Chapter 2: The Sketchbook That Changed Everything
Margaret Hayes took my sketchbook with both hands.
It was an ordinary black notebook, its corners worn from months of being carried between school, the library, and my bedroom. A strip of faded blue ribbon marked the page containing my original gown design.
Brielle stared at it as though I had brought a weapon onto the stage.
“That's mine,” she blurted.
I turned toward her.
“You've never even touched this notebook.””
“I've seen it in the sewing room.””
“Looking at something doesn't make it yours.””
Vanessa stepped closer to the judges' table.
“Emily has been emotionally unstable since her mother's death. She has always struggled with the idea that Brielle is more naturally talented.””
I felt heat crawl up my neck.
She had used my mother's death against me before, usually when she wanted to silence a complaint.
This time, Margaret closed the sketchbook and looked directly at Vanessa.
“Mrs. Miller, if you have evidence that your stepdaughter fabricated these allegations, you're welcome to present it. Until then, I suggest you allow the committee to examine the materials.””
Vanessa's mouth tightened.
Brielle reached for the notebook.
A security guard moved it out of her reach.
“Don't touch the evidence, miss.””
The word evidence changed the atmosphere.
Until then, several people in the audience had been whispering as if they were watching an unpleasant family argument. Now they leaned forward, their attention fixed on the judges' table.
Margaret opened the notebook to the marked page.
My original design was drawn in pencil. The bodice featured a sculpted waist, one asymmetrical shoulder, and a rising trail of silver butterflies.
Beside the drawing, my mother had written a note years earlier, when she was helping me learn to develop a design from a rough sketch.
Let the movement lead the eye. Beauty should never look trapped.
Below it, in my own handwriting, was the date I had completed the design.
March 14.
Brielle's submission, according to the program displayed beside her name, had been registered on March 28.
Margaret examined the pages.
“Miss Miller, why does your stepsister's notebook contain the original construction notes for your gown?””
Brielle shook her head quickly.
“I don't know. She must have copied them from somewhere.””
I almost laughed.
“From where? The notebook has been in my locked drawer since March.””
Vanessa folded her arms.
“Then perhaps someone gave Brielle access to the room. That proves nothing.””
Margaret turned another page.
“Who is the registered designer on your submission, Brielle?””
“Me.””
“Did you personally draw the initial sketches?””
“Yes.””
“Did you construct the garment?””
“Yes.””
The answers came too quickly.
Margaret set the notebook down.
“Then you should have no difficulty explaining the design decisions.””
Brielle's expression stiffened.
“Which decisions?””
Margaret pointed to the butterfly pattern.
“Why does the arrangement rise diagonally instead of spreading symmetrically across the bodice?””
Brielle glanced at her gown.
“Because it looks better.””
“That's an aesthetic judgment. I'm asking about the construction.””
Brielle looked at Vanessa again.
My stepmother gave her a tiny shake of the head, almost imperceptible from where I stood.
Margaret noticed.
“Please answer without assistance.””
Brielle's cheeks reddened.
“I wanted the butterflies to look like they were flying.””
“An understandable choice,” Margaret said.
“And why did you use a reinforced diagonal seam beneath the shoulder?””
Brielle hesitated.
I knew why.
The gown's unusual structure had been my solution to a problem I encountered during the second month of construction. The fabric was beautiful but too heavy to hold the silver appliqués without pulling the bodice out of shape.
I had tested six different seam configurations before finding one that distributed the weight properly.
It was a technical decision, not a decorative one.
Brielle had copied the visible design but not the process.
“I don't remember,” she finally said.
Margaret made a note.
I watched Brielle's confidence crumble, but I felt no satisfaction. I wanted the truth to be enough. I wanted someone to look at what I had made and recognize the work behind it.
Then another judge, a broad-shouldered man with reading glasses, lifted a document from the folder in front of him.
“There's something else,” he said.
He introduced himself as Daniel Price, the committee's technical director.
“Both submissions include an identical handwritten notation on the inner construction sheet.””
He held up two photocopies.
I leaned forward.
The notation was tiny, written in the margin beside the shoulder seam.
Reduce the left panel by three-eighths of an inch after the second fitting.
My mother's handwriting.
She had written it on an old pattern when I was fourteen, helping me adjust a dress I had made for a school recital. I had later copied the note into my design notebook as a reminder of how to correct the same problem.
Brielle's submission contained the exact same wording.
Not similar wording.
The same sentence, down to the unusual measurement and the placement of the note.
Daniel looked at Brielle.
“Can you explain this?””
She stared at the papers.
“I must have written it down while studying fashion techniques.””
“Where did you study this particular technique?””
“Online.””
“Which source?””
Brielle's silence stretched.
Vanessa suddenly reached into her handbag.
“I have documentation proving Brielle developed this design.””
She pulled out a cream-colored envelope and placed it on the table.
Inside were printed sketches, a typed design statement, and a declaration bearing my signature.
My stomach dropped.
I knew the signature before Margaret even unfolded the page.
It was mine.
Or something pretending to be mine.
The declaration stated that I had collaborated with Brielle on the gown and voluntarily transferred all design rights to her.
At the bottom was a date, followed by a signature that looked close enough to deceive someone who had never watched me write.
Margaret studied it.
“Emily, did you sign this document?””
“No.””
Vanessa gave a disappointed sigh.
“Don't make this worse for yourself.””
I looked straight at her.
“Who forged my signature?””
Her face hardened.
“Be careful with accusations.””
Daniel examined the declaration.
“Mrs. Miller, this document appears to be a central part of your daughter's submission. Where did it come from?””
“It was prepared to clarify their collaboration.””
“What collaboration?””
“Emily helped with early concepts. Brielle developed the final design.””
“That isn't true,” I said.
Vanessa turned to the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry you have been dragged into this. Emily is upset because she believes her sister's success diminishes her own.””
Then she looked at me, and her voice dropped.
“You can still walk away. Tell them you misunderstood. We'll discuss the scholarship later.””
The threat was unmistakable.
If I withdrew my accusation, she would offer me something.
If I didn't, she would make sure I lost everything.
I looked at the ruined scraps of fabric still caught in the hem of my gown.
Then I looked at the silver butterflies I had salvaged one by one.
“No,” I said.
“I'm not walking away.””
Margaret turned to the other judges.
“We need to suspend the evaluation of both entries until we can verify the records.””
Brielle suddenly burst into tears.
“She stole everything from me!”” she cried.
“She always does this! She wants people to think I'm a fraud because she can't stand that I'm better than her.””
She reached toward my gown and grabbed the silver butterfly attached near my shoulder.
The delicate stitching snapped.
I stumbled backward as the ornament fell to the floor.
“Don't touch me!”” I shouted.
The security guard immediately stepped between us.
Brielle stood trembling, her hands clenched at her sides.
Vanessa wrapped an arm around her.
“Look what you've done,” she told me.
“You've humiliated your own family.””
I bent down and picked up the broken butterfly.
“No,” I said quietly.
“You did that yourselves.””
Margaret asked security to escort Vanessa and Brielle away from the judges' table while the committee secured the documents.
As they turned to leave, Vanessa leaned toward me.
“You think you've won something today?””
I didn't answer.
She smiled without warmth.
“Ask your father what happened to your mother's original design portfolio.””
My blood ran cold.
My father had told me that the portfolio was lost after my mother died.
But Vanessa's words suggested something else.
Something deliberate.
I waited until she was out of earshot, then called my father.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Emily? I'm in a meeting. What's wrong?””
“Dad, I need you to tell me the truth about Mom's portfolio.””
Silence.
Then I heard a chair scrape against the floor.
“Where did you hear about that?””
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Vanessa just told me to ask you.””
May you like
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then, in a voice I barely recognized, he whispered, “Emily, don't go home with them tonight.””
