Chapter 2: The Girl Who Stole My Name
By Wednesday morning, I had slept less than four hours in two days.
My fingertips were raw, my bedroom smelled of hot iron and fresh satin, and the wine-red gown was beginning to take shape across my sewing table.
I had bought the fabric with nearly all my savings. The delivery driver had watched me count crumpled bills on the porch before handing over the package.
“You making a wedding dress?”” he had asked.
“Something more important.””
He grinned.
“Then make it beautiful.””
I intended to.
For the first time since my mother's death, I felt as though I was sewing beside her again.
Every evening, I worked until my eyes blurred. I shaped the bodice, tested the drape of the skirt, and began embroidering roses along the waistline.
I even smiled once when the first flower came together.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Jasmine Brooks, my best friend since middle school.
*JASMINE:* Nia, please tell me this is a mistake.
Attached was a screenshot from the official Young American Couture Competition website.
I opened it.
My name wasn't there.
Brianna Williams was listed as an entrant in the emerging designer category.
Beneath her name was a photograph of my sapphire-blue gown.
The butterflies. The crystals. The exact arrangement of embroidery I had spent four months perfecting.
Every detail was mine.
Under Designer Statement, Brianna had written:
Fashion has always been my passion. This collection represents my personal journey, my creativity, and my commitment to redefining modern elegance.
I read it twice.
Then I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
Jasmine called immediately.
“Tell me she stole your dress but didn't submit it as hers.””
“She did.””
“Oh, my God.””
“She submitted it yesterday.””
“Nia, we need to contact the competition.””
“I know.””
“Do you have sketches? Receipts? Progress photos?””
“Yes. Everything.””
“Then we're going to prove it.””
I looked at the gown hanging unfinished beside me.
“What if they don't believe me?””
“They will.””
“How can you be so sure?””
“Because I know you. And because Brianna couldn't design a paper bag without asking someone what color it should be.””
I almost smiled.
Then another message arrived.
Jasmine had sent a second screenshot.
This one showed Brianna's announcement on social media.
Two gowns. One unforgettable collection. Can't wait to show Atlanta what I've been creating.
Below the caption were photographs of my wine-red gown.
Not just the fabric.
The actual gown.
The bodice I had spent two nights constructing. The embroidered roses I had completed only hours earlier. Even the tiny silver pins I had left near the hem.
Brianna had photographed my work while I slept.
My bedroom door had been locked.
I knew that because I had checked it three times before going to bed.
“Jasmine,” I whispered, “someone has a key.””
“Then change the lock.””
“I can't. It's my father's house.””
“Put something in front of the door. A chair. Anything.””
I looked toward the hallway.
“I'm going to install a camera.””
That afternoon, I bought a small motion-activated camera with the last money in my wallet. I positioned it above my sewing desk, angled toward the door and the dress form.
Then I placed the unfinished gown beneath a sheet and hid my mother's sketchbook inside an old pillowcase.
At dinner, Brianna wore my mother's sapphire-blue gown over her arm like a trophy.
She draped it across the back of her chair.
“Mom, do you think I should wear silver heels or nude ones with this?””
Vanessa studied the embroidery.
“Silver. They'll catch the light beautifully.””
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
Brianna glanced at me.
“What's wrong, Nia? You look upset.””
“You stole my dress.””
Dad lowered his newspaper.
“Here we go again.””
“It's registered under your name, Brianna. I have proof.””
Brianna smiled sweetly.
“Proof of what? That I own a beautiful dress?””
“You didn't make it.””
“Can you prove that?””
I reached for my phone.
“Every stage is documented.””
Vanessa placed her napkin beside her plate.
“Enough. Brianna is graduating. She deserves to feel special.””
“And I deserve credit for my work.””
Dad pointed his fork at me.
“Your attitude is going to ruin this family.””
I stared at him.
“Which part of this family am I supposed to protect? The part that steals from me, or the part that hits me?””
His jaw tightened.
“Go to your room.””
Brianna lifted her glass of water.
“To new beginnings.””
Vanessa clinked her glass against Brianna's.
Dad said nothing.
I left the table before I could throw something.
At 1:17 a.m., my phone vibrated.
*MOTION DETECTED.*
I opened the camera feed.
Vanessa stood outside my bedroom door, holding a small brass key.
She unlocked it.
Brianna slipped inside behind her.
Neither woman looked toward the camera.
Vanessa went directly to my sewing table.
Brianna lifted the sheet covering the wine-red gown.
“It's almost finished,” she whispered.
Vanessa opened her purse and removed a small bottle filled with dark liquid.
“Then we'd better make sure it never reaches the competition.””
Brianna took the bottle.
“Relax, Mom. By tomorrow, she'll have nothing left to enter.””
My fingers went numb around the phone.
Vanessa leaned closer to her daughter.
“Good. Because the competition director has already agreed to announce you as the winner.””
I stopped breathing.
Brianna smiled.
“What about the scholarship?””
“It's already arranged.””
She pulled a folded document from her purse and spread it across my sewing table.
Even through the grainy camera image, I could make out the official competition logo.
At the bottom were two signatures.
One belonged to the competition director.
The other belonged to my father.
Brianna tapped the paper.
“Once I win, Nia can't accuse me of anything. Everyone will think she's just jealous.””
Vanessa nodded.
“Exactly.””
Then Brianna raised the bottle above my unfinished gown.
I lunged toward my bedroom door.
But before I could reach it, my phone displayed a new notification.
*CAMERA CONNECTION LOST.*
The screen went black.
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And from downstairs, I heard the front door slam.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
