Chapter 4: My Father's Signature
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything except the ticking clock above Mrs. Bell's worktable.
My father's signature stared back at me from the transfer record.
Daniel Carter.
The same man who had taught me to ride a bicycle. The same man who had held my hand at my mother's funeral and promised that no one would ever take her memory away from me.
He had signed away her work.
"There's been a mistake," I whispered.
Mrs. Bell didn't look convinced.
"The warehouse manager confirmed the paperwork, Nia. The entire storage unit was transferred to Mitchell House three months ago.""
"Maybe Dad thought he was signing something else.""
"Then we need to ask him.""
I snatched the photograph of the transfer record and sent it to Maya.
Her response came almost immediately.
I'm coming over. Don't confront Vanessa alone.
But I couldn't wait.
Three months ago, Vanessa had begun asking me strange questions about my sketches. She'd wanted to know which designs I'd entered into competitions, whether I kept digital copies, and whether I planned to study fashion after graduation.
I'd assumed she was looking for another reason to criticize me.
Now I wondered if she'd been checking whether I knew what my mother had left behind.
I shoved the letter and the transfer record into my backpack.
"Can I use your sewing machine tonight?"" I asked Mrs. Bell.
"Of course.""
"And can I keep the fabric?""
"It's yours.""
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Thank you.""
Mrs. Bell reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
"Your mother once told me that a person who steals your work is hoping you'll become too ashamed to claim it. Don't give them that satisfaction.""
I nodded, then hurried home.
When I entered the kitchen, Vanessa was pouring coffee into a porcelain mug. Brianna sat at the counter scrolling through her phone, her trophy positioned beside her like a decoration.
My father stood near the refrigerator, fastening his work shirt.
All three looked at me.
Vanessa's eyes immediately dropped to my backpack.
"Where have you been?""
"At Mrs. Bell's shop.""
The coffee pot stopped halfway to Vanessa's mug.
"Why?""
"Because I wanted to ask her about my mother.""
My father turned around.
"Nia, we talked about this.""
"No, Dad. You told me to go upstairs. Then Vanessa walked in and threatened me. That's not a conversation.""
Brianna rolled her eyes.
"Here we go again.""
I ignored her and pulled out the transfer record.
"Did you sign this?""
My father's face changed.
Vanessa set down the coffee pot.
"Where did you get that?""
"That's not what I asked.""
I held the paper toward him.
"Did you sign away Mom's studio?""
He didn't take it.
"Let me explain.""
"Then explain.""
Vanessa stepped between us.
"This is an adult business matter. You have no idea what you're looking at.""
"I know the warehouse released Mom's belongings to Mitchell House.""
"Your mother left debts," Vanessa snapped.
"Her business was failing, and someone had to deal with the consequences.""
"Mrs. Bell said the collection had attracted major fashion houses.""
"Margaret Bell is a bitter old woman who never accomplished anything herself.""
"She was Mom's business partner.""
Vanessa's fingers tightened around her mug.
"And look where that partnership got your mother.""
The room went silent.
My father stared at Vanessa.
"That's enough.""
She turned toward him.
"Don't start pretending you have the moral high ground, Daniel. You signed the documents, too.""
I looked at him.
"Why?""
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"Your mother's estate was complicated. There were outstanding expenses, legal fees, and agreements that needed to be settled.""
"So you sold her designs?""
"I didn't sell them.""
"Then what did you sign?""
He looked toward Vanessa.
That was all the answer I needed.
Brianna slid off her stool and picked up her trophy.
"Can we please stop talking about dead people and old dresses? I have a collection to launch on Friday.""
I turned toward her.
"You have my design to launch on Friday.""
She lifted her chin.
"You have no proof.""
"I have the original sketches.""
"Then show them to the judges.""
"I will.""
Brianna's smile faded.
Vanessa stepped forward so quickly that I instinctively backed away.
"You will do nothing of the sort.""
"Why? Afraid they'll recognize the work?""
"Afraid you'll destroy what's left of this family.""
I laughed once, without humor.
"You destroyed it when you helped her steal from me.""
Vanessa reached for my backpack.
I jerked it away.
"Give me that.""
"No.""
"Those papers don't belong to you.""
"Neither did Mom's designs.""
For the first time, Vanessa lost control of her expression completely.
Her face twisted with anger.
"Your mother was a sentimental fool," she hissed.
"She thought she could build an empire from scraps of fabric and pretty drawings. She couldn't. She died, and the world moved on.""
My father slammed his hand against the counter.
"Vanessa!""
But the damage was done.
I looked at him, waiting for him to tell her she was wrong.
Instead, he turned to me.
"Go to your room, Nia.""
I stared at him.
"You heard what she said.""
"Please don't make this worse.""
Something inside me went quiet.
Not broken.
Quiet.
I picked up my backpack and walked toward the stairs.
Behind me, Vanessa called out, "And don't bother taking that fabric to school. If you think you're making another dress, you're mistaken.""
I stopped on the bottom step.
Then I turned.
"You can take my machine. You can take the worktable. You can even take the things Mom left behind.""
Vanessa folded her arms.
"But you can't make me believe I don't deserve to create something of my own.""
I went upstairs without waiting for an answer.
Inside my bedroom, I locked the door and pulled out my phone.
Maya was already calling.
"Tell me you're okay," she said.
"I'm not.""
"Do you want me to come over?""
"No. I need you to do something else.""
I explained what had happened and asked her to help me secure copies of every photograph, sketch, and competition submission I had.
"Send everything to my email," she said.
"I'll put it on a separate drive and make a backup.""
"And Maya?""
"Yeah?""
"If anything happens to me or my files, don't let them disappear.""
Her voice softened.
"They won't.""
I spent the next hour photographing every sketch I still had, including the torn pieces Vanessa had stepped on. I recorded the dates of each design and gathered the competition confirmation emails.
At the bottom of my backpack, I found an old notebook filled with measurements and fabric calculations.
One page showed the teal gown from three angles.
In the margin, I'd written a note to myself:
Original construction: 46 hours. Silver thread incorporated into neckline. Hand-beaded from left seam to center.
I photographed that page, too.
Then I began drawing the midnight-blue gown.
Not Brianna's version from the video.
Mine.
I wanted a fitted bodice, a flowing skirt, and tiny gold stars that caught the light only when the wearer moved. I wanted the gown to feel like standing beneath a night sky, where the brightest things weren't always the ones people noticed first.
For the first time, I understood why my mother had kept creating despite everything.
Designing wasn't simply making clothes.
It was a way of saying, I am here. I can see something you cannot. And I have the courage to make it real.
At six that evening, Maya arrived at Bell & Thread with sandwiches, coffee, and a portable hard drive.
Mrs. Bell had cleared a worktable for us.
"Let's see what we're working with," she said.
I spread out my sketches.
Maya leaned over the midnight-blue design.
"Nia, this is beautiful.""
"It's unfinished.""
"So is every good idea at some point.""
Mrs. Bell examined the proportions, then pointed to the waistline.
"What happens when the model turns?""
I grabbed a pencil and adjusted the curve.
"The gold embroidery follows the movement of the skirt.""
"Then you'll need to reinforce the inner seam.""
She showed me how to stabilize the fabric without making it stiff. Maya organized my photographs while I began cutting the first pattern pieces.
The hours slipped away.
At ten thirty, my phone vibrated.
A message from Brianna appeared.
It contained a photograph of a cream-colored document bearing the Mitchell House logo.
Below it, she'd written:
You should probably stop wasting your time. Mom found the ownership agreement. Your mother signed everything over before she died.
I enlarged the image.
The document listed the Starfall collection as the exclusive property of Mitchell House.
At the bottom was a signature.
Elena Carter.
My mother.
I stared at it, unable to breathe.
May you like
Then I noticed the date.
The agreement had supposedly been signed eleven days after my mother's funeral.
