Chapter 2: My Sister Stole More Than My Dress
I didn't sleep that night.
At seven the next morning, I was still sitting at my desk, staring at the ownership dispute notice.
My sister had uploaded six photographs.
In every picture, she was wearing my dress.
One showed her standing in front of our living room mirror. Another showed her holding a pair of scissors beside the fabric.
The final photograph showed her sitting at a sewing machine.
It was our mother's sewing machine.
The machine I had used for six months.
The caption underneath read:
My first original couture creation. Inspired by my journey as a young woman discovering her artistic identity.
I felt physically sick.
At 8:15, I walked downstairs with my laptop.
Brianna was sitting at the kitchen island, eating strawberries from a glass bowl and scrolling through her phone.
Mom was pouring coffee.
“Take it down,” I said.
Brianna didn't look up.
“Good morning to you, too.””
“You told the showcase you designed my dress.””
Mom placed her coffee mug on the counter.
“Emily, not this again.””
I turned the laptop toward Brianna.
“Look at this. You even used my photographs from the fitting room.””
Brianna examined the screen.
Then she shrugged.
“Those are pictures of me wearing the dress.””
“Because I asked you to model it three weeks ago!””
“Exactly. I helped you.””
“You stood in front of a camera!””
“And I gave you feedback.””
I stared at her.
“That's not designing.””
Brianna set down her phone.
“Listen, Emily. You're seventeen. You don't even have a fashion degree.
I studied marketing. I understand branding, presentation, and how to sell an idea.””
“You didn't sew a single stitch.””
Mom stepped between us.
“That's enough.””
I turned toward her.
“Mrs. Harrison says my entry might be disqualified.””
“Then perhaps you shouldn't have made such a big fuss about a dress.””
“Mom!””
She took a sip of coffee.
“Brianna needs this opportunity. Her nonprofit has been struggling, and the gala could help her raise money.””
I blinked.
“What does that have to do with my scholarship?””
“Everything doesn't have to revolve around you.””
Brianna smiled faintly.
“See? That's what I've been trying to explain.””
I opened the ownership statement again.
“There's a signature here.””
My mother looked at the screen.
For the first time that morning, she seemed uncomfortable.
Brianna noticed.
“Mom, tell her.””
Mom's jaw tightened.
“Tell me what?””
Brianna crossed her arms.
“The design was a family project.””
I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
“A family project? I worked evening shifts to buy the materials. I paid for every yard of fabric. I stayed awake until three in the morning sewing those flowers.””
Mom's voice became cold.
“You lived under this roof while you did it.””
“So?””
“So don't pretend you accomplished everything alone.””
I looked at Brianna.
“Did you even know how to thread a needle before yesterday?””
Her face reddened.
“Watch your mouth.””
“Did you?””
Mom slammed her mug onto the counter.
“APOLOGIZE TO YOUR SISTER!””
The sound made me flinch.
I picked up my laptop.
“No.””
I walked out of the kitchen.
Behind me, Brianna called, “Enjoy your little scholarship fantasy while it lasts!””
I went straight to the alterations shop.
Mrs. Collins was already there, arranging spools of thread behind the counter.
The bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
“Emily? Honey, what's wrong?””
I handed her my laptop.
She read the ownership dispute in silence.
Then she removed her glasses.
“Oh, that girl.””
“You knew?””
“I knew your sister was interested in the dress. I didn't know she'd claim it.””
I sat on a stool.
“Can you help me prove it's mine?””
Mrs. Collins nodded.
“Of course. We have the receipts, your work schedule, the original measurements, and the photographs you sent me throughout construction.””
She disappeared into the back office.
A few minutes later, she returned carrying a thick folder.
“Here.””
Inside were printed emails, dated photographs, material invoices, and copies of my original sketches.
I almost cried.
“You kept all of this?””
“Sweetheart, I've been doing alterations for forty years. I've seen people take credit for other people's work. I wasn't going to let that happen to you.””
Then her expression changed.
“There's something else we need to discuss.””
She closed the office door.
“What?””
Mrs. Collins lowered her voice.
“Your mother came here three weeks ago.””
My heart skipped.
“Why?””
“She asked about the gown.””
“What did she want?””
Mrs. Collins hesitated.
“She wanted to know whether the lining could be removed without damaging the outer fabric.””
I stared at her.
“Why would she ask that?””
“I thought she was trying to have the dress professionally cleaned. But then she asked a strange question.””
“What question?””
Mrs. Collins looked directly at me.
“She wanted to know whether anyone could tell if the concealed pocket had been opened and resewn.””
My mouth went dry.
“Did you tell her?””
“I told her that removing the lining would leave visible evidence if it wasn't done properly.””
I gripped the edge of the stool.
“Mrs. Collins, did she say why?””
“No. But she looked frightened when I mentioned the pocket.””
I pulled out my phone and checked the time.
Brianna's gala was in two days.
And the showcase director had given me until noon tomorrow to provide evidence of original ownership.
Mrs. Collins helped me prepare a response.
We attached photographs, receipts, sketches, and her signed witness statement.
At 11:47, I submitted everything.
For ten minutes, nothing happened.
Then my phone rang.
Mrs. Harrison.
“Emily, we've received your documents.””
“Does that mean my entry is safe?””
“Not yet. Your sister has challenged the authenticity of your records.””
“How?””
“She claims you copied her private sketches.””
I closed my eyes.
“That makes no sense.””
“There's another problem,” Mrs. Harrison continued.
“She has submitted a notarized statement signed by your mother.””
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“My mother?””
“Yes. She states that Brianna designed the gown and allowed you to assist with its construction.””
I couldn't speak.
Mrs. Harrison continued carefully.
“Emily, I want to believe your version. But we need to examine the original garment before making a final decision.””
I looked toward the empty space where the pink gown should have been.
“That's going to be difficult.””
“Why?””
“Because my sister has it.””
“Then we need to arrange an inspection before the gala.””
I promised I would try.
After the call, I walked outside.
A black car was parked across the street.
Someone sat behind the wheel.
When I stepped closer, the driver's window lowered.
A man I had never seen before leaned toward me.
“Emily Walker?””
“Yes?””
He glanced at the shop sign.
“Your mother asked me to speak with you.””
My stomach tightened.
“Who are you?””
He handed me a business card.
*Daniel Reed — Estate Attorney.*
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Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Your mother wants to know whether you've already opened the pocket inside that pink dress.””
