There it was.
*NIA CARTER — WITHDRAWN.*
I leaned forward.
“I never withdrew.””
The receptionist frowned.
“According to the system, the request was submitted this morning.””
“By whom?””
She clicked on the details.
Then her expression changed.
“I'm sorry. The authorization was entered under the family representative's account.””
I stared at her.
“My family representative?””
She read the name aloud.
“Vanessa Whitmore.””
My hands went cold.
“Can you reverse it?””
“Not without a formal review.””
“Then call the coordinator.””
She picked up the phone.
I stood there, trying to breathe normally.
Tessa stepped beside me.
“Don't panic. Marcus knows what's happening.””
A moment later, the receptionist covered the phone.
“Mr. Bell is requesting your original registration documents.””
I reached into my bag.
I had them.
My sketches.
My design notes.
The signed material receipts.
The original registration form bearing my signature.
I placed the folder on the desk.
The receptionist examined the first page.
Then she looked up.
“Ms. Carter, there's something else.””
“What?””
She pointed to the screen.
“Your original gown has just been registered under another designer's name.””
I felt my heart stop.
“Whose name?””
The receptionist hesitated.
May you like
Then she turned the screen toward me.
*BRIANNA WHITMORE.*
