Chapter 2: The Scholarship Nobody Was Supposed to Win
Vanessa came downstairs so quickly that she nearly missed the last step.
“Dad, tell her she can't wear that!””
Michael turned toward her, still standing beside me.
“Good morning to you, too.””
“I'm serious!”” Vanessa pointed at the gown.
“That dress is a problem.””
I glanced at Dad.
“What does she mean?””
Vanessa's eyes flicked toward the dress, then toward the living room, where Rebecca had just appeared with her phone.
“Mom,” Vanessa said urgently.
“Show him.””
Rebecca looked from her daughter to me.
“Michael, perhaps we should discuss this before Emily gets carried away.””
Dad folded his arms.
“Discuss what?””
Vanessa snatched Rebecca's phone and held it out.
A school announcement filled the screen.
*THE ATLANTA YOUNG DESIGNERS SCHOLARSHIP.*
Beneath the heading was a photograph of a fashion academy's elegant glass-fronted campus, followed by a description of a competition being held at our senior prom.
A panel of visiting judges would select one original student-designed gown. The winner would receive an $80,000 scholarship package covering tuition and approved educational expenses at the prestigious academy.
I'd heard rumors about the competition at school, but I hadn't paid much attention. I'd assumed the judges would be looking for students who had taken formal design classes, not someone who worked weekends at a bakery.
Vanessa, however, had been preparing for the competition for months.
She had a private portfolio, a professional sewing machine, and a collection of expensive fabrics Rebecca had ordered for her. She'd spent the past year talking about the academy as though her acceptance were a foregone conclusion.
Now she stared at my gown as if I'd walked into her bedroom and stolen something.
“She's trying to embarrass me,” Vanessa announced.
Dad frowned.
“How?””
“By showing up with that dress! Everyone knows I'm entering the scholarship competition.””
I blinked.
“I didn't even know you were entering until right now.””
“Don't pretend you don't know what you're doing.””
“Vanessa, I made this because you destroyed the dress I bought.””
“That's not what happened!””
Dad's expression changed.
“What do you mean, that's not what happened?””
Vanessa hesitated.
Rebecca immediately stepped between us.
“Michael, the girls are upset. There's no reason to turn this into an argument.””
“Then why is Vanessa screaming at Emily for making a dress?””
“Because she knows what the judges are looking for,” Rebecca replied.
“And Vanessa has worked very hard for this opportunity.””
Dad looked at me.
“Did you design it yourself?””
“Yes.””
“Did you copy anyone's work?””
“No.””
He nodded once.
“Then you're wearing it.””
Vanessa's mouth fell open.
“Dad!””
“Enough, Vanessa. Emily has done nothing wrong.””
For several seconds, I thought that was the end of it.
Dad had defended me. Not reluctantly, not after Rebecca explained why my feelings were inconvenient. He'd simply looked at the facts and believed me.
It felt so unfamiliar that I almost didn't know what to do with it.
Then Vanessa looked at the clock.
“Fine,” she said quietly.
“If that's what you want.””
She walked toward the kitchen.
Rebecca followed her, but not before giving me a warning look.
Dad squeezed my shoulder.
“Your mother would be proud of you, sweetheart.””
I smiled.
“Thanks, Dad.””
He glanced at the embroidery again.
“Where did you learn to make roses like these?””
“Mom taught me. I remembered some of her old techniques.””
He looked away for a moment, swallowing hard.
“I wish I'd spent more time helping you keep those memories alive.””
Before I could answer, his phone rang.
He checked the screen and frowned.
“It's work. I need to take this.””
He walked into his study.
I carried the gown upstairs to hang it safely inside my closet. As I reached for the hanger, I heard Rebecca's voice through the partially open door across the hall.
“You cannot let her win, Vanessa.””
“I know that!””
“Your father has already chosen her side.””
“He always does when she starts crying!””
There was a pause.
Then Vanessa said something that made my hand freeze on the closet door.
“If Emily wins that scholarship, everything I've worked for is gone.””
Rebecca lowered her voice.
“Then make sure she doesn't win.””
I stepped backward before they could see me.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I wanted to tell Dad. I wanted to walk downstairs and demand that he explain why my stepsister believed she could destroy my future whenever she felt threatened.
But I'd heard this kind of conversation before.
Whenever I complained, Rebecca accused me of stirring up trouble. Whenever Vanessa was caught doing something cruel, she found a way to make herself the victim.
And Dad, caught between his wife and his daughter, often chose the path that kept the house quiet.
I wasn't going to let them turn this into another argument about my attitude.
I needed proof.
I returned to my room and examined the gown carefully. The roses were secure. The seams held. A few crystals needed reinforcing, but otherwise, the dress was ready.
Then I remembered something.
My mother's sewing box had a small velvet pocket beneath the removable tray. I'd found old buttons there years ago, along with a tiny notebook filled with her sketches.
The notebook was still in the box.
I opened it and flipped through pages of delicate drawings: bodices, sleeves, flowing skirts, and patterns for embroidered flowers.
One design stopped me.
A midnight-blue gown with silver roses spiraling across the bodice.
It looked almost exactly like the dress I'd made.
I stared at the drawing.
The design was dated nineteen years earlier, long before I'd been born.
Underneath it, Mom had written a name and a few measurements.
Eternal Rose — original concept.
I turned the page, expecting more notes.
Instead, I found a folded piece of paper tucked into the binding.
It was an old academy registration form.
The school name matched the one on the scholarship announcement.
And at the bottom, beside the words Original Designer, was my mother's full name.
Olivia Walker.
My fingers began to tremble.
Had Mom once entered the same academy competition? Had she created the original design I'd unknowingly recreated from memory?
I had no idea.
But I knew Vanessa had never seen this notebook.
At least, I didn't think she had.
I photographed the pages with my phone, then placed the notebook inside my desk drawer.
A few minutes later, Dad called me downstairs.
Vanessa and Rebecca were waiting in the living room.
Dad held his phone in one hand, his expression unusually serious.
“Emily, I received an email from the fashion academy,” he said.
“They've raised a concern about your dress.””
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of concern?””
He turned the screen toward me.
The subject line read:
*URGENT: PLAGIARISM COMPLAINT — ATLANTA YOUNG DESIGNERS SCHOLARSHIP.*
Below it was a photograph of a gown.
My gown.
But the picture hadn't been taken at school or during a fitting.
It had been taken inside my bedroom.
The caption beneath it read: Evidence of stolen design submitted by an anonymous source.
I looked at Vanessa.
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin.
“Tell Dad where you really got that design.””
“I designed it myself.””
“Then explain the photograph.””
“I don't know who took it!””
Rebecca sighed.
“Michael, this is exactly why we should have discussed the dress before allowing her to wear it.””
Dad didn't answer.
He was reading the email again.
I leaned closer and saw the sender's address. It looked official, but something about the wording felt wrong. The message demanded that I withdraw from the competition immediately or risk being permanently disqualified from future academy applications.
“Dad, this could be fake.””
“Perhaps,” he said, although he didn't sound convinced.
Vanessa stepped closer to him.
“Or perhaps Emily knew she'd get caught.””
I turned toward her.
“Why are you doing this?””
She gave me a small, cold smile.
“Because you should have stayed in your lane.””
Dad's phone began ringing.
An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.
He answered cautiously.
“Michael Walker speaking.””
A woman's voice came through the speaker.
“Mr. Walker, my name is Dr. Eleanor Hayes.
I'm the scholarship director at the Atlanta School of Fashion. We need to speak with Emily immediately.””
Dad put the call on speaker.
“Is this about the complaint?””
“Yes,” Dr. Hayes replied.
“We received a plagiarism allegation against your daughter this morning.””
Vanessa's expression brightened.
Then the director continued.
“However, the design Emily supposedly stole was registered nineteen years ago under the name of a woman who passed away.””
The room went silent.
Dad stared at me.
“What was the designer's name?””
Dr. Hayes paused.
“Olivia Walker.””
My mother's name.
Then she added, “Mr. Walker, there's something else. The person who filed the complaint submitted a photograph taken inside your daughter's bedroom last night.””
Dad slowly lowered the phone.
May you like
Vanessa's face lost its color.
And for the first time, I realized that the woman on the other end of the line might know more about my mother's death—and my family—than any of us did.
