Chapter 2
I had spent six years believing Vanessa couldn't hurt me any more than she already had.
That morning proved me wrong.
"Richard, I'm seriously worried about Nia," she said into the phone.
Her voice had changed completely.
The sharp, cruel woman who'd just dismissed my tears had disappeared.
Now she sounded gentle.
Concerned.
Almost frightened.
I knew that voice.
It was the one she used whenever she wanted my father to believe something terrible about me.
"She's been having emotional outbursts," Vanessa continued. "And she's refusing to listen."
I stepped closer.
"That's not true!"
Vanessa turned away.
"See? She's doing it again."
Brianna covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
My hands curled into fists.
I wanted to grab the phone.
I wanted to scream loud enough for my father to hear every word.
But I knew exactly what would happen.
Vanessa would call me aggressive.
Brianna would say she felt threatened.
And somehow, the torn dress would become my fault.
So I did something neither of them expected.
I stayed quiet.
Vanessa listened for another moment.
Then she said, "Yes, sweetheart. We'll discuss it when you get home."
She ended the call.
I stared at her.
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth."
"You wouldn't know the truth if it stood right in front of you."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Watch your mouth."
Brianna stepped between us.
"You should be grateful Mom even lets you use this room."
I looked around.
The sewing room had once belonged to my mother.
Before Vanessa moved in, its walls had been painted pale yellow.
There were baskets of colorful fabric beneath the windows.
My mother's sewing machine sat beside her favorite rocking chair.
After the wedding, Vanessa had replaced almost everything.
She called it renovating.
I called it erasing.
The only thing she couldn't remove was my mother's old sewing machine.
My father had refused.
It was one of the few times he had stood up for something that mattered to me.
"Get out," I told them.
Vanessa laughed.
"Excuse me?"
"I need to work."
"Not with that attitude."
I looked straight into her eyes.
"Please leave."
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Vanessa grabbed Brianna's arm.
"Come on. Let her waste her time."
They left.
I waited until their footsteps disappeared.
Then I locked the door.
Only then did I start crying again.
I pressed the torn dress against my chest.
"I wish you were here, Mom."
The room was silent.
I closed my eyes and remembered her standing behind me, guiding my little hands through a crooked line of stitches.
My mother had been a seamstress.
Not famous.
Not wealthy.
But everyone in our neighborhood knew her.
She made wedding dresses, church outfits, school uniforms, and costumes for children whose parents couldn't afford expensive clothes.
She always said beauty didn't come from the price tag.
It came from the love stitched into something.
When she died, I was twelve.
Vanessa arrived in our lives less than two years later.
By the time I turned fifteen, I had learned to hide most of my feelings.
But sewing?
Sewing was still mine.
I spread the damaged fabric across the table.
Then I studied my hidden sketch.
The new design wasn't a traditional graduation gown.
It featured an asymmetrical silver bodice, flowing turquoise panels, and delicate fabric flowers covering the seams.
The torn material wouldn't disappear.
It would become the foundation.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I picked up my scissors.
The first cut was terrifying.
The second came easier.
By the third, I could almost hear my mother's voice.
"Trust your hands, baby."
I worked for hours.
Around lunchtime, someone knocked.
"Nia?"
It was my father.
I unlocked the door.
Richard Carter stood outside wearing a charcoal business suit.
At fifty-one, he still looked strong and handsome, but his eyes carried the exhaustion of someone who worked too much.
He glanced past me.
"What happened in here?"
I stepped aside.
The table was covered with torn fabric and sketches.
"Dad, Brianna destroyed my graduation dress."
His expression tightened.
"Vanessa said there was an argument."
"There wasn't an argument. Brianna grabbed it and ripped it."
He rubbed his forehead.
"Nia, I've had a difficult morning."
My heart sank.
"Dad, please listen."
"I am listening."
"No. You're waiting for me to stop talking."
That made him look at me.
For a moment, I thought he might finally understand.
Then he sighed.
"Vanessa says you've been under a lot of pressure."
I stared at him.
"Do you believe her?"
"Why would she lie?"
The question hit me harder than I expected.
"Because she's been lying to you for six years."
His face changed.
"Nia."
"You asked."
"Vanessa has done her best to be a mother to you."
"No, Dad. She's done her best to make sure I don't have one."
He flinched.
I immediately regretted the words.
But I couldn't take them back.
He looked at the sewing table.
"Can the dress be repaired?"
"I don't want to repair it."
"Then what do you want?"
I almost told him.
About the new design.
About the weeks of planning.
About the scholarship application I had secretly submitted.
Instead, I looked at the man who had once carried me on his shoulders and promised never to let anything happen to me.
"I want you to believe me."
He was silent.
Then his phone rang.
He checked the screen.
"I have to take this."
And just like that, the moment disappeared.
He walked away.
I stood in the doorway watching him answer a work call.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
I closed the door.
Then I went back to work.
That evening, I received an email.
The subject line made my heart stop.
FINALIST NOTIFICATION — ELLISON SCHOOL OF FASHION.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
Dear Nia Carter,
Congratulations. Your portfolio has been selected as a finalist for the Margaret Ellison Emerging Designer Scholarship.
The award included full tuition.
Housing.
Materials.
And a paid summer apprenticeship.
It was everything I had dreamed about.
But there was a condition.
Finalists had to present their original design at a special showcase following graduation.
And the completed outfit had to be inspected by noon the following Friday.
I checked the calendar.
Six days.
I looked at the mountain of damaged satin.
Six days to rebuild my dream.
Then another message appeared.
This one came from an unfamiliar address.
Only one sentence.
"Be careful who sees your designs. Someone in your house is trying to steal them."
I stared at the screen.
Before I could reply, a photograph arrived.
It showed Brianna standing beside a woman I recognized from a fashion magazine.
A woman named Camille Ross.
One of the judges for the Ellison Scholarship.
May you like
And Brianna was holding a folder.
My portfolio folder.
