Chapter 4: The Woman Who Stole My Mother's Dream
For several seconds, nobody moved.
My father's phone lay on the concrete floor, still connected to Margaret Hayes.
Then her voice came through the speaker again.
“Richard? Are you still there?””
Dad bent down and picked it up.
“Margaret, I think there's been a misunderstanding.””
“I'm afraid there hasn't. Vivian Cole contacted the academy this morning. She claims Eleanor's original design was transferred to her company years ago.””
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“That isn't true,” I said.
There was a pause.
“Lily?”” Margaret asked.
“Yes. I'm Eleanor's daughter.””
Her voice softened.
“I remember your mother very well.””
“Then you know she designed that dress.””
“I know what she presented to us. But I also remember the circumstances surrounding her withdrawal.””
“Someone stole her work.””
Dad closed his eyes.
Margaret sighed.
“I'm not in a position to make accusations without reviewing the evidence. However, Vivian has submitted documentation claiming ownership of the Crimson Garden collection. If your design contains substantial similarities, the academy's legal department will have to investigate.””
I looked at my sketches.
The midnight-blue velvet. The crimson roses. The crystal details.
Everything I had created was inspired by the original design.
But it wasn't a copy.
It was my interpretation.
“I designed my dress myself,” I said.
“I have my sketches, my measurements, and months of progress photographs.””
“Then preserve everything,” Margaret replied.
“Do not discard a single drawing or fabric sample.””
Dad interrupted.
“Margaret, can we discuss this privately?””
“Of course. But Richard, I strongly suggest you tell Lily the entire story before this goes any further.””
The call ended.
I turned toward Dad.
“What does she mean by the entire story?””
He looked exhausted.
“Not here.””
“Why not?””
“Because I need to find something first.””
Vanessa laughed from the doorway.
“Wow. This family really does have a talent for keeping secrets.””
Dad turned sharply.
“Go upstairs, Vanessa.””
“Gladly.””
She glanced at me.
“Enjoy your little scholarship dream while it lasts.””
Then she disappeared.
I looked at Dad.
“I'm going to finish the dress.””
He nodded slowly.
“Lily, please be careful.””
“I've been careful my whole life. It hasn't protected me from anything.””
I picked up the portfolio and walked upstairs.
That evening, I spread every sketch across my bedroom floor.
I compared Mom's original drawings with my current design.
There were similarities, certainly.
The placement of the roses. The sweeping neckline. The midnight-blue fabric.
But I had changed the silhouette, added the open back, redesigned the skirt, and transformed the damaged red satin into an embroidered floral pattern.
I had photographs of every stage.
I had receipts for the velvet and crystals.
I even had a video of myself cutting the fabric, taken by Maya during our first afternoon working together.
I wasn't going to let anyone call my work stolen.
At eight, Maya arrived with a pizza and a flash drive.
“I brought reinforcements.””
She dropped the drive onto my desk.
“What is that?””
“Every picture and video we've taken since we started the dress. I backed everything up.””
I stared at her.
“Maya, you're a genius.””
“I know. It's exhausting.””
I laughed for the first time all day.
We spent two hours organizing the evidence.
Then Maya noticed something strange.
“Wait. Look at this.””
She opened a photograph of my mother's original sketch.
In the lower corner was a tiny handwritten mark.
A small rose with three leaves.
I had seen it dozens of times but never understood its significance.
Maya zoomed in.
“Is that a signature?””
“No. Mom used to draw it on almost everything she designed.””
“Maybe it's a designer's mark.””
I remembered something.
Mom had once told me that every artist should leave a signature that could never be mistaken.
I searched through the portfolio.
On the inside cover was a handwritten note:
E.C. — Crimson Garden, Original Pattern Collection. Registered design sketches, 2014.
Beneath it was a registration number.
Maya sat up.
“Lily. If those sketches were registered, there should be an official record.””
My heart began racing.
I grabbed my laptop and searched the number.
The registration had been archived.
And the listed owner was Eleanor Carter.
But the status field showed something unexpected.
*TRANSFER PENDING — DISPUTED OWNERSHIP.*
“That's impossible,” I whispered.
Maya leaned closer.
“Can someone transfer ownership without the designer agreeing?””
“I don't know.””
A new email appeared.
It was from the Eastbrook Fashion Academy.
The subject line read:
*URGENT: Scholarship Eligibility Review.*
I opened it.
The academy had placed my entry on temporary hold pending an ownership investigation.
I was required to attend a meeting the following afternoon.
At the bottom was one additional sentence:
Ms. Vivian Cole has requested permission to attend the review as the registered claimant.
I stared at the screen.
“She wants to face me.””
Maya shook her head.
“No. She wants to intimidate you.””
I closed the laptop.
“Then she'll have to try harder.””
The following morning, I went downstairs and found Denise sitting at the kitchen island.
She was drinking coffee and reading something on her tablet.
“Lily, we need to talk.””
I stopped.
“About what?””
She put down her cup.
“Vanessa told me you're planning to compete for a fashion scholarship.””
“Yes.””
“Richard and I have discussed it. We don't think this is a good idea.””
I blinked.
“You've discussed it?””
“Your father's already under enough stress.””
“I'm not asking him for money.””
“That's not the point.””
“Then what is?””
Denise folded her arms.
“Vivian is a respected businesswoman. Accusing her of stealing your mother's work could have serious consequences.””
“I haven't accused anyone. I have evidence that Mom created the original design.””
“Your mother had a difficult history with Vivian. That doesn't mean Vivian did anything wrong.””
I stared at her.
“Why are you defending her?””
Denise's expression hardened.
“Because I know her. And I know how these situations work.””
“Do you know Vanessa sent her pictures of my dress?””
Denise didn't answer.
That silence was enough.
I picked up my bag.
“I'm going to school.””
As I reached the door, Denise spoke again.
“Lily, sometimes letting something go is the smartest thing you can do.””
I turned around.
“My mother didn't let it go. Someone made her.””
Then I left.
That afternoon, Dad called me into the garage.
He was holding a dusty cardboard box.
“I found this in the back of the storage room,” he said.
Inside were old documents, receipts, and a small digital voice recorder.
“Your mother used this when she dictated design notes,” he explained.
I picked it up.
“Does it still work?””
“I don't know.””
I pressed the power button.
A faint electronic beep sounded.
Then a familiar voice filled the garage.
My mother's voice.
“Crimson Garden, final design notes. February eighteenth…”
I stopped breathing.
There was a pause, followed by the sound of paper moving.
Then Mom spoke again.
“If Vivian insists the sketches were hers, I need to find the original contract. Richard, please remember where I put the blue envelope.””
The recording continued.
And then came a sentence that made Dad's face turn white.
“If anything happens to me, don't let Vivian take this from Lily. The blue envelope contains the truth about who signed the transfer.””
I turned toward my father.
“What transfer?””
He stared at the recorder.
“I thought that envelope was gone.””
“What does that mean?””
Before he could answer, someone knocked on the garage door.
Three sharp knocks.
Dad opened it.
A woman in a tailored black suit stood outside.
She carried a leather briefcase and wore a silver rose brooch.
“Richard Carter?”” she asked.
“Yes.””
“My name is Vivian Cole.””
She glanced past him and saw me holding the recorder.
Her smile disappeared.
May you like
“Ah,” she said quietly.
“I see Eleanor's daughter has found something she wasn't supposed to.””
