My Stepmother Stole My Dress and Gave It to Her Daughter—But Neither of Them Knew What I'd Hidden Inside

"TAKE YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF THAT DRESS! IT BELONGS TO MY DAUGHTER NOW!""

The slap came before I could answer.

My head snapped sideways. The metal scissors slipped from my fingers and clattered against the hardwood floor. For a moment, all I could hear was the ringing in my ears.

Vanessa Miller stood in front of me, her diamond bracelet catching the afternoon sunlight. Behind her, my stepsister Brittany was holding the dress I'd spent four months creating.

My dress.

Every inch of it.

"I'm Emily Carter," I whispered, touching my burning cheek.

"And I made that.""

Vanessa folded her arms.

"Don't start with your little victim routine. Brittany needs that gown for tomorrow's competition.""

I stared at her.

"Tomorrow? That's my competition.""

Brittany giggled.

"Not anymore, sweetheart.""

I was eighteen years old, and for the past four months, my entire world had revolved around a single gown.

I'd entered the Georgia Young Designers Competition in Atlanta. The winner would receive a $25,000 scholarship to a prestigious fashion school in New York.

It wasn't just a prize.

It was my escape.

My mother, Claire, had been a talented dressmaker. Before cancer took her when I was twelve, she'd taught me how to thread a needle, recognize quality fabric, and turn an ordinary sketch into something extraordinary.

The gown I'd created was inspired by her.

Its champagne-colored silk skirt flowed beneath a fitted bodice covered in hundreds of hand-sewn pearls. Delicate embroidered flowers climbed from the waist toward the shoulders. Along the left side, hidden beneath a cluster of silk roses, was a small piece of my mother's original wedding dress.

I'd kept that fabric for six years.

I'd been terrified to cut it.

But when I finally did, I knew she'd have wanted me to use it for something beautiful.

Now Brittany was holding it against her body like she'd purchased it herself.

"Mom, does the waist look right?"" she asked.

Vanessa stepped forward and adjusted the bodice.

"Perfect. You'll look like a princess.""

"That's my mother's silk," I said.

Neither woman looked at me.

I reached for the gown.

Vanessa slapped my hand away.

"Don't touch it!""

"Please. I have to submit it tomorrow. My name is on the registration.""

Brittany tilted her head.

"Then maybe you should have made something better.""

I looked at her in disbelief.

She hadn't sewn a single stitch.

In fact, two weeks earlier, she'd laughed when she saw my first sketches.

"Who do you think you are, Emily? Some famous designer? You can't even afford decent shoes.""

Now she was admiring the gown I'd made while sleeping four hours a night.

"Give it back," I said.

Vanessa stepped between us.

"Your father and I discussed this. Brittany has a future in fashion. You don't.""

I blinked.

"What?""

"She's outgoing. She's beautiful. She knows how to present herself. You spend all day hiding in that little sewing room.""

"Because I'm designing!""

"You're wasting your life.""

Brittany smiled.

"Besides, Mom says Dad already agreed.""

My stomach tightened.

My father, Richard Carter, had promised to support my application. He'd even driven me to the fabric store when I bought the silk.

"Where is Dad?"" I demanded.

"Working," Vanessa replied.

"And don't bother calling him. He's tired of your constant complaints.""

I grabbed my phone.

Vanessa snatched it from my hand and tossed it onto the bed.

"You're not ruining this for Brittany.""

"You're stealing my work!""

She grabbed my shoulders and shoved me backward.

My knees struck the floor beside the sewing table.

Brittany laughed.

"Careful, Emily. You might damage your hands. Then what would you do? Become useful for once?""

I looked up at her.

"You're wearing something you didn't create.""

She leaned closer.

"Nobody cares who created it. They care who wins.""

Then she walked toward the bedroom door with the gown draped over her arm.

"Thanks for doing all the hard work, Emily.""

Vanessa followed her.

Before leaving, she turned around.

"And if you tell anyone this dress was yours, I'll make sure your father knows exactly how ungrateful you've been.""

The door slammed.

I remained on the floor.

My cheek throbbed. My fingers trembled. The sewing table was empty except for a spool of gold thread and a photograph of my mother.

I picked up the photograph.

"Mom, I'm sorry.""

Then something occurred to me.

The dress.

More specifically, the tiny embroidered rose near the waist.

Three weeks earlier, I'd installed a miniature voice recorder inside its concealed lining pocket. I'd been recording spoken design notes while working because I often forgot measurements and details when I was tired.

I'd left it there.

And the recorder had an automatic voice-activation feature.

I hurried to my laptop and connected my backup recording device.

The screen displayed several saved audio files.

One was labeled:

*DRESS_SESSION_14.*

Another read:

*VANESSA_BEDROOM_CONVERSATION.*

I frowned.

I hadn't intentionally recorded anything in Vanessa's bedroom.

I clicked the second file.

At first, there was only static.