Chapter 7: The Woman Who Held the Original
Vanessa grabbed Brianna's phone so violently that Brianna nearly dropped it.
"Give me that.""
"Mom, what are you doing?""
Vanessa read the message again. Her lips moved silently over the words, and the color drained from her face.
Tell Nia Carter that her mother left the original Starfall contract with me—and that I'm finally ready to give it back.
I had never seen Vanessa look afraid.
Angry, certainly. Contemptuous, often. But afraid?
That was new.
"Who is Claire Whitmore?"" I asked.
Vanessa thrust the phone back at Brianna.
"Nobody you need to concern yourself with.""
"Then why did you tear up the photograph?""
"Because you're being deliberately disrespectful.""
I looked at the pieces of the photograph scattered across the coffee table.
"You destroyed a picture of my mother because I asked you a question.""
"That woman is a liar.""
"Then let her prove it.""
Vanessa stepped toward me, but my father rose from the sofa.
"Enough, Vanessa.""
She turned on him.
"You have absolutely no idea what you're inviting into this house.""
"Neither do you," he replied quietly.
For the first time, my father wasn't looking at the floor.
Vanessa stared at him as if she'd never heard him speak that way before.
Then she snatched her handbag from the armchair.
"I'm going to Mitchell House. This family has spent six years cleaning up after Elena's mistakes, and I won't allow her daughter to destroy everything we've built.""
She stormed toward the front door.
Brianna hurried after her.
"Mom, wait! What about Friday's launch?""
Vanessa didn't slow down.
"Cancel nothing.""
The door slammed.
Silence settled over the living room.
I turned to my father.
"You're going to tell me everything now.""
He sat down heavily.
"I don't know everything.""
"Then start with what you do know.""
He rubbed his face.
"Claire Whitmore was the acquisitions director at Mitchell House when your mother developed Starfall. She wanted to purchase the collection outright. Your mother refused because she intended to launch her own label.""
"Then what happened?""
"Claire left Mitchell House shortly afterward. She said the company had tried to pressure your mother into signing an agreement that transferred more rights than she understood.""
My stomach tightened.
"Did Mom sign it?""
"She signed an agreement, but she believed it was a limited licensing arrangement. It allowed Mitchell House to manufacture a few designs for a specific period. It wasn't supposed to transfer the entire collection.""
"Yet you signed the document Vanessa showed me.""
My father closed his eyes.
"Yes.""
"Why?""
"Because I was told it was the final settlement. Vanessa said the company was taking on your mother's outstanding medical expenses and the studio's debts. She told me the document protected you from future claims.""
"And you believed her?""
"I wanted to believe her.""
The answer hurt more than an excuse would have.
I sat opposite him.
"Did you know the contract had been changed?""
He shook his head.
"Not at the time.""
"When did you find out?""
He stared at the carpet.
"About two years later, I discovered that the company had registered several of Elena's designs under its own name. I contacted a lawyer, but by then the original paperwork was missing. Vanessa insisted that I had misunderstood the agreement.""
"And you did nothing?""
"I was afraid of losing the house. Of losing you. Vanessa controlled the finances, and I thought I could find another way to protect your mother's work.""
"You let me believe she was nobody.""
His face crumpled.
"I know.""
"You let Vanessa take my sewing machine.""
"I know.""
"You watched Brianna win an award with my dress.""
He covered his mouth with one hand.
"I know, Nia.""
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped across the floor.
"Knowing isn't the same as doing something.""
He didn't try to stop me when I headed upstairs.
For once, he had no defense.
That night, Maya came over with a laptop and a bag of snacks. We sat on my bedroom floor, searching for information about Claire Whitmore.
There wasn't much.
A few old fashion articles mentioned her work as an acquisitions director. Another described her as a consultant who specialized in protecting independent designers from predatory licensing agreements.
Then Maya found a photograph from a fashion industry conference held three years earlier.
Claire stood at a podium, her silver necklace shaped like a needle resting against a black blouse.
The caption read:
Claire Whitmore, founder of Whitmore Design Archives, speaking about intellectual property protection for independent creators.
Maya turned the screen toward me.
"This woman has spent years helping designers protect their work.""
"Which means she might actually have the contract.""
"Or she knows where it is.""
I studied the photograph.
"Why wait six years?""
"Maybe she couldn't prove anything before.""
"Or maybe Vanessa made sure she couldn't.""
Maya closed the laptop.
"Either way, you have to meet her.""
I glanced at the brass key on my desk.
The number 317 was stamped into its side.
"First, I want to see the studio.""
The next morning, Mrs. Bell drove us to the industrial district on the outskirts of town. The old Carter Atelier building stood between a closed furniture warehouse and a brick factory that had been converted into storage units.
Its windows were boarded up.
A faded sign hung above the entrance.
CARTER ATELIER.
Someone had painted over the letters, but the outline remained visible beneath the peeling white paint.
I stood on the sidewalk, unable to move.
My mother had built a business here.
She had cut fabric, drawn patterns, and worked through the night imagining a future that apparently hadn't survived her death.
Mrs. Bell touched my shoulder.
"She loved this place.""
"Why did it close?""
"After she died, the bills piled up. Your father tried to keep it open, but he couldn't manage the business alone.""
"And Vanessa?""
Mrs. Bell's expression hardened.
"Vanessa encouraged him to sell what he could.""
I took out the key.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and damp cardboard. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the boarded windows, illuminating empty shelves and abandoned garment racks.
Most of the equipment was gone.
But the long wooden worktable remained in the center of the room.
My heart raced.
"That's it," Mrs. Bell whispered.
The table had deep scratches along its surface, tiny marks left by years of cutting fabric. On one side was a narrow drawer with a brass lock.
I inserted the key.
It turned.
Inside lay a thick leather portfolio, a sealed envelope, and a small digital recorder.
I lifted the portfolio first.
The cover bore my mother's handwriting.
*STARFALL — ORIGINAL DESIGNS AND OWNERSHIP RECORDS.*
Beneath it was a second label.
For Nia. When she is ready.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The first pages contained original sketches, dated photographs, fabric samples, and handwritten design notes.
Every page carried my mother's initials.
Then I reached the contracts.
The first was a licensing agreement with Mitchell House. It granted permission to manufacture three specific garments for two years.
The second document was a handwritten addendum, signed by my mother and witnessed by Margaret Bell.
It stated that all original designs, patterns, and future adaptations remained the property of Elena Carter and would pass to her daughter upon her eighteenth birthday.
My breath caught.
There was another page.
It was a letter addressed to my father.
Daniel, if Vanessa insists that the entire collection belongs to Mitchell House, show her this document. She knows the original agreement was limited. Do not allow anyone to confuse a temporary license with permanent ownership.
I read it twice.
My mother had known Vanessa might try to take the collection.
She had anticipated this.
"Mrs. Bell," I whispered, "she left everything here.""
Mrs. Bell leaned over my shoulder.
"Not everything.""
She pointed to the sealed envelope.
My name was written across it.
And beneath my name were five words.
Open this only with Claire.
Before I could speak, footsteps sounded outside the studio.
A car door slammed.
Then a woman's voice called from the entrance.
"Nia Carter?""
Mrs. Bell stepped in front of me.
A tall woman with red hair appeared in the doorway, wearing a dark green coat and the silver needle necklace from my mother's photograph.
Claire Whitmore looked from me to the open portfolio.
Then she exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath for six years.
May you like
"Thank God," she said.
"You found it before Vanessa did.""
