Chapter 2: The Secret Inside the Sketchbook
I read the sentence three times.
The paper trembled between my fingers, its edges yellowed and soft from years of being folded.
If Nia ever discovers who her mother really was, Vanessa must never be allowed to explain it first.
My mother's name was Elena Carter.
She'd died when I was eleven, leaving behind a handful of photographs, a silver thimble, and memories that grew less vivid every year.
As far as I knew, she'd been a quiet woman who worked as a seamstress from home. She'd made dresses for neighbors, altered wedding gowns, and taught me how to thread a needle before I could properly tie my shoes.
Vanessa had always called her ordinary.
"Your mother was a talented little seamstress," she'd once told me.
"But talent doesn't pay the bills.""
I had never questioned it.
Now I stood on my bedroom floor, surrounded by my scattered sketches, holding a letter that suggested my mother had been something else entirely.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
I shoved the envelope into my pocket just as Vanessa appeared in the doorway.
"Are you deaf?"" she demanded.
"I told you to clean this up.""
I glanced at the drawing beneath her heel.
It was a sketch of the teal gown—the original version, with notes about the beadwork and a small correction I'd made to the waistline.
"Move your foot.""
Vanessa looked down.
"Excuse me?""
"You're standing on my design.""
She deliberately pressed her heel harder against the paper.
"Your designs are the reason you're failing to understand what matters in life.""
I rose slowly.
"Where did you put my machine?""
"In storage.""
"Where?""
"Why? Planning to make another dress and accuse Brianna of stealing that one, too?""
I clenched my jaw.
"Give it back.""
Vanessa stepped into my room and closed the door behind her.
"Let me explain something to you, Nia. Your father has been struggling to keep this family afloat. Brianna has opportunities, and she knows how to use them. You spend your nights hunched over fabric, imagining that someone will discover you and carry you into a glamorous life.""
She picked up a sketch from the floor.
"Look at this. Who would pay for something like that?""
"People who appreciate design.""
Vanessa tore the paper down the middle.
The sound was small.
The damage wasn't.
I stared at the two halves in her hands.
"You're destroying my work.""
"I'm helping you grow up.""
She dropped the pieces into the cardboard box.
"Finish cleaning. And don't mention that ridiculous competition again.""
When she left, I waited until her footsteps faded before unfolding the envelope.
There were three pages inside.
The first was a handwritten letter from my father, dated six years earlier.
Vanessa,
I know what Elena left for Nia. I know you believe protecting the family means keeping the truth buried, but that decision belongs to Nia when she's old enough.
I promised Elena I'd tell her everything before her eighteenth birthday.
Please don't make me choose between keeping my promise and keeping this house peaceful.
The letter ended abruptly.
No signature.
No explanation of what Elena had left.
I turned to the second page.
It was a photocopy of a business document.
At the top, in bold lettering, were the words:
*ELENA CARTER — ORIGINAL DESIGN ARCHIVE*
Beneath that was a list of registered sketches, photographs, and garment patterns. The final entry was dated three months before my mother's death.
Starfall Collection — Midnight Blue Series.
My breath caught.
Starfall.
The name I'd given the dress I planned to create for Friday's showcase.
I'd chosen it because of the tiny gold stars on the fabric.
I hadn't known my mother had used the same name.
The third page was a photograph.
My mother stood in a bright studio, younger than I remembered her, wearing a cream blouse with her dark hair pinned behind her head. Behind her stood a tall woman holding a fashion portfolio.
The woman wore a silver necklace shaped like a needle.
I turned the photograph over.
Written on the back were four words.
Elena and Margaret Bell.
Mrs. Bell.
The owner of the fabric shop.
I stared at the picture until my eyes blurred.
Why had my mother never mentioned knowing her?
And what had she left for me?
I slipped the pages into my backpack and called Maya.
She answered on the second ring.
"Hey. Are you home?""
"Yes.""
"How bad was it?""
I looked at the empty sewing table.
"She took my machine. But that's not why I'm calling.""
I told Maya about the envelope.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked, "What do you want to do?""
"Ask my dad.""
"Tonight?""
"Tonight.""
"Nia, if Vanessa's hiding something, she may not let you get a straight answer.""
"Then I'll ask him when she's not around.""
Maya paused.
"Send me a picture of the letter. I'll keep a copy in case anything happens to yours.""
I photographed every page and sent them to her.
Then I went downstairs.
My father, Daniel Carter, sat at the kitchen table with his reading glasses perched on his nose. His work boots were beside the door, and his company jacket hung over a chair.
He looked exhausted.
He'd worked as a building inspector for nearly twenty years, leaving before sunrise and often returning after dark. Since marrying Vanessa, he'd become quieter, more careful with his words.
When I was younger, he'd sat beside my bed and listened to me describe the dresses I'd make when I grew up.
Lately, he'd barely looked at my sketches.
"Dad?""
He looked up.
"What's wrong?""
I placed the envelope on the table.
"What's this?""
The color drained from his face.
He glanced toward the staircase.
"Where did you find that?""
"In my sketchbook.""
He reached for it, but I put my hand over the pages.
"No. You have to tell me first.""
"Nia—"
"Who was Mom really?""
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
I sat across from him.
"Was she famous?""
"No.""
"Did she own a business?""
He rubbed his forehead.
"Your mother was a designer. A very good one.""
"You told me she made clothes for neighbors.""
"She did.""
"Why didn't you tell me more?""
"Because after she died, everything became complicated.""
I pushed the photograph toward him.
"Who is Margaret Bell?""
He stared at the picture for a long time.
"Your mother's closest friend.""
"Then why did you never take me to her shop?""
His silence answered more than his words could have.
"What's Starfall?"" I asked.
My father sat back.
"Your mother was working on a collection when she got sick. She wanted to build a fashion label around it, but she never finished the legal arrangements.""
"Did she leave it to me?""
He looked at me sharply.
"Who told you that?""
"The letter.""
His hands tightened around the edge of the table.
"That letter wasn't meant for you to find yet.""
"Yet? I'm seventeen, Dad. My stepsister just stole my dress and won an award with it.
Vanessa threatened to destroy everything I own. And now I find out Mom left something behind that nobody thought I deserved to know about.""
He lowered his eyes.
"I never said you didn't deserve it.""
"Then why did you let Vanessa take my machine?""
His face crumpled for a moment.
I waited for him to stand up, march upstairs, and demand that Vanessa return it.
Instead, he whispered, "I was trying to keep things from getting worse.""
"For whom?""
He had no answer.
A door slammed upstairs.
Vanessa's voice floated down the staircase.
"Daniel? Who are you talking to?""
My father immediately gathered the papers.
"Nia, go upstairs.""
"No.""
"Please.""
The word sounded like a plea from someone who had already surrendered.
I stood.
"Tell me one thing. Does Vanessa know what Mom left me?""
He didn't respond quickly enough.
My stomach tightened.
"Dad?""
He finally looked at me.
"She knows your mother owned something valuable.""
"What?""
Before he could answer, Vanessa entered the kitchen.
She wore a silk robe and carried a glass of water. Her gaze moved from my face to the envelope in my father's hands.
For one fraction of a second, fear crossed her expression.
Then she smiled.
"Well," she said, setting down her glass.
"I wondered when you'd find that.""
My father stood abruptly.
"Vanessa, not now.""
She ignored him.
"Your mother had a habit of leaving unfinished business behind.""
I stepped toward her.
"What did she leave me?""
Vanessa tilted her head.
"Nothing you could handle.""
"That's not your decision.""
Her smile disappeared.
"Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea whose decision it is.""
She turned to my father.
"Daniel, tell her what happens if she tries to claim the Starfall collection.""
My father stared at the table.
Vanessa leaned closer to me.
"Go ahead, Nia. Ask him who legally owns your mother's designs.""
I looked at my father.
He said nothing.
May you like
And in that silence, I realized the secret wasn't simply that my mother had been a designer.
It was that someone had made sure I could never become one.
