Chapter 6
Aunt Lorraine didn't raise her voice.
That frightened me more than if she had screamed.
"Richard, get those papers."
My father stood immediately.
"They're in my office."
"Now."
I followed them downstairs.
Maya stayed beside me, holding my hand.
My father unlocked his office cabinet and removed a thick folder.
He placed it on the desk.
Lorraine opened it.
I watched her eyes move across the pages.
Then she stopped.
"Who is Patricia Ellis?"
My father frowned.
"Vanessa's attorney."
Lorraine looked up.
"She's listed here as the person certifying trustee approval."
My stomach tightened.
"What does that mean?"
Lorraine turned the paper toward me.
Near the bottom was a signature.
My mother's sister's name.
Lorraine Bennett.
I looked at her.
"Did you sign it?"
"No."
The room went cold.
My father stared at the signature.
"But Vanessa said—"
Lorraine interrupted.
"Vanessa lied."
I thought about all the times my stepmother had called me dishonest.
All the times she'd punished me for things Brianna had done.
Now she had apparently forged documents involving the house my mother left me.
"What happens now?" I asked.
Lorraine took out her phone.
"We call my attorney."
An hour later, we were sitting around my father's desk with a lawyer named Denise Walker on speakerphone.
Denise specialized in trusts and property disputes.
She asked detailed questions.
When was the document signed?
Who witnessed it?
Had any money been released?
My father answered quietly.
Then Denise asked one question that made him freeze.
"Richard, where did the refinancing proceeds go?"
He stared at the papers.
"Into our joint account."
"Are they still there?"
He opened his banking app.
His face drained of color.
"No."
"How much is missing?"
He swallowed.
"One hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
One hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
Vanessa had taken it.
Denise asked him to download the account history immediately.
We waited while he searched.
Then he found the transfer.
The money had been sent to a company called B. Monroe Creative.
I stared at the name.
Brianna's middle name was Monroe.
"That's Brianna's business," I whispered.
Everyone turned.
I showed them her social media page.
Brianna Monroe Creative.
Fashion consulting.
Luxury styling.
Private design services.
The website looked polished.
Professional.
Expensive.
Except I'd never seen Brianna create a single original design.
Maya leaned over my shoulder.
"Nia, look at the gallery."
I clicked.
My heart stopped.
There was a drawing of a silver evening gown.
Then another sketch.
And another.
My sketches.
The ones missing from my folder.
They were displayed beneath Brianna's name.
I couldn't breathe.
Maya quickly took screenshots.
"Everything," she whispered. "Save everything."
Denise listened as I explained.
Then she said, "You may be dealing with several separate matters here. We'll need to verify the financial transactions and document ownership of the designs."
My father looked devastated.
"Can we recover the money?"
"We'll investigate. First, we need to protect the property and preserve the records."
She asked Lorraine to send the trust documents.
My father agreed to contact the lender and report the disputed authorization.
I sat quietly.
The numbers were almost impossible to understand.
My graduation dress had been destroyed.
My portfolio stolen.
My scholarship threatened.
And now the house itself had been placed at risk.
All because Vanessa wanted Brianna to have a successful life without doing the work to earn it.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Brianna.
"You think you've won? Check your school's graduation page."
I opened the link.
My graduation ceremony was scheduled for the following Friday morning.
But beneath the announcement, someone had posted a video.
A video of me crying in the sewing room.
Only the beginning had been cut off.
The footage showed me pointing toward Brianna, shouting.
It didn't show her tearing the dress.
It didn't show Vanessa dismissing me.
It made me look furious and unstable.
The caption read:
"Future fashion designer attacks family over ugly dress."
I felt my face burn.
There were already hundreds of comments.
Some people defended me.
Others mocked me.
A few said I shouldn't be allowed to attend graduation.
Maya took the phone.
"Oh, she's going to regret this."
My father looked at the screen.
He watched the edited video.
Then he watched the original recording again.
Something changed in his face.
He looked at me.
"Nia, I am so sorry."
I wanted to believe him.
But apologies couldn't erase six years.
"Then help me stop them," I whispered.
He nodded.
"I will."
The next morning, Dad drove me to school.
It was the first time he'd taken me himself in months.
As we approached the building, I saw students looking at their phones.
Some stared at me.
Others whispered.
My stomach tightened.
I wanted to disappear.
Then Maya stepped out of her car.
She stood beside me.
"Head up."
I shook my head.
"Everybody saw it."
"Everybody saw a lie."
"That doesn't make it easier."
She squeezed my shoulder.
"No. But you're not walking in alone."
We entered together.
In the hallway, a girl named Keisha approached us.
She looked uncomfortable.
"Nia, I saw the video."
I swallowed.
"Okay."
She hesitated.
"Are you all right?"
I stared at her.
She continued.
"My cousin knows Brianna. She heard something about your dress."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"What did she hear?"
Keisha looked around.
Then she lowered her voice.
"Brianna's been bragging that she's going to debut a collection at the Ellison showcase."
My mouth went dry.
"How?"
"She says she has a private sponsor."
I looked at Maya.
Keisha continued.
"And Nia?"
"Yes?"
"She told people that by Friday, you won't even be a finalist anymore."
I stood frozen.
Then my school principal appeared at the end of the hallway.
"Nia Carter?"
I turned.
"Yes?"
"Would you come to my office, please?"
My heart sank.
The principal looked serious.
"Someone has filed a formal complaint about your conduct."
Maya stepped forward.
"That video was edited."
The principal nodded.
"We're aware there may be more to the story."
Then she looked directly at me.
"But the complaint includes something else."
I swallowed.
"What?"
She held up a printed document.
An allegation that I'd stolen my scholarship portfolio from another designer.
And at the bottom was a witness name.
May you like
Richard Carter.
My father.
