Chapter 2: The Signature That Wasn't Mine
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen carrying a printed copy of the withdrawal form.
Vanessa was preparing breakfast.
Brianna sat at the island, scrolling through her phone.
A photograph of her wearing my gown was already circulating online.
"Designer Brianna Cole Announces Scholarship Finalist Collection," the headline read.
I placed the document on the counter.
"Who signed this?""
Vanessa glanced at it.
"Good morning to you too.""
"Who signed my name?""
Brianna didn't even look up.
"Oh, we're doing this again?""
I pushed the document toward her.
"My application was withdrawn without my permission.""
Vanessa set down her coffee.
"Maybe you should have read the terms before entering.""
"What terms?""
"The ones allowing the committee to accept ownership documentation.""
I stared at her.
"That doesn't answer my question.""
Brianna finally looked up.
"Mom handled the paperwork.""
My heart started pounding.
"You signed for me?""
Vanessa folded her arms.
"I signed an administrative authorization.""
"Using my name?""
"You were being difficult. The scholarship committee needed confirmation that the dress was being entered under the correct applicant.""
"That's a lie.""
Vanessa's face hardened.
"Watch your mouth.""
Brianna laughed.
"Honestly, Eleanor, you're acting like a child. You should be happy someone in this family might finally make something of herself.""
I looked at her.
"You're wearing my mother's lace.""
Brianna touched her shoulder.
"Not anymore. It's part of my collection.""
I stepped closer.
"Take it off.""
She stood up.
"Or what?""
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Vanessa stepped between us.
"Don't you dare touch her.""
"She stole my work!""
"She is your sister.""
"She's your daughter," I snapped.
"And you're protecting her because you helped her steal from me.""
Vanessa's hand struck the countertop.
"Enough!""
The sound made Brianna jump.
Vanessa pointed toward the staircase.
"Go upstairs. You are not ruining this family's reputation over a dress.""
I laughed bitterly.
"A dress? You mean the last thing my mother ever gave me?""
Vanessa's eyes narrowed.
"Your mother is gone, Eleanor. You need to stop using her memory as an excuse for everything.""
I felt the words like a physical blow.
Brianna picked up her handbag.
"Come on, Mom. I have a fitting.""
She walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she turned.
"Oh, and Eleanor?""
I looked up.
"Don't bother entering the competition again. My portfolio has already been selected for the final judging round.""
The front door slammed.
I stood in the kitchen until I heard their car disappear.
Then I went back upstairs.
I needed proof.
Not an argument. Not another emotional confrontation.
Proof.
I opened the original project folder on my laptop.
There were hundreds of photographs.
The first showed my mother's wedding dress before I had touched it.
The next showed the lace being carefully removed.
Then came the sketches, fabric tests, measurements, pattern pieces, and dozens of photographs documenting every stage.
One photograph showed my hands sewing the lace into the blue bodice.
Another showed the unfinished dress hanging beside my mother's framed photograph.
I had also recorded myself explaining the design.
The video was dated four days before Brianna claimed to have created it.
I copied everything onto two USB drives.
Then I checked the competition portal again.
My application had been replaced with Brianna's.
Her submission included photographs of the finished gown and a written design statement.
I read the first paragraph.
My inspiration came from my grandmother's antique lace collection and my fascination with the relationship between inherited memory and modern femininity.
I stopped.
My mother's lace was not antique material from Brianna's grandmother.
It belonged to Claire Bennett.
Brianna had never even met my maternal grandmother.
I scrolled further.
The technical description included measurements, construction details, and an explanation of the hand-sewn lace placement.
Then I noticed something strange.
The description contained a sentence I had written in my original application.
"The asymmetrical placement represents the way grief changes the shape of a person's life without erasing the love that remains.""
She had copied it word for word.
I saved a screenshot.
Then I noticed a second attachment.
It was a document titled:
*DESIGN OWNERSHIP TRANSFER AGREEMENT.*
I opened it.
The document stated that I, Eleanor Claire Bennett, had voluntarily transferred all intellectual property rights associated with The Last Promise to Brianna Cole.
The agreement included a date.
It had supposedly been signed three weeks earlier.
I looked at the signature.
My name.
My handwriting.
Even the tiny upward curve at the end of the final letter.
It looked convincing.
But something was wrong.
I enlarged the image.
The signature appeared slightly blurred compared with the rest of the document.
I downloaded the original file and checked its properties.
The document had been created using a desktop office application.
The author field contained one name.
Vanessa Cole.
My stomach turned.
I had to get out of that house.
I called my best friend, Maya.
She answered immediately.
"Hey, Ellie. What's wrong?""
I tried to speak, but my voice cracked.
"Maya, I need you to look at something.""
"Are you safe?""
"Yes. But I think Vanessa forged my signature.""
There was silence.
Then Maya said, "Send me everything.""
An hour later, she arrived at the house.
We sat on my bedroom floor, surrounded by fabric scraps and photographs.
Maya studied the transfer agreement.
"Did you ever sign this?""
"Never.""
"Did you give Vanessa permission to sign anything for you?""
"No.""
Maya leaned closer to the screen.
"Look at the signature date.""
I did.
"What's wrong with it?""
"You were in Providence that day. Remember? We went to the fabric exhibition.""
I stared at the calendar.
She was right.
I had photographs from that entire afternoon, including a receipt with the time printed on it.
"I can prove I wasn't here.""
Maya nodded.
"Good. Keep everything. Don't confront her again until we know what we're dealing with.""
Then she opened Brianna's public portfolio.
The dress was listed as her original work.
But Maya noticed something beneath the image.
A small caption read:
Hand-finished lace detailing, completed March 14.
I frowned.
"That's impossible.""
"Why?""
"Because I finished the lace on February 27.""
I opened my original project folder.
There it was.
A photograph dated February 27, showing the finished shoulder detail.
Maya looked at me.
"Ellie, this isn't just theft. She's trying to establish a false timeline.""
I nodded slowly.
And then I remembered something.
My mother had taught me to document every handmade piece.
Not just with photographs.
With a tiny maker's mark.
A little embroidered signature placed somewhere inside the garment.
She called it a designer's fingerprint.
Mine was a small silver thread star hidden inside the left waistband.
Nobody knew about it.
Not Vanessa.
Not Brianna.
Not even Maya.
I pulled the photograph of the finished gown closer.
The waistband was visible.
But I couldn't see the star.
"What's wrong?"" Maya asked.
I shook my head.
"The maker's mark.""
"What about it?""
"If Brianna claims she made this dress, she might not know it's there.""
Maya leaned forward.
"Then we need to inspect the actual gown.""
I called Brianna.
She rejected the call.
I sent a message.
I want my mother's lace back. We need to talk.
Three minutes later, she replied.
Stop harassing me. The dress is mine now.
Then she sent another photograph.
This one showed the inside of the gown.
The waistband had been turned inside out.
A small section of fabric had been cut away.
My hands began to shake.
She had found the maker's mark.
And she had deliberately removed it.
Maya stared at the screen.
"She knew.""
I couldn't answer.
My mother had sewn that little silver star with her own hands beside mine.
Brianna had cut it out.
I closed my eyes.
Then my phone rang.
The caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number.
I answered.
"Hello?""
A woman's professional voice came through.
"Is this Eleanor Bennett?""
"Yes.""
"My name is Patricia Hayes. I'm the director of the Halston Young Designers Scholarship.""
I sat up straight.
"Yes?""
"We've reviewed the ownership dispute involving your design.""
My heart pounded.
"Have you found something?""
There was a brief pause.
"Ms. Bennett, we have received a second submission of evidence. It was delivered anonymously this morning.""
"What's in it?""
"A series of photographs and a signed statement concerning the original wedding lace.""
I gripped the phone.
"Who sent it?""
Patricia lowered her voice.
"That's what concerns us. The person who submitted it claims that the dress was never made by either you or Brianna.""
I stared at Maya.
"What?""
Patricia continued.
"According to this statement, the gown was purchased from a private designer several years ago.""
My blood ran cold.
"That's impossible. I made it myself.""
"Then I suggest you come to our office immediately.""
"Why?""
May you like
Her next words changed everything.
"Because the person who submitted the statement is Vanessa Cole.""
