Chapter 3: The Secret Behind My Mother's Last Design
I read the message at least twenty times.
Ask your father what happened to your mother's last fashion design.
The words seemed to grow darker every time I looked at them.
My mother had left behind dozens of sketches. I had kept most of them in a blue folder beneath my bed.
But there was one design I had never seen.
Why would someone send me that message?
And why mention it now?
I called the number.
It went straight to voicemail.
“Hello? Who is this?””
Nothing.
I tried again.
The same result.
By morning, I had convinced myself it was probably Vanessa playing another cruel joke.
Still, I couldn't forget the message.
At breakfast, Dad was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table.
“Dad?””
He lowered the paper.
“Morning, sweetheart.””
“Can I ask you something?””
“Of course.””
I sat across from him.
“Did Mom ever design a dress for Eastbrook Fashion Academy?””
His hand stopped moving.
It was brief.
Almost invisible.
But I noticed.
“Why do you ask?””
“Someone mentioned it.””
He folded the newspaper.
“Who?””
“I don't know. An anonymous number.””
Dad looked uncomfortable.
“Lily, people sometimes send strange messages. Don't let them upset you.””
“Did she?””
He stared at his coffee.
“Your mother designed many things.””
“That's not what I asked.””
He sighed.
“Not now, honey. I'm already late for work.””
He stood, kissed the top of my head, and left.
I watched him drive away.
He hadn't answered.
And that told me more than I wanted to know.
At school, Maya noticed my distraction.
“You look like you haven't slept again.””
I showed her the message.
She read it twice.
“That's creepy.””
“I asked Dad. He wouldn't tell me anything.””
“Maybe your mom submitted something to Eastbrook?””
“Maybe.””
Maya tapped the screen.
“Whoever sent this knows something.””
We decided to investigate after school.
First, we searched the school's old yearbooks and online archives. We found photographs of a student fashion showcase from twelve years earlier.
One photograph showed my mother.
She was standing beside a mannequin wearing a midnight-blue gown decorated with red flowers.
My breath caught.
The dress looked almost exactly like the one I was making.
Not identical.
But close enough to make my fingers tremble.
Under the photograph was a caption:
*Eleanor Carter — Eastbrook Young Designers Finalist.*
I stared at the screen.
“Mom was a finalist?””
Maya leaned closer.
“Lily, look at the date.””
It was taken twelve years earlier.
The year before I was born.
I clicked the article.
Most of the page was missing, but a short paragraph remained.
Eleanor Carter's original design, The Crimson Garden, received exceptional praise from the judges. However, the designer withdrew from the final competition following a dispute regarding ownership of the submitted work.
Ownership.
I read the sentence again.
“Someone stole her design.””
Maya nodded slowly.
“That's what it sounds like.””
I scrolled farther.
At the bottom was a photograph of the judges.
One name stood out.
*Margaret Hayes — Senior Admissions Director, Eastbrook Fashion Academy.*
Maya pointed at the screen.
“She's probably the woman coming to prom.””
I felt a strange chill.
If Margaret had judged my mother's design, she might recognize mine.
But what exactly had happened?
And why had Dad refused to talk about it?
When I returned home, I went straight to the storage room.
Mom's belongings were kept in labeled boxes along the back wall. Dad had never thrown them away, even though Denise had complained about the clutter several times.
I searched through boxes of photographs, old notebooks, and fabric samples.
Then I found a black portfolio.
It was locked with a small brass clasp.
I remembered it from childhood.
Mom used to keep it on the top shelf of her sewing room.
I tried the clasp.
It opened.
Inside were sketches.
Dozens of them.
And on the first page was the midnight-blue gown from the photograph.
The title was written in Mom's handwriting:
The Crimson Garden.
My throat tightened.
I turned the page.
There were detailed drawings of the bodice, the skirt, and the floral embroidery.
The roses were arranged almost exactly like the ones I had created from the red paint stains.
But something else was tucked between the pages.
A folded letter.
It was addressed to my father.
I hesitated before opening it.
Then I recognized Mom's handwriting.
Richard,
If you're reading this, I hope you finally found the courage to tell Lily the truth about what happened at Eastbrook.
My knees felt weak.
I sat on the storage-room floor and continued.
I never wanted her to grow up believing that talent was something people could take from you. But I also don't want her to believe she has to stay quiet when someone steals what she creates.
Margaret knows what happened. She knows who submitted my design under another name. She knows why I withdrew.
Please keep the original sketches safe.
One day, Lily may understand why I kept them.
The letter ended there.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just a date.
Three months before Mom died.
I held the paper against my chest.
Someone had stolen my mother's design.
And my father knew.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I turned.
Dad stood in the doorway.
His face had gone pale.
“Lily.””
I quickly folded the letter.
“What happened to Mom's dress?””
He closed the door behind him.
“Where did you find that?””
“In her portfolio.””
He took a step forward.
“You shouldn't be going through those things.””
“Why? Because I might find out the truth?””
“Lily, listen to me.””
“No. You listen to me. Mom wrote that someone stole her design.
She wrote that Margaret Hayes knows what happened. And she said you needed to tell me.””
Dad rubbed his face.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down.
“Your mother entered the Eastbrook competition when she was twenty-five,” he began.
“She was one of the youngest finalists. Her design was called The Crimson Garden.””
“I saw it.””
“She was incredibly proud of it. She had spent nearly a year working on the collection.””
“What happened?””
He looked at the portfolio.
“Her mentor was a woman named Vivian Cole. Vivian was already established in the fashion industry. She had connections, money, and influence. Your mother trusted her.””
I sat completely still.
“Vivian stole the design?””
“Your mother believed Vivian had copied her work and submitted it under her own name. When Eleanor confronted her, Vivian threatened to ruin her career.””
“Why didn't Mom fight back?””
“She tried. But there were missing documents, and Vivian had friends on the judging panel. Your mother couldn't prove everything.””
“Was Margaret one of those judges?””
Dad nodded.
“She knew more than she admitted.””
I felt anger rising in my chest.
“So Mom lost her chance because someone stole her work?””
“She withdrew before the final announcement.””
“And you let me grow up without knowing?””
His eyes filled with regret.
“Your mother wanted to protect you from that world.””
I shook my head.
“She didn't want me to be afraid of it.””
Dad looked down.
For the first time, I saw how much he was carrying.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered.
I wanted to forgive him.
But I couldn't yet.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small envelope.
“I've kept this for years.””
He handed it to me.
Inside was a silver pin shaped like a rose.
It had a tiny red crystal at its center.
“Your mother wore this when she presented The Crimson Garden,” he said.
“She wanted you to have it someday.””
I held the pin carefully.
“Why didn't you give it to me before?””
“Because I thought the memories would hurt too much.””
I looked at him.
“They hurt more when nobody tells me the truth.””
He nodded.
“I know.””
I pinned the rose to the inside of my sewing bag.
Then I looked at the dress sketch.
“Dad, I want to enter the scholarship competition.””
His expression changed.
“Lily…”
“I know it's difficult. I know what happened to Mom. But I'm not going to withdraw just because someone might try to stop me.””
He studied my face.
Finally, he said, “Then I'll support you.””
I wanted to believe him.
But before I could answer, the storage-room door opened.
Vanessa stood there.
She was holding her phone.
Her eyes moved from the letter in my hand to the portfolio on the floor.
“What is all this?””
Dad stood immediately.
“Vanessa, this is private.””
She ignored him.
Her gaze settled on the sketch.
Then she stepped closer.
“That's the dress from the old Eastbrook photograph.””
I froze.
“How do you know about that?””
Vanessa smiled.
“Because I know Vivian Cole.””
Dad's face changed.
“Vanessa, don't.””
She looked at him.
“Why not? Lily deserves to know, doesn't she?””
Then she turned back to me.
“Vivian isn't just some designer. She's my mother's business partner.””
My stomach dropped.
“Your mother?””
Vanessa nodded.
“Denise and Vivian have known each other for years.””
Dad stepped between us.
“That's enough.””
But Vanessa wasn't finished.
She lifted her phone and showed me a photograph.
It was a picture of my ruined prom dress before the paint had dried.
Beneath it was a message thread.
At the top was a contact name.
*Vivian Cole.*
My fingers went cold.
Vanessa had sent her the photograph.
And Vivian had replied:
If that girl is making Eleanor's design again, we have a serious problem.
Vanessa looked straight into my eyes.
“Now, Lily, do you still think that scholarship is going to be easy?””
Before I could answer, my father's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
The name displayed made him go completely still.
*Margaret Hayes — Eastbrook Fashion Academy.*
He answered.
“Hello?””
A woman's voice came through the speaker.
“Richard, I'm calling because I received a very concerning message about your daughter's scholarship entry.””
Dad looked at me.
Then Margaret continued.
“There's something you need to know. If Lily presents that dress at prom, she may be disqualified before the judges even see it.””
I gripped the edge of the portfolio.
“Why?”” I whispered.
Margaret paused.
“Because Vivian Cole has already submitted a claim that the design belongs to her.””
May you like
And then she added something that made my father drop the phone.
“She says she has the original sketches to prove it.””
