Chapter 1: The Dress They Stole
The girl standing beneath the auditorium lights was wearing my dress, holding my award, and smiling as if she had earned every stitch.
And the woman applauding loudest was my stepmother, Vanessa, who had spent three years telling me that my dreams were a waste of money.
I stood at the back of Westbrook High's auditorium, my hands trembling inside the pockets of my faded jeans, while three hundred people watched my stepsister accept an award for a creation she hadn't made.
The teal gown glittered beneath the spotlights.
Tiny silver beads traced the neckline. Layers of translucent fabric swept across the floor. Along the waist, almost invisible unless someone knew where to look, ran a single strand of silver thread.
My signature.
I'd sewn it there at two in the morning on a Tuesday, pricking my thumb so many times that little red dots had stained the scraps beneath my sewing table.
Every inch of that dress belonged to me.
"Please welcome this year's Young Designer Award winner," the announcer said, "Brianna Mitchell!""
The auditorium erupted.
Brianna pressed one hand against her chest and accepted the crystal trophy with the kind of surprised expression people practiced in mirrors.
"I'm honestly speechless," she told the audience.
"Fashion has always been my passion. I put my whole heart into this design.""
My fingernails dug into my palms.
Onstage, the judges smiled.
One of them, a woman wearing a cream blazer, leaned toward Brianna.
"The construction is extraordinary," she said into her microphone.
"Especially the hand-finished beading. You have a remarkable eye for detail.""
Brianna lowered her head modestly.
"Thank you. I worked really hard.""
I couldn't breathe.
Three weeks earlier, I'd submitted photographs of that exact gown to the competition under my own name. I'd included close-ups of the stitching, sketches of the original design, and a statement describing the inspiration behind the colors.
The application confirmation sat in my email.
I had the sketches.
I had the photographs.
I had the dress's unfinished lining in my bedroom, where I'd left it the night Vanessa called me downstairs to help prepare dinner for a family gathering.
And now Brianna was accepting my award.
When the ceremony ended, I pushed through the crowd.
"Brianna!""
She turned near the stage, the trophy tucked against her waist. Her smile disappeared when she saw me.
"What?""
"Where did you get my dress?""
A few students nearby stopped talking.
Brianna glanced at the gown, then back at me.
"Don't start.""
"You stole it.""
Her eyes narrowed.
"Keep your voice down, Nia.""
"You entered my design into the competition. You used my photographs. You took the dress out of my room.""
Brianna's expression hardened. She shifted the trophy into one hand and used the other to straighten the silver beading at her hip.
"You left it where I could use it," she said.
"That sounds like your problem.""
I stared at her.
"You knew how long I worked on that.""
"And you know how long I've been trying to get people to take me seriously."" She stepped closer.
"Nobody cares about your little sewing hobby. I actually know how to present myself.""
"You didn't design it.""
"Prove it.""
The words landed like a slap.
Before I could answer, Vanessa appeared beside us, carrying her expensive leather handbag and wearing the satisfied smile she'd worn all evening.
"What's going on here?""
"Your daughter stole my design," I said.
Vanessa's smile vanished.
"Not this again.""
"She submitted my dress under her name.""
"Then perhaps you should have protected your work better.""
I blinked at her.
"You watched me make it.""
"And I watched you neglect your responsibilities because of it."" Vanessa lowered her voice, but not enough to keep the nearby students from hearing.
"Your father works himself sick to provide for this family, and this is how you repay us? By creating a scene at a school function?""
Brianna looked down at the trophy, hiding a smile.
"Mom, it's okay," she said sweetly.
"Nia's probably upset because she didn't win.""
That was the moment something inside me cracked.
Not because Brianna had lied.
Because Vanessa knew the truth and was helping her bury it.
"Give me my dress," I whispered.
Brianna laughed.
"It's mine now.""
Vanessa grabbed my wrist.
"Apologize to your sister.""
I pulled away.
"She's not my sister.""
The surrounding conversation stopped.
Vanessa's face changed. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her handbag.
"Say something like that again," she said quietly, "and I'll make sure you have nothing left to complain about.""
I looked at her.
She wasn't bluffing.
She'd already taken away my father's permission to buy fabric, cut my monthly allowance, and threatened to sell my sewing supplies. My sewing machine was the only thing I owned that had ever felt entirely mine.
Still, I refused to apologize.
I walked out of the auditorium before either of them could see me cry.
Outside, the October air bit through my thin jacket. Students spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing and taking pictures beneath the school's glowing sign.
I sat on a concrete bench and stared at my hands.
There were tiny calluses along my fingers from guiding fabric beneath a needle. A faint scar crossed my right thumb.
Evidence of hours nobody had witnessed.
Evidence of work that apparently meant nothing.
My phone vibrated.
Maya: Where are you? I can't find you.
I typed three words.
They stole everything.
She called immediately.
"Nia?"" Maya's voice was soft.
"Talk to me.""
I tried to answer, but my throat closed.
"I'm outside," I managed.
"Stay there. I'm coming.""
Five minutes later, Maya appeared in a gray hoodie, her dark curls escaping from a loose ponytail. She sat beside me without asking questions and took my freezing hands between hers.
"They gave Brianna the award," I whispered.
Maya went still.
"For your dress?""
I nodded.
"And Vanessa knew?""
"She told me to apologize.""
Maya looked toward the auditorium doors. For a moment, I thought she'd march inside and tear the trophy out of Brianna's hands.
Instead, she turned back to me.
"Listen carefully," she said.
"They stole a dress. They stole a trophy. They did not steal your talent.""
"They can do whatever they want. Vanessa owns the house. She controls the money. Dad never takes my side because he says keeping the peace is more important.""
"Then we'll find another way.""
I gave a bitter laugh.
"With what machine? With what fabric?""
Maya didn't answer immediately.
Then she stood and held out her hand.
"Come with me.""
"Where?""
"Somewhere people actually understand what making something costs.""
She led me downtown to Bell & Thread, a narrow fabric shop wedged between a bakery and an old bookstore. A brass bell chimed above the door, and the warm scent of cotton, cedar, and fresh coffee wrapped around us.
Behind the counter stood a silver-haired woman with round glasses.
Mrs. Bell had taught weekend sewing classes for years. I'd met her once during a school workshop, and she'd remembered the name I signed on the corner of my sketchbook.
"Nia Carter," she said, looking up.
"What brings you here so late?""
Maya answered before I could.
"Someone stole Nia's design and won a competition with it.""
Mrs. Bell's expression changed.
"Who?""
"My stepsister.""
Mrs. Bell removed her glasses and folded them carefully.
"Tell me everything.""
So I did.
I told her about the stolen gown, the award, and Vanessa's threat. I showed her the photographs saved on my phone and the sketches I'd uploaded to the competition portal.
Mrs. Bell studied each image without interrupting.
When I finished, she walked to a locked cabinet at the back of the shop.
"You said the competition ends Friday?""
"The final showcase is Friday night," I answered.
"But I don't have a machine anymore.""
Mrs. Bell unlocked the cabinet.
Inside were bolts of fabric I'd only ever seen in expensive fashion magazines: midnight velvet, pearl-white satin, sheer organza threaded with metallic gold.
She pulled out a length of deep-blue fabric covered in tiny gold stars.
"This has been waiting for the right hands," she said.
I touched the material.
It felt like cool water beneath my fingertips.
"I can't afford this.""
"I didn't ask you to buy it.""
My eyes burned.
Mrs. Bell placed the fabric on the counter.
"There's an industrial machine in the workroom. You can use it whenever I'm here. I'll help with supplies, too, but I'm not making the dress for you.""
"I wouldn't ask you to.""
"Good."" She smiled faintly.
"Because I want to see what you do when nobody is standing over you telling you what you're allowed to become.""
For the first time that evening, I felt something other than humiliation.
Possibility.
I left the shop with a borrowed pattern book, a bundle of gold-threaded fabric, and Maya's hand wrapped around mine.
The bus ride home was quiet.
When I stepped into our house, I knew something was wrong immediately.
Vanessa stood beside my sewing table.
My drawers were open. Spools of thread littered the floor. My sketchbooks had been stacked in a cardboard box.
And the space where my sewing machine had stood for five years was empty.
Vanessa lifted her chin.
"Looking for something?""
I stared at the bare tabletop.
"Where is it?""
"Somewhere it won't interfere with your education.""
"You took my machine?""
"I told you what would happen if you embarrassed this family again.""
Behind her, Brianna appeared at the top of the stairs, still wearing the award-night makeup that made her look older.
She held up her phone.
"Mom, should I post the pictures now?""
Vanessa glanced at her.
"Not yet. Wait until Friday.""
Brianna grinned and disappeared upstairs.
I turned slowly toward my stepmother.
"Post what pictures?""
Vanessa's smile returned.
"The ones that will finally teach you to stop pretending you're a designer.""
Then she picked up my cardboard box of sketchbooks and dropped it at my feet.
The box split open.
My drawings scattered across the hardwood.
One sheet slid beneath Vanessa's shoe.
She stepped on it deliberately.
"Clean that up before your father gets home.""
I knelt to gather the pages, my hands shaking.
And when I turned over the last sketchbook, I found a folded envelope tucked inside the back cover.
My father's handwriting was on the front.
So was a date from six years earlier.
May you like
Inside, someone had written a sentence that made me forget about the missing machine entirely.
*If Nia ever discovers who her mother really was, Vanessa must never be allowed to explain it first.*
