Chapter 2: Eight Hours to Create a Miracle
At 8:15 that morning, I had no dress, no competition outfit, and less than eight hours before registration closed.
At 8:17, I had a plan.
I spread the discarded clothes across my worktable.
My fingertips moved over each piece, identifying thickness, elasticity, and texture.
The denim was sturdy.
The yellow cotton was lightweight.
The purple lace had an intricate floral pattern.
The blue scarf was damaged along one edge, but the remaining fabric was soft and surprisingly luxurious.
I could make something.
Not a replacement for the red gown.
Something entirely different.
Something that could never be mistaken for Brielle's dress.
I began by cutting the denim into narrow petals.
I used a cardboard template with raised edges, tracing around it with a fabric marker designed for tactile work. Then I folded each petal and stitched a narrow line down its center.
The yellow cotton became the base of the skirt.
I layered the blue scarf over it, allowing the lighter material to move freely.
The purple lace went around the neckline and cuffs.
I worked slowly at first.
Then faster.
My sewing machine rattled beneath my hands.
Every few minutes, I stopped to check the tension.
A loose stitch could ruin the structure. A poorly secured bead could catch on another layer.
I had learned to recognize those problems through sound.
At ten, Mrs. Collins knocked.
“Maya? Are you awake?””
“Come in!””
She entered carrying two paper bags.
“I brought breakfast. And I thought I'd check on your dress.””
She stopped.
I heard the bags rustle.
“Where's the red gown?””
I kept stitching.
“Brielle is wearing it.””
There was a pause.
“What?””
“Vanessa gave it to her.””
Mrs. Collins set the bags down.
“That woman has finally lost her mind.””
“Please don't get upset.””
“I'm not upset. I'm furious.””
She pulled out a chair.
“Have you called your father?””
I shook my head.
“He'll believe Vanessa.””
“Has he even seen your original design?””
“He saw the sketches.””
“Then show him.””
I reached for the phone beside my machine.
My fingers found the screen and activated the voice assistant.
Before I could call, a notification sounded.
It was a message from my father.
Vanessa tells me you're making a scene about Brielle's dress. Please don't ruin her big day. We need this family to get along.
I read the message using the screen reader.
Then I placed the phone face down.
Mrs. Collins exhaled sharply.
“Richard knows nothing.””
“He knows enough to choose silence.””
She didn't argue.
Instead, she moved closer to the sewing table.
“What can I do?””
“Nothing yet. But could you check the front of the skirt when I finish the first layer? I want to make sure the proportions are balanced.””
“Of course.””
She stayed.
While I worked, she described the shape of the fabric whenever I asked. I didn't need her to make decisions for me. I needed someone to confirm the overall silhouette.
By noon, the skirt was taking shape.
I had transformed the denim petals into a cascading pattern that started at the left hip and flowed diagonally toward the lower hem.
The yellow cotton gave the skirt warmth.
The blue scarf added movement.
The purple lace created contrast around the neckline.
I called the design Midnight Garden.
It was not the kind of gown I had originally planned.
It was better in a way I hadn't expected.
At twelve-thirty, my phone rang.
Brielle.
I answered.
“Well?”” she asked.
“Hello to you too.””
“Mom says you're still making a fuss.””
“Why are you calling?””
“I wanted to make something clear. Don't tell anyone you made my dress.””
I stopped stitching.
“Your dress?””
“Yes. The red one.””
“You mean the dress I made?””
Brielle laughed.
“Maya, you can't seriously think anyone will take your word over mine.””
“I have the original sketches.””
“Anyone can draw a sketch.””
“I have the fabric receipts.””
“Mom paid for most of the materials.””
I felt my fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
“That doesn't make the design yours.””
“Look, I'm trying to be nice. The judges will ask me questions. I'll answer them. You should just stay home.””
Then she added, almost casually:
“Oh, and don't expect Dad to defend you. He knows how difficult you've been lately.””
The call ended.
I sat still for several seconds.
Mrs. Collins had heard enough.
“She actually thinks she can get away with it?””
I returned to the machine.
“She can try.””
At two, I began the bodice.
This was the most delicate part.
I used the strongest remaining section of the blue scarf, reinforced it with cotton lining, and stitched the purple lace over the neckline.
Then I added the denim petals by hand.
Each one had to be positioned precisely.
I used small knots at the back of every stitch so I could feel where the pattern began and ended.
At three-thirty, the gown was almost finished.
I reached for the box where I kept my mother's silver crescent charm.
My fingers searched the familiar velvet lining.
Empty.
I checked again.
Then I turned the box upside down.
Nothing fell out.
My breathing changed.
I had placed the charm inside the box two nights earlier.
I was certain.
“Mrs. Collins?””
“Yes, sweetheart?””
“Did you see a small silver moon charm?””
She searched the table.
“No. Is it important?””
“It belonged to my mother.””
I touched the velvet lining.
The charm was gone.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I was eleven again, sitting beside my mother while she explained why she kept tiny treasures.
“Some things are valuable because they remind us who we are,” she had said.
I stood.
“I need to find it.””
Mrs. Collins suggested checking the sewing room floor, but we found nothing.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
A woman's professional voice came through.
“Good afternoon. This is the competition registration office. We're calling to confirm your attendance.””
“Yes. I'll be there.””
“Excellent. One more thing, Ms. Carter. We received a request to change the designer information on your entry.””
My hand stopped moving.
“What change?””
“The original submission listed Maya Carter as the designer. Someone contacted us this morning requesting that the entry be transferred to Brielle Carter.””
My stomach dropped.
“Who made that request?””
“The person identified herself as Vanessa Carter. She said you had withdrawn because of a personal emergency.””
I gripped the phone.
“I did not withdraw.””
There was a pause.
“That's what we thought. We received a second message from your registered email address confirming the withdrawal.””
“I didn't send it.””
“Then we need you to come in person. Bring your original registration confirmation and any supporting documents.””
“I will.””
After the call, I stood silently.
Vanessa hadn't merely stolen my dress.
She had tried to steal my identity as its designer.
Mrs. Collins touched my shoulder.
“Can you prove it?””
I nodded.
“My original sketches are backed up in my mother's old computer. And I have the confirmation email.””
“Then we'll take them.””
I returned to the sewing table.
At four-thirty, I finished the final seam.
At four-forty, I attached the last denim petal.
At four-fifty, I carefully ran my hands over the entire gown.
The fabric moved like water.
The neckline was delicate, but the bodice was strong.
The skirt had weight without being heavy.
And every single stitch was mine.
Mrs. Collins helped me put it on.
When she finished fastening the back, she went quiet.
“What?”” I asked.
“Nothing.””
“Mrs. Collins.””
She laughed softly.
“I'm trying not to cry. You look extraordinary.””
I touched the skirt.
“Is it balanced?””
“Perfectly.””
I smiled.
Then she handed me my cane.
We were leaving when my phone rang again.
This time, it was my father.
“Maya, where are you going?””
“To the competition.””
“Vanessa says you're planning to accuse Brielle of stealing her dress.””
“It's my dress, Dad.””
“Please don't do this today.””
“Why?””
“Because the judges have already seen Brielle's submission. If you create a scandal now, you'll embarrass everyone.””
I stood beside the front door.
“Did you know she submitted my design under her name?””
Silence.
“Dad?””
He finally answered.
“Vanessa told me Brielle had made some improvements to your old design.””
My throat tightened.
“Improvements?””
“I'm just asking you to be reasonable.””
“Then answer one question. Did you ever see me working on that red dress?””
Another silence.
Then he said, “Maya, we'll discuss this later.””
He hung up.
Mrs. Collins opened the car door.
I got inside.
As we pulled away, I heard my phone vibrate again.
An email notification.
The subject line made my blood run cold.
*OFFICIAL COMPETITION UPDATE: ENTRY OWNERSHIP DISPUTE — REQUIRED DOCUMENTATION.*
I opened it.
The message contained one sentence:
Your original entry has been temporarily suspended pending verification of authorship.
May you like
And beneath it was the name of the person who had requested the suspension.
Vanessa Carter.
