Chapter 4: The Design They Tried to Steal
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Vanessa stood in my bedroom doorway, holding the photograph like she'd just won an award.
The midnight-blue gown in the picture looked almost exactly like mine. It had crimson roses climbing across the bodice, sparkling crystals around the waist, and a flowing skirt.
But there was one detail Vanessa had overlooked.
The roses in her photograph were arranged in precisely the same pattern as the ones in my mother's original sketch.
Even the smallest details were identical.
I looked at her.
"Where did you get that?""
Vanessa smiled.
"Does it matter?""
"Yes. It matters a lot.""
She shrugged.
"Maybe I have better taste than you thought.""
I picked up the photograph and examined it more carefully. The image showed the gown displayed on a mannequin in a professional-looking studio.
There was no way Vanessa had created it herself.
She had never shown the slightest interest in fashion. She couldn't sew a straight line, and the only time she'd touched my sewing machine was when she'd used its foot pedal to make fun of the noise.
"Who made this dress?"" I asked.
"Someone talented.""
"What's her name?""
"Wouldn't you like to know?""
Dad stepped into the room.
"Vanessa, give Emily a break.""
Vanessa turned toward him.
"Why? She's the one accusing everyone of stealing her ideas.""
I looked at Dad.
"Did you know about this?""
He shook his head.
"No.""
"Then why did you sign that statement?""
He looked uncomfortable.
"Diane said the academy needed confirmation that the sketchbook belonged to your mother. She told me the statement was routine.""
I held up the document.
"This doesn't say that. It says I stole the design.""
Dad took a breath.
"I didn't read every line.""
"Why not?""
He had no answer.
Vanessa gave a little laugh.
"Honestly, Emily, this is getting embarrassing. You should be grateful someone is willing to give you advice.""
I stepped toward her.
"You poured paint over my dress. You lied about it. And now you've submitted a copy of my design under your name.""
Her smile faded.
"Prove it.""
I looked directly into her eyes.
"I will.""
She leaned closer.
"Then you'd better hurry. The academy's judges are coming tomorrow, and I'm presenting my collection tonight.""
My stomach tightened.
"Tonight?""
Vanessa nodded.
"Mom arranged a private preview at the Willowbrook Hotel. Some fashion people are attending.""
I turned toward Dad.
"You're letting her do this?""
He looked between us.
"I don't know what's happening anymore.""
Vanessa slipped the photograph back into her folder.
"Well, I do. And tomorrow, everyone will know who the real designer is.""
She walked out.
I heard her footsteps disappear down the hallway.
Then I closed my bedroom door.
Dad remained standing beside me.
"Emily, I know you're upset.""
I laughed bitterly.
"Upset?""
He looked at the dress on the mannequin.
"I'll speak to Diane.""
"No.""
"Sweetheart—"
"Stop promising to speak to people. Start believing what they're doing.""
He lowered his eyes.
I opened my laptop and played the laundry-room video again.
This time, I connected it to the television.
Dad watched Vanessa carry the bucket into the room.
He watched her pour the paint.
He watched her look directly at the camera.
And he heard her whisper to Diane.
"Now she won't have anything to show those judges.""
The recording ended.
Dad sat down heavily on my bed.
"Oh, God.""
I folded my arms.
"Now do you believe me?""
He nodded slowly.
"I didn't know.""
"You didn't ask.""
He rubbed his face.
"Emily, I'm sorry.""
I wanted to accept his apology.
But three years of loneliness had taught me that words didn't repair everything.
"What about the photograph?"" I asked.
Dad looked up.
"Which one?""
"Vanessa's dress. The stolen design.""
He stared at the image again.
"Could someone have copied your sketch?""
"Maybe. But there's something else.""
I opened my design folder.
I showed him the first photograph I'd taken four months earlier.
It showed my original champagne-colored dress in its early stages.
Then I showed him the sketch of the midnight-blue transformation.
Finally, I opened a video recorded the night after Vanessa destroyed the gown.
The camera showed my hands arranging the stained satin.
My voice explained the idea behind the crimson roses.
The video had a date and timestamp.
Dad watched silently.
"She couldn't have submitted this design before I created it," I said.
He nodded.
"You're right.""
I opened another folder.
Inside were photographs of my mother's sketchbook, including the original drawing with its date and her handwritten note.
Then I noticed something.
The stolen photograph Vanessa had shown me contained a tiny white label attached to the mannequin.
I zoomed in.
The label read:
*ATELIER DIANE — SAMPLE 07.*
I stared at it.
Diane had a friend who owned a small alterations studio. I'd seen her visit there several times.
I remembered something else.
Two weeks before Vanessa destroyed my dress, she'd asked to borrow my mother's sketchbook.
I'd refused.
She'd called me selfish and walked away.
But that afternoon, while Dad was still examining the photograph, another memory returned.
The day after Vanessa had asked for the sketchbook, I came home from school and found my bedroom door slightly open.
My sketchbook had been moved.
I hadn't thought much about it.
Now I understood.
"She photographed Mom's designs," I whispered.
Dad stood.
"Then we need to contact the academy.""
"I will.""
He hesitated.
"Let me handle this.""
I looked at him.
"That's what you said before.""
He flinched.
I returned to my laptop.
I sent the academy an email containing the video, the original sketches, the dated progress photographs, and the recording of Vanessa admitting she had destroyed my dress.
I requested that the judges preserve my original application and investigate the suspicious submission.
Then I added one final sentence:
I am not withdrawing. I will present my design tomorrow, even if I have to stand in front of the judges wearing the ruined dress itself.
I pressed send.
At 9:47 p.m., an email arrived.
The subject line read:
*URGENT: FORMAL REVIEW OF YOUR DESIGN SUBMISSION.*
I opened it.
The academy acknowledged receipt of my evidence.
But the final paragraph made my stomach drop.
Please be advised that another applicant has already submitted a formal intellectual-property complaint against you.
The applicant's name was Vanessa Carter.
And attached to the complaint was a sworn statement signed by my father.
I slowly turned toward him.
He looked at the screen.
Then he whispered:
"Emily, I didn't know they were going to use my signature for this.""
But before I could respond, my phone rang.
It was the academy's competition director.
"Miss Carter," a woman said urgently.
"We need you to come to the academy first thing tomorrow. There's something you should know about the other submission.""
"What is it?""
May you like
She paused.
"Vanessa isn't the only person claiming ownership of your mother's design.""
