Chapter 8: The Woman Who Knew My Mother
At nine the next morning, I stood outside Elise Monroe's private studio with my mother's portfolio secured inside a canvas bag.
The building occupied a renovated brick warehouse in downtown Atlanta. Through the tall windows, I could see dress forms, cutting tables, and racks of garments arranged beneath bright industrial lights.
Maya stood beside me, holding two coffees.
“You ready?””
“No.””
“Good. That means you're paying attention.””
I almost smiled.
Before I could knock, the studio door opened.
Elise stood there wearing black trousers and a white blouse, her silver-streaked hair tied neatly behind her head.
“Come in, Nia.””
Inside, the studio smelled of steamed fabric, fresh coffee, and the faint metallic scent of sewing equipment. A half-finished evening gown stood on a mannequin near the window.
Elise led us to a large worktable.
“Show me what you found.””
I removed the portfolio.
When she saw the leather cover, she stopped walking.
“Oh, Lorraine.””
She touched it gently, almost reverently.
For several seconds, the powerful designer I had watched on television seemed to disappear. In her place stood a woman remembering someone she had loved.
“You knew my mother well?”” I asked.
Elise pulled out a chair.
“Not as well as I should have.””
She opened the portfolio and began examining the drawings.
“Lorraine was extraordinary. She understood movement. Most designers begin with a silhouette and ask how the body will fit inside it. Your mother began with the movement itself.””
She turned to the butterfly design.
“This was her most ambitious collection.””
I leaned closer.
“Why didn't she release it?””
Elise's fingers paused on the page.
“Because someone stole it before she had the chance.””
The room seemed to grow colder.
“Who?””
Elise looked toward the windows.
“Twenty-one years ago, Lorraine and I were preparing a collaborative collection. She had developed a series of garments using concealed structures and specialized stitching. I was responsible for the presentation, while she handled much of the technical construction.””
“Like my butterfly dress?””
“Yes, although your mother was experimenting with different mechanisms. Some of her ideas were years ahead of their time.””
Elise removed a folder from a locked cabinet.
Inside were photographs of garments I had never seen, including a blue butterfly gown displayed on a dress form.
The wings were wider than mine, with gold embroidery running along the edges.
I stared at it.
“That's the original.””
Elise nodded.
“Your mother made it in my studio. We planned to reveal it at a major fashion exhibition.””
“What happened?””
“Three days before the presentation, the design documents disappeared. Then several sketches appeared in the hands of a competing fashion house.””
My fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“Someone stole her designs?””
“Yes.””
“Who?””
Elise closed the folder.
“We suspected someone connected to the exhibition. We never found enough evidence to prove who had taken the documents.””
I thought of Vanessa's pale face when I found the portfolio.
“Was Vanessa involved?””
Elise looked directly at me.
“Vanessa was working as an administrative assistant for the exhibition organizer at the time.””
My breath caught.
“She knew my mother?””
“They met several times.””
“And she never told me?””
“I can't answer for her.””
I looked down at the portfolio.
Six missing pages.
A warning message.
My father's letter.
The pieces were beginning to fit together, but the picture they formed was uglier than anything I had imagined.
Elise removed another document from her folder.
“This is a copy of the original collaboration agreement between your mother and me. It establishes that Lorraine created the technical designs and retained ownership of her original patterns.””
I read the document slowly.
My mother's signature appeared at the bottom.
So did Elise's.
“What happened to the stolen designs?””
“One was used in a collection released by a company called Bellamy House. The company claimed its head designer had developed the technique independently.””
“Did your mother sue?””
“She considered it. But she had recently lost her husband, and she was raising a young child. She didn't have the money to fight a major company.””
My throat tightened.
“She gave up?””
Elise's expression hardened.
“No. She stopped pursuing the case publicly. That is not the same thing.””
She opened a drawer and removed a photograph of my mother standing beside a young man in a dark suit.
I recognized neither the man nor the location.
“Who is that?””
“Marcus Bellamy. The founder of Bellamy House.””
I stared at the photograph.
“What happened to him?””
“He died several years ago. His company was eventually absorbed into a larger fashion group.””
Elise placed the photograph beside the portfolio.
“Vanessa worked for his exhibition office. After Lorraine withdrew from the public dispute, Vanessa left the company and eventually married your father.””
I tried to absorb the timeline.
“So she knew about the theft before she became my stepmother.””
Elise nodded.
“Which is why I find the missing pages troubling.””
Maya leaned forward.
“Could Vanessa have sold them?””
“Possibly. But we need evidence, not assumptions.””
Elise turned to the butterfly design.
“Your father wrote that I had the original garment. He was right.””
She led us to a storage room at the back of the studio.
Inside stood a tall archival cabinet. Elise unlocked it and carefully removed a long garment box.
She lifted the lid.
There it was.
My mother's original butterfly gown.
The fabric had faded slightly with age, but the construction remained astonishing. Each wing contained a hidden framework, and the gold stitching formed the same three-loop pattern I had used in my own work.
I reached toward it, then stopped.
“Can I touch it?””
Elise nodded.
I brushed one finger against the fabric.
It felt impossibly delicate.
For the first time, I understood why my father had written that my mother left me something inside the blue butterfly design.
I examined the inner seam.
There, beneath the folded lining, was a small pocket secured with three loops.
My hands began to tremble.
I carefully opened it.
Inside lay a folded piece of paper.
The ink had faded, but the handwriting was unmistakable.
My mother's.
If these designs ever disappear, look for the person who profits from my silence.
Beneath the sentence was a name.
*Vanessa Reed.*
I staggered backward.
Maya caught my arm.
Elise stared at the paper, her face pale.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Elise whispered, “Lorraine knew.””
I looked at her.
“She knew Vanessa stole her work?””
“She suspected it. This note suggests she had discovered something specific.””
“Then why didn't she tell the police?””
Elise's expression was heavy with regret.
“I don't know. But we should find out whether she left any other evidence.””
I folded the note carefully.
A knock sounded at the studio door.
Elise looked toward the entrance.
Her assistant appeared, visibly uncomfortable.
“I'm sorry to interrupt. There's a woman outside insisting she needs to see you.””
“Who?””
The assistant glanced at me.
“Vanessa Reed.””
My stomach tightened.
Elise's expression turned cold.
“Did you tell her Nia was here?””
“No. She said she knew the girl would come today.””
Maya stepped closer to me.
Elise locked the garment cabinet.
Then she turned toward the door.
“Let her in.””
Vanessa entered wearing a cream suit and a carefully arranged smile.
Her gaze moved to the open portfolio on the table.
Then to the photograph of my mother.
Finally, she looked at me.
“Nia,” she said softly, “you have no idea what you're doing.””
I lifted the note with her name on it.
“Then tell me.””
For the first time, Vanessa had no smile left.
May you like
She looked at the paper.
And whispered, “Your mother was going to ruin everything.””
