Chapter 2: Eleven Nights Under the Magnifying Lamp
The first night, I couldn't even thread the needle.
My fingers trembled, and the tiny opening kept disappearing behind the blur in my right eye.
I switched on my magnifying lamp.
The bright circle illuminated a small section of ivory fabric.
I could work with that.
One stitch.
Then another.
By three in the morning, I'd completed barely four inches of the bodice.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Maya.
Mom says you should stop wasting your time. The judges already know I'm entering.
A second message appeared.
It was a photograph.
Maya stood in my stolen wedding dress inside a luxury hotel ballroom. My mother was beside her, holding a champagne glass.
The caption read:
Future Atlanta Young Designers Competition winner.
I stared at the photograph until the screen blurred.
Then I turned my phone facedown and continued sewing.
The next morning, I visited Dr. Harris.
He had been treating my degenerative eye condition for nearly two years. His office smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee.
He examined my latest scans before looking at me.
“Olivia, I need to ask whether you've made a decision about the surgery.””
“I have.””
“Can you afford it?””
“Not yet.””
He removed his glasses.
“The procedure isn't a guarantee. But delaying it could reduce your chances of preserving the vision you still have.””
I swallowed.
“The competition prize is forty thousand dollars.””
Dr. Harris glanced at my hands.
“Are you entering?””
“Yes.””
He paused.
“Then I hope you win. But I want you to understand something. Your health matters more than a competition.””
“I know.””
I didn't tell him that winning was no longer just about money.
It was about proving that my mother couldn't decide whether I deserved a future.
When I returned home, I found Maya waiting in the kitchen.
She was eating strawberries from a bowl while scrolling through her phone.
“Look who's back,” she said.
I ignored her and reached for a glass.
Maya turned her screen toward me.
“See? My dress is getting attention.””
A fashion blogger had reposted a photograph of her wearing my gown.
The caption called her an emerging designer with an exceptional eye for romantic couture.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“You haven't even credited me.””
Maya laughed.
“Why would I credit you?””
“Because I made it.””
She set down her phone.
“Prove it.””
“I have photographs of every stage.””
“Anybody can take pictures of a dress.””
“I have the original sketches.””
“Then show the judges.””
I looked at her.
“Are you really going to stand there and claim you designed something you didn't touch?””
Maya leaned forward.
“Listen carefully, Olivia. Mom already told everyone that you abandoned the project because of your eyesight. If you show up with some ugly replacement dress, you'll look desperate.””
I stared at her.
“You told people I abandoned it?””
She shrugged.
“People believe what they see.””
Before I could respond, my mother entered.
She placed a shopping bag on the counter.
Inside was an expensive pair of designer shoes.
“For Maya,” she announced.
Maya squealed.
“Mom! They're perfect!””
My mother smiled.
“Only the best for my future star.””
I looked at the shoes, then at the old sewing machine I'd repaired twice because I couldn't afford a new one.
“Mom, I need to talk to you.””
She didn't look up.
“Not now.””
“You know I made that dress.””
Patricia finally turned.
“Olivia, enough.””
“Why are you helping her lie?””
My mother closed the shopping bag.
“Because Maya has a future in this industry. You need to accept that your circumstances are different.””
“My circumstances?””
She glanced pointedly at my glasses.
“Don't make me say it.””
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Maya slipped on one of the shoes.
“Can we please stop discussing this? I have a fitting tomorrow.””
My mother nodded.
“Of course, sweetheart.””
Then she looked at me.
“Try not to embarrass this family.””
I walked away before either of them could see me cry.
That evening, I found another note inside Grandma's sewing box.
It was tucked beneath an old pattern labeled Eleanor's Signature Collection.
The paper was yellowed, but the writing was clear.
*The butterfly is not decoration. It is a maker's mark. Every original design from my studio carries one.
Never remove it. Never give it away.*
I turned the page.
There was a registration number beneath the note.
And a name.
*Eleanor Parker Couture — Original Design Archive.*
I searched the number on my laptop using the screen magnifier.
A digital archive appeared.
My grandmother had registered dozens of designs.
I recognized the butterfly symbol on every one.
Then I found a photograph of my stolen gown.
Not a photograph from my camera.
A photograph from an old design archive.
The dress appeared under a different name.
The Eleanor Heirloom Gown.
My breath caught.
The original registration date was twenty-two years earlier.
But the competition entry bearing Maya's name had been submitted only three days ago.
I opened the registration details.
The owner wasn't my mother.
It wasn't Maya.
It was someone whose name I hadn't expected to see.
My own.
And beside the registration was a note from the archive administrator:
Ownership transfer pending verification of the original designer's surviving heir.
I leaned closer to the screen.
Grandma hadn't simply left me fabric and a sewing machine.
She had left me something much bigger.
But before I could investigate further, my phone rang.
It was the competition director.
“Miss Parker?”” a woman asked.
“Yes?””
“We need to discuss your sister's entry.””
My stomach tightened.
“What about it?””
There was a brief silence.
“Your sister submitted documentation claiming she personally created the gown. However, we received a complaint this afternoon.””
I gripped the phone.
“Who filed it?””
The woman hesitated.
“That's what makes this complicated.””
May you like
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“The complaint was submitted by your mother.””
