Chapter 3: The Woman Who Knew My Mother
I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father's face when Vanessa mentioned legal ownership.
By sunrise, I'd made a decision.
I was going to find out what my mother had left me, even if everyone in that house tried to stop me.
At seven thirty, I packed my sketchbook, the envelope, and a change of clothes into my backpack. My school uniform hung over the back of my chair, but I wore jeans and a sweater instead.
I needed to visit Mrs. Bell before school.
When I reached the shop, the front door was unlocked, though the sign still read CLOSED. Warm light spilled from the workroom, where the low hum of an industrial sewing machine filled the air.
Mrs. Bell sat behind it, guiding a piece of burgundy fabric beneath the needle.
She looked up when I entered.
"Nia? You're early.""
"I need to ask you something.""
She switched off the machine.
"That sounds serious.""
I took the photograph from my backpack and placed it on the cutting table.
"Did you know my mother?""
Mrs. Bell didn't move.
For several seconds, the only sound was a truck rumbling past the shop windows.
Then she removed her glasses.
"Where did you get this?""
"From a letter my father hid in my sketchbook.""
Her eyes dropped to the photograph again.
"Daniel kept that?""
"Apparently. He also told me Mom was a designer and that she left something called the Starfall collection.""
Mrs. Bell sat down slowly.
I pulled out the other pages.
"I need to know what it means.""
She studied the documents, her fingers resting on the photograph as if it were something fragile.
"Your mother was one of the most gifted designers I've ever known," she said.
"She could look at a scrap of fabric and see a finished garment. She understood how clothes moved with a body, how a seam could change a silhouette, how a single detail could make someone feel beautiful.""
I swallowed.
"Why did everyone tell me she was just a seamstress?""
"Because that was easier than explaining what happened.""
"What happened?""
Mrs. Bell looked toward the shop window.
"Elena and I met at a fashion apprenticeship when we were nineteen. We were broke, ambitious, and convinced we'd change the industry. We spent nights working in a studio above a laundromat, sharing sandwiches and arguing about hems.""
A small smile touched her mouth.
"Your mother designed a blue gown for our final showcase. It had a fitted bodice, a flowing skirt, and tiny gold stars embroidered along the cuffs. When the judges saw it, they stood up.""
I looked down at the fabric she'd given me.
"Starfall.""
"Yes.""
"Did she ever sell her designs?""
"Some. But she wanted to build her own label. She believed fashion should belong to the people who created it, not just the people who could afford to put their names on it.""
Mrs. Bell opened a drawer and took out a thin folder.
Inside were newspaper clippings, old photographs, and copies of design sketches.
One photograph showed my mother standing beside a runway model wearing a breathtaking silver dress.
Another showed a small group of designers gathered beneath a sign that read CARTER ATELIER.
I touched the photograph.
"She had her own studio?""
"For a while.""
"What happened to it?""
Mrs. Bell's expression darkened.
"Your mother became ill. She needed time away from the business, and she trusted people she shouldn't have trusted to manage her affairs.""
"Vanessa?""
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Mrs. Bell looked at me sharply.
"Why would you think that?""
"Because she knows about the collection. And she said I can't claim it.""
Mrs. Bell stood and walked to the back cabinet.
"Your mother didn't trust Vanessa," she said.
"In fact, Elena was deeply concerned about her long before you were old enough to understand why.""
She returned with a sealed envelope.
The paper was cream-colored, and my name was written across the front in my mother's handwriting.
Nia.
Just my name.
My knees felt weak.
"What's that?""
"Something Elena asked me to keep safe.""
I stared at the envelope.
"Why didn't you give it to me before?""
"Because your father asked me to wait until you turned eighteen. He said he needed time to settle the legal arrangements.""
"Did he?""
Mrs. Bell didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Inside was a letter and a small brass key.
The letter began:
My darling Nia,
If you're reading this, you're old enough to begin asking questions. I hope you've found something that makes your heart race the way a beautiful piece of fabric does for me.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
My mother had never spoken to me like this on paper. I had only a few cards she'd written when I was little, mostly reminders to eat breakfast and wear my coat.
I kept reading.
There is a difference between being taught to sew and being taught to see. Anyone can learn to guide a needle. But a designer must learn to see what a garment can become before the first cut is made.
Never let anyone convince you that your work is small simply because they cannot understand it.
Tears blurred the page.
Mrs. Bell quietly placed a box of tissues beside me.
I wiped my eyes and continued.
I have left you something that belongs to you. It is not a promise of success, and it will not make your life easy. It is a chance to build something honest.
When you are ready, use the key to open the drawer in the old Carter Atelier worktable. Margaret knows where to find it.
I looked up.
"Where is the worktable?""
Mrs. Bell's face had gone pale.
"Your mother's old studio was closed years ago. Most of the equipment was sold, but the worktable was kept in storage.""
"Where?""
"At a warehouse outside town.""
"Can we go there?""
She glanced at the clock.
"Not before school. And not without checking whether the storage agreement is still valid.""
I held up the key.
"Please.""
Mrs. Bell studied me for a long moment.
Then she reached for her phone.
"I'll make a call.""
While she spoke, I looked through the folder again. Beneath the photographs lay a clipping from a fashion magazine.
The headline read:
*ELENA CARTER'S STARFALL COLLECTION COULD CHANGE AMERICAN EVENINGWEAR.*
The article described my mother as a rising independent designer whose work had attracted interest from several major fashion houses.
At the bottom was a photograph of a man standing beside her.
He wore a dark suit and held a portfolio under one arm.
I recognized him immediately.
Daniel Carter.
My father.
He looked younger, confident, and proud.
He wasn't standing behind my mother.
He was standing beside her, beneath a banner bearing the name CARTER ATELIER.
When Mrs. Bell ended her call, I held up the clipping.
"Dad worked with her?""
Mrs. Bell sat opposite me.
"He helped manage the business. He understood contracts, and Elena trusted him more than anyone.""
"Then why did he let everything disappear?""
She folded her hands.
"Because your mother died before she could finish protecting the collection. There were documents that needed signatures, ownership records that needed updating, and people who saw an opportunity.""
"Who?""
Mrs. Bell hesitated.
"I can't prove everything I suspect. But I know that, shortly after Elena died, a company acquired the rights to several designs that were supposed to remain in your mother's estate.""
"Which company?""
She slid the magazine clipping toward me.
At the bottom of the page, beneath the article, was an advertisement for a luxury fashion house.
MITCHELL HOUSE.
My stepsister's surname.
I stared at the words.
"That's Brianna's family's company.""
"Yes," Mrs. Bell said quietly.
"Vanessa worked there for years before she married your father.""
My mouth went dry.
"You're saying she knew my mother professionally?""
"I am saying Vanessa knew exactly what Elena had created.""
My phone buzzed.
A message from Maya appeared on the screen.
Nia, you need to see this. Brianna just posted something about Friday's showcase.
I opened the link.
Brianna stood in front of a white backdrop, holding her trophy beside a rack of dresses. She wore a cream blazer and smiled into the camera.
"Winning the Young Designer Award has been an incredible experience," she said in the video.
"I'm excited to announce that I'm launching my own collection this Friday. It represents years of hard work, family inspiration, and a legacy I'm proud to carry forward.""
Behind her, a familiar midnight-blue gown hung beneath a clear garment cover.
Tiny gold stars glittered across its surface.
My stomach turned cold.
It was my design.
Not the teal dress she'd stolen.
The new dress I'd only begun sketching in my notebook the previous night, inspired by the fabric Mrs. Bell had given me.
Except I hadn't made it yet.
I hadn't even cut the material.
Someone had seen my sketches.
Someone had taken photographs of them, copied the design, and given Brianna a head start.
I turned toward Mrs. Bell.
"How could she have that?""
Mrs. Bell watched the video twice.
Then she reached for my sketchbook.
"Did you leave this unattended at home?""
"Vanessa was in my room. She went through everything.""
Mrs. Bell's jaw tightened.
"Then we have a problem.""
"No."" I stood, my hands shaking.
"We have proof that they're stealing my work.""
"Not yet," she warned.
"A copied design is difficult to establish without dated records and clear evidence of access. We need to protect what you still have.""
I opened the folder on the table.
"I have the original sketches. The photographs. The competition submission.""
"Good. Back them up somewhere Vanessa can't reach.""
Mrs. Bell pulled a notebook toward her.
"From now on, every drawing gets a date. Every version gets photographed. Every change gets documented. You don't hand your work to anyone without keeping a copy.""
I nodded, absorbing every word.
For the first time, an adult wasn't telling me to stop making trouble.
She was teaching me how to fight back.
Then Mrs. Bell made another call.
This time, when someone answered, she spoke in a low, urgent voice.
"It's Margaret Bell. I need access to the Carter Atelier storage unit. Today.""
She listened.
Her expression tightened.
"Who authorized the transfer?""
A pause.
"No, that cannot be right. Elena's daughter is the beneficiary.""
My heart hammered.
Mrs. Bell looked directly at me.
"What do you mean the contents were transferred to Mitchell House?""
She listened for another few seconds before slowly lowering the phone.
The room seemed to tilt around me.
"What happened?"" I whispered.
Mrs. Bell looked at the brass key in my hand.
"The worktable is gone," she said.
"And according to the storage company, someone signed for it three months ago.""
"Who?""
She closed her eyes briefly.
Then she turned the phone so I could see the name on the transfer record.
The signature was unmistakable.
Vanessa Mitchell.
And beneath it was a second signature, authorizing the release of every item in the unit.
Daniel Carter.
May you like
My father hadn't merely kept my mother's secret.
He had helped someone take it away from me.
