Chapter 5: My Stepsister's Beautiful Lie
The drive to the Atlanta Academy of Fashion was the longest forty minutes of my life.
Dad drove with both hands gripping the steering wheel. I sat in the passenger seat, holding my mother's journal on my lap. Vanessa and Patricia followed in their own car.
Nobody spoke until we reached the academy's glass-fronted building downtown.
Then Dad turned off the engine.
“Emily, listen to me.””
I stared through the windshield at the students entering in formal gowns and tailored suits.
“I'm listening.””
“Whatever happens tonight, you deserve to show your work. Don't let any of this make you believe otherwise.””
I swallowed.
“Did you know Mom was fighting to get her designs back?””
He looked at the steering wheel.
“I knew she'd filed a complaint. I thought the agreement had ended the dispute.””
“But you never checked?””
His silence hurt more than an argument would have.
“I should have,” he said finally.
I opened the car door.
“Then tonight, we're going to find out what happened.””
Inside, the academy smelled of fresh paint, perfume, and hot stage lights. Students stood beside mannequins dressed in elaborate creations while judges examined fabric samples and sketchbooks.
A woman in her fifties approached us wearing a charcoal suit and a silver academy pin.
“Emily Miller?””
I nodded.
“I'm Dr. Rebecca Hayes. Thank you for coming.””
She shook Dad's hand before looking directly at me.
“I've reviewed the photographs of your gown. The craftsmanship is remarkable.””
“Thank you.””
“But we have a serious problem.””
She led us into a conference room overlooking the runway.
Two folders lay on the table.
One bore my name.
The other bore Vanessa's.
Dr. Hayes opened Vanessa's folder first.
Inside were printed sketches of my mother's designs, polished presentation boards, and a statement claiming that Vanessa had developed the collection over eighteen months.
I felt sick.
The sketches were unmistakable.
Even the tiny silver crescent drawn in the corner of each page was my mother's signature mark.
“She submitted these as her original work?”” Dad asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Hayes replied.
“The application included a declaration of authorship.””
I looked at Vanessa's file.
“Where did she get these?””
Dr. Hayes studied me carefully.
“That's what we're trying to determine. The submission was uploaded this afternoon, and the applicant provided digital copies rather than original sketches.””
Patricia folded her arms.
“My daughter has always been creative. You cannot accuse her of stealing simply because she has similar ideas to someone who died years ago.””
Dr. Hayes didn't blink.
“Mrs. Miller, we have archived photographs of Eleanor's original collection, dated and catalogued eighteen years ago. Several designs in Vanessa's application are exact reproductions.””
Patricia's cheeks flushed.
“Perhaps your archive is mistaken.””
“Perhaps,” Dr. Hayes said coolly.
“Which is why we're investigating.””
She opened my folder.
My entry contained photographs of the midnight-blue gown, a description of my reconstruction process, and images I'd taken of the dress at different stages.
The paint stains were visible in the earliest photographs.
So were the crimson roses I'd embroidered over them.
Dr. Hayes studied the images.
“You transformed damaged fabric into a coherent new design. That demonstrates creativity and technical judgment.””
Vanessa suddenly laughed.
“That's ridiculous. She only made it because I accidentally spilled paint.””
I turned toward her.
“Accidentally?””
She froze.
“You told Dad you ruined my dress on purpose.””
Patricia grabbed Vanessa's arm.
“Stop talking.””
Dr. Hayes closed the folder.
“I want to be clear about the competition rules. If we establish that either applicant knowingly submitted another person's designs as original work, that entry may be disqualified.””
Vanessa's face crumpled.
“But I didn't steal anything. Mom gave me the sketches.””
Patricia went rigid.
Dr. Hayes slowly turned toward her.
“You gave your daughter the original designs?””
“I gave her inspiration,” Patricia snapped.
“There's a difference.””
“Not when the application explicitly claims sole authorship.””
Patricia leaned over the table.
“You have no idea what Eleanor agreed to.””
“Then show us the agreement.””
Patricia said nothing.
Dad pulled the folded document from his jacket.
“Is this the agreement you mean?””
Dr. Hayes examined it without touching the paper.
“This appears to be an award notification, not a commercial contract.””
She looked at Dad.
“Do you have the original agreement?””
“No.””
“Then we will need to obtain it from the legal archives.””
Vanessa began tapping her fingernails against the table.
“Can we just get on with the competition? I have a dress to show.””
Dr. Hayes regarded her for a long moment.
“The judges will decide whether your work merits consideration. But your entry's authorship is now under review.””
Vanessa looked at me with naked hatred.
“This is your fault.””
I stood.
“No. It's the fault of whoever stole Mom's work.””
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Dr. Hayes escorted us into the main hall.
The runway was already filling with guests. A hundred small lights glimmered above the stage, and the judges sat behind a long black table.
My gown suddenly felt heavier.
I'd come here hoping to prove that I could design something beautiful.
Now I was standing in the middle of a family scandal involving a dead woman, a hidden legal agreement, and a collection someone had apparently been trying to sell for years.
A young assistant approached with a clipboard.
“Emily Miller?””
“Yes?””
“Your design will be presented in the second group. Please wait backstage.””
Vanessa stepped beside me.
She was wearing a stunning white gown with a sculpted neckline and a long satin train. It was exactly the sort of dress that attracted attention before the wearer even reached the runway.
“You should withdraw,” she whispered.
“No.””
“Emily, I'm serious. You have no idea what Mom will do if the judges disqualify me.””
“Then perhaps you should have thought about that before submitting stolen designs.””
Her eyes flashed.
“You think you're better than me because you can sew?””
“No. I think I deserve the chance to compete honestly.””
She leaned closer.
“You don't know what honest costs in this family.””
Before I could respond, a photographer called her name.
Vanessa turned, smiled brilliantly for the camera, and walked away as if she'd never threatened me.
I watched her take her place beside the other contestants.
Then Dr. Hayes approached me with a thin envelope.
“Emily, there's something I need you to see before the show begins.””
She handed me a photocopy of a letter dated three weeks before my mother's death.
The handwriting was unmistakably Mom's.
At the top, she'd written:
To the Atlanta Academy of Fashion: If anything happens to me, please do not release my collection without my daughter's consent.
My knees weakened.
At the bottom was a line that made my heart pound.
Michael knows where the original evidence is hidden.
I looked across the room.
May you like
Dad stood beside Patricia, reading something on her phone.
And for the first time, I wondered whether my father had kept another secret from me.
