Chapter 14: The Truth Beneath the Roses
I arrived at the competition venue forty minutes before the doors opened.
The message remained on my phone.
The photograph showed my mother in a car with Vanessa, her face pale and her head resting against the window. She appeared injured, but she was alive.
I enlarged the image.
The driver was unmistakably Vanessa.
In the back seat, partially obscured by shadow, sat a man wearing a dark jacket.
I couldn't see his face.
But I recognized the silver watch on his wrist.
Martin Hale wore the same watch in every photograph from the exhibition.
I called Detective Mills.
“I've received a photograph that appears to show my mother alive after the crash.””
“Send it to me immediately,” she said.
“Don't forward it to anyone else, and don't confront the people involved.””
I sent the image.
“Do you recognize the location?”” she asked.
I examined the background. A road sign was visible through the windshield, but the letters were blurred.
“No.””
“We'll have it analyzed. Nia, where are you now?””
“Outside the competition venue.””
“Stay in a public area. An officer will meet you there.””
I hung up and looked toward the building.
Banners displaying the competition logo hung above the entrance. Reporters were setting up cameras, and contestants hurried inside carrying garment bags and presentation folders.
The world was preparing to celebrate creativity.
Meanwhile, the people who had stolen my mother's work were preparing to celebrate themselves.
Jasmine appeared beside me.
“Ready?””
“No.””
She smiled faintly.
“Good. That means you understand how serious this is.””
We entered together.
Inside the main hall, white spotlights illuminated a long runway. Judges sat behind a raised table, while sponsors and invited guests occupied the front rows.
Martin Hale stood near the stage, greeting attendees.
When he saw me, his smile froze.
Then he approached.
“Nia. I was beginning to wonder whether you'd withdrawn.””
“I wouldn't miss this.””
His gaze shifted to the garment bag.
“You're still presenting the red gown?””
“Yes.””
“That's unfortunate. Your eligibility remains under review.””
“Then I'll present my evidence along with the dress.””
He lowered his voice.
“You should be careful about making accusations in public. They can have consequences.””
“So can stealing from a dead woman.””
His jaw tightened.
Before he could answer, the competition director approached with a clipboard.
“Miss Carter, you're scheduled to present fourth. Please provide your design documentation to the verification desk.””
I handed over Eleanor's certified catalog, the original ownership certificate, and my photographs documenting the construction of the gown.
The director glanced through them.
His expression changed when he reached the original registration date.
“Where did you obtain this?””
“From my mother's archive.””
He looked toward Martin.
Martin immediately stepped forward.
“These documents are disputed. The collection was legally transferred to Hale Atelier.””
“Then you shouldn't have any problem allowing the judges to examine the originals,” I replied.
The director hesitated.
A reporter nearby turned toward us.
“Is there a dispute over the ownership of one of the collections?””
Martin smiled for the cameras.
“No. This is a routine verification issue. We take originality very seriously.””
“Then let's verify everything,” I said.
The reporter raised her microphone.
“Miss Carter, are you alleging that another contestant stole your designs?””
“I am presenting evidence that my original work was submitted under another person's name. I have provided documentation to the competition and to the authorities.””
Martin's smile vanished.
The director quickly ushered everyone toward the seating area.
“Let's proceed with the scheduled presentations.””
I took my place backstage beside Brianna.
She wore the sapphire-blue gown, now altered with gold appliqués and imitation pearls. The original butterflies had been cut away, leaving uneven patches where the embroidery had been removed.
She looked at me.
“Please don't do this,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“You submitted my work under your name. You helped damage my second gown. What exactly are you asking me not to do?””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Mom said Martin would take care of everything.””
“Your mother doesn't get to decide what happens to my life.””
Brianna looked down.
“I know.””
For once, she didn't argue.
Then the stage manager called her name.
Brianna walked onto the runway.
The audience applauded politely as she described her collection. She spoke about personal growth, artistic courage, and the importance of believing in oneself.
Every word sounded hollow.
When the judges asked about the construction of the sapphire gown, she stumbled.
One judge pointed to the altered embroidery.
“Why did you remove the original butterfly motif?””
Brianna hesitated.
“I wanted to reinterpret the design.””
“Which materials did you use for the original bodice?””
She glanced toward the backstage curtain.
I knew the answer.
She didn't.
The judge exchanged a look with his colleague.
Then Brianna left the stage.
My name was called.
I stepped into the light wearing the wine-red gown.
For one breathless moment, I could hear nothing but the soft rustle of satin.
Then the room settled.
I described the layered skirt, the hand-embroidered roses, and the reinforced seams that allowed the gown to move without losing its shape.
I explained how I had repaired the damaged hem rather than discarding the entire piece.
“This gown is called The Rose After Winter,” I said.
“It was inspired by a design my mother created before her death. I rebuilt it using her original notes, but every stitch in this version is mine.””
I placed the certified catalog on the display table.
“My mother's work was stolen. My own design was later submitted under another person's name. I am not asking the judges to reward me because of what happened to my family. I'm asking them to examine the evidence and judge the work honestly.””
The hall remained silent.
Then Eleanor Whitmore stood from the front row.
“I can confirm that the original design belongs to Nia's mother,” she announced.
“I witnessed the collection's development and preserved the original exhibition records.””
A murmur spread through the audience.
Martin rose.
“This is completely inappropriate!””
Eleanor turned toward him.
“What's inappropriate is presenting another woman's work as your own.””
The judges asked for a recess.
Before anyone could leave the room, Detective Mills entered with two officers.
She approached Martin and spoke quietly.
He stiffened.
Then she turned toward Vanessa, who had arrived near the back of the hall.
“Mrs. Williams, we need you to accompany us for questioning.””
Vanessa looked toward me.
Her expression was unreadable.
As she passed, she stopped beside my chair.
“I was trying to save your mother,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“Then why did you leave her?””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because Martin told me she was already dead.””
I stood.
“You were driving the car.””
Vanessa shook her head desperately.
“I was trying to get her to a hospital. Daniel was following us. Martin said he would call an ambulance, but he never did.””
“Then what happened?””
She opened her mouth.
A voice behind us answered.
“I'll tell you what happened.””
Daniel Mercer stood in the doorway, accompanied by a detective.
He looked directly at Martin.
“Because I was the one who received the order to make sure Nia's mother never reached that hospital.””
The entire room went silent.
May you like
Daniel stepped forward.
“And I have the original recording of Martin giving that order.””
