Chapter 5: The Contract That Never Should Have Existed
Vivian Cole stepped into our garage as if she owned the house.
She was in her early fifties, with perfectly styled silver-blonde hair and a black designer coat. Her shoes clicked against the concrete floor.
She looked at the recorder in my hand.
“That's an interesting little object,” she said.
I tightened my grip.
“It belonged to my mother.””
“Yes. Eleanor was always sentimental about her work.””
Dad moved between us.
“Vivian, why are you here?””
She opened her briefcase.
“To prevent an unfortunate misunderstanding from becoming a public scandal.””
She removed a thick folder and placed it on the workbench.
Inside were printed documents, photographs, and a contract bearing my mother's name.
“This is the original ownership agreement,” Vivian explained.
“Eleanor voluntarily transferred the Crimson Garden design collection to my company in 2014.””
I stared at the signature.
It looked like Mom's handwriting.
But something about it bothered me.
“Why would she transfer her entire collection?””
Vivian gave me a sympathetic smile.
“She was struggling financially. I offered her a generous payment and professional support. She accepted.””
“That's not what happened.””
“You were very young, Lily. You couldn't possibly know what happened between us.””
I pulled the letter from my pocket.
“My mother said you stole her work.””
Vivian's expression barely changed.
“Your mother was very talented. She was also emotional. Unfortunately, she sometimes confused inspiration with ownership.””
Dad slammed his palm against the workbench.
“That's enough.””
Vivian looked at him.
“Richard, I understand this is personal. But I have a business to protect.””
“You know Eleanor never agreed to that transfer.””
“Then perhaps you should have protected the documents better.””
She turned toward me.
“Lily, I would strongly recommend withdrawing from the competition. You have potential. I don't want to see you damage your future over something you don't understand.””
I felt my hands shaking.
“You mean over something you stole.””
Her eyes hardened.
“Be very careful.””
She closed the folder.
“I'll see you tomorrow at Eastbrook.””
Then she walked out.
For several seconds, Dad remained motionless.
I turned toward him.
“Tell me about the blue envelope.””
He looked at the garage door.
“Your mother kept it in a small safe in her sewing room. After she died, I couldn't find it.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I thought Vivian had taken it.””
“Then why did you keep the recorder?””
“Your mother gave it to me. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.””
I looked at the documents Vivian had left behind.
The contract was dated March 2014.
Mom's final sketches were dated February.
But the signature appeared different from the one on her other documents.
I pulled out the letter she had written.
The handwriting was unmistakably hers.
The capital E had a distinctive loop. The letter C ended with a small upward stroke.
The signature on the contract had neither.
“Dad, this isn't Mom's signature.””
He leaned over.
His face changed.
“You're right.””
I looked at him.
“Can we prove it?””
He nodded slowly.
“Your mother had a bank account where she kept copies of every legal document. If the contract was real, there would have been a payment.””
“Did she receive one?””
“I never found any record of it.””
I stared at the folder.
“So Vivian is lying.””
“Possibly. But we need proof.””
The following morning, I went to Eastbrook with Dad and Maya.
The academy occupied a beautiful stone building surrounded by gardens. Inside, glass display cases held award-winning fashion designs from previous students.
I had dreamed of walking through those doors for years.
Now my stomach felt like it was full of ice.
We were led into a conference room.
Margaret Hayes sat at the head of the table. Beside her was a legal adviser and a woman from the academy's scholarship committee.
Vivian was already there.
She smiled when she saw me.
“Lily. I'm glad you came.””
I ignored her.
Margaret gestured toward the chairs.
“Let's begin.””
Vivian opened her folder.
She presented the contract, photographs of the original Crimson Garden sketches, and a certificate claiming ownership of the design.
“Eleanor voluntarily transferred the collection,” she said.
“My company has maintained the rights ever since.””
The legal adviser examined the documents.
“Do you have proof of payment?””
Vivian produced a bank statement.
“Certainly.””
I leaned forward.
The statement showed a transfer of $18,000 to an account under Eleanor Carter's name.
But the date was wrong.
The payment was listed as occurring in June 2015.
Mom had been too sick to work by then.
And she had died in May 2015.
My stomach twisted.
“That's impossible.””
Vivian turned toward me.
“What is?””
“My mother died before that payment date.””
The room went quiet.
Vivian looked at the statement.
For the first time, she seemed uncomfortable.
Margaret took the paper.
“Ms. Cole, can you explain this?””
Vivian cleared her throat.
“It was an administrative processing date. The actual agreement was signed earlier.””
“Then why is the payment recorded after Eleanor's death?””
“Because the funds were held in escrow.””
The legal adviser wrote something down.
I opened my portfolio.
“I brought my mother's original sketches, dated notebooks, and the photographs of my own design process.””
I placed everything on the table.
“My dress is not a copy of Vivian's design. It's my own interpretation of my mother's work. I created it before I knew there was an ownership dispute.””
Vivian laughed softly.
“How convenient.””
Maya leaned forward.
“We have dated photographs showing the entire process.””
Vivian looked at her.
“I'm sure you do.””
Then she pulled out another document.
“This is a letter from Eleanor authorizing me to continue developing the collection.””
My heart stopped.
The letter had Mom's signature.
But unlike the first document, it looked genuine.
Vivian slid it toward Margaret.
“Eleanor understood that I would preserve her work.””
I examined the letter.
Something caught my attention.
The paper had a small blue watermark in the corner.
I had seen that watermark before.
It was from a stationery company that didn't exist until 2016.
I looked up.
“Where did you get this?””
Vivian smiled.
“From my archives.””
“This paper wasn't manufactured until after my mother died.””
The legal adviser immediately took the letter.
“That's a serious allegation.””
“It's a fact,” I replied.
“The company that made this paper didn't exist until 2016.””
Vivian's smile disappeared.
Margaret looked at the document carefully.
“Ms. Cole, we will need to verify the date and authenticity of this letter.””
Vivian snapped her folder shut.
“This is absurd. I won't sit here while a teenager questions my professional integrity.””
She stood.
Margaret remained seated.
“Please sit down, Vivian.””
“I have nothing more to say.””
“Then the academy will suspend its review until the documents can be authenticated.””
Vivian grabbed her bag.
As she passed me, she leaned close.
“You should have listened to your stepmother.””
Then she left.
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Margaret turned toward me.
“Lily, your scholarship entry will remain under review. I want you to understand that this dispute may take time.””
I nodded.
“I understand.””
She looked at my sketches.
“Your mother was one of the most promising designers I ever evaluated. I always regretted what happened.””
“Then why didn't you help her?””
Margaret looked away.
It was a small movement.
But I noticed.
“I was younger then,” she said.
“And I made a decision I have regretted for many years.””
Dad leaned forward.
“What decision?””
Margaret opened a drawer and removed an old photograph.
It showed three people standing beside a mannequin.
My mother.
Vivian.
And a third woman I didn't recognize.
On the back was a handwritten date and a note:
Final fitting — The Crimson Garden.
Margaret turned the photograph over.
“Your mother didn't work alone. There was another designer involved.””
“Who?””
Margaret looked at me.
“Her name was Denise Cole.””
My mouth fell open.
Denise.
My stepmother.
Margaret continued.
“She was Eleanor's assistant during the competition. And she was the person who originally delivered the sketches to Vivian.””
The room seemed to tilt.
My father stood.
“That's not possible.””
Margaret looked directly at him.
“Richard, I think you need to ask your wife what happened to the blue envelope.””
My phone vibrated.
A message from Maya appeared.
Lily. I just checked the old competition archive.
Another message followed.
Your stepmother didn't just work with your mom.
Then a photograph arrived.
It showed Denise standing beside Vivian, holding a document.
Underneath it was a caption from an old fashion-industry article.
*Denise Cole Receives Credit for Original Crimson Garden Collection.*
May you like
I looked at my father.
He had gone completely pale.
