Chapter 7
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
I stared at my father's name.
Then I looked at the principal.
"That's not possible."
Principal Harris placed the document on her desk.
"I understand this is upsetting."
"That isn't my father's signature."
She folded her hands.
"Can you explain?"
I looked closer.
The letters were similar to his handwriting.
But the capital R was wrong.
My father always made his R with a long curved tail.
This one was sharp.
Angled.
Deliberate.
I knew immediately.
Vanessa had done it again.
I pulled out my phone.
"Can I call him?"
Principal Harris nodded.
I dialed.
Dad answered on the second ring.
"Nia? Is everything okay?"
"I'm in the principal's office."
His voice sharpened.
"What happened?"
"Someone submitted a complaint saying I stole my scholarship designs."
Silence.
Then he said, "What?"
"It has your signature."
"That's impossible."
I put him on speakerphone.
Principal Harris introduced herself and explained the complaint.
Dad's voice became firm.
"I did not sign that document."
She paused.
"Mr. Carter, are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
"And I have reason to believe my daughter's work has been deliberately misrepresented."
My throat tightened.
For once, he wasn't asking me to calm down.
He wasn't telling me there were two sides.
He was defending me.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he said.
When he arrived, he brought Aunt Lorraine and Denise Walker.
The attorney reviewed the complaint.
Then she explained that the signature was disputed and the allegations unsupported.
Principal Harris listened carefully.
She asked to see the original video.
I showed her.
Then I showed her photographs of my work from the previous year.
My sketchbook entries had dates.
My sewing progress videos had timestamps.
My teachers had evaluated some of the designs during class.
There was a clear record of my creativity.
Principal Harris looked at me.
"Nia, why didn't you tell us someone was harassing you?"
I lowered my eyes.
"Because I thought nobody would believe me."
Her expression softened.
"I'm sorry you felt that way."
Then she called my fashion arts teacher, Mrs. Angela Price.
Mrs. Price arrived carrying a portfolio from her classroom.
She placed it on the desk.
"This is Nia's work from last semester."
She opened it.
Inside were drawings, measurements, and fabric samples.
I recognized every page.
Mrs. Price smiled gently.
"I kept these because Nia's work was exceptional."
My eyes filled.
She continued.
"Some of these early sketches became the basis of her scholarship submission."
The principal looked at Denise.
"I think we have enough to address the complaint and any school-related disciplinary concerns."
A huge weight lifted from my shoulders.
But Mrs. Price wasn't finished.
She reached into the folder.
"Nia, there's something else."
She handed me an old photograph.
It showed my mother standing beside a sewing machine, smiling.
I gasped.
"Where did you get this?"
Mrs. Price's eyes shone.
"Your mother and I attended design school together."
I looked up.
"What?"
"She was one of the most talented people I've ever known."
I stared at her.
Mrs. Price smiled sadly.
"When you brought your first project into my class, I recognized her style immediately."
Tears ran down my face.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted you to discover your own talent without feeling you had to become her."
I looked at the photograph again.
Mom was younger than I remembered.
Happy.
Confident.
Mrs. Price touched my hand.
"She would be proud of you."
I started crying.
But these tears felt different.
They didn't come from humiliation.
They came from finally being seen.
That afternoon, Camille contacted me again.
The scholarship committee had completed its preliminary review.
My finalist status remained secure.
Brianna's competing claims would not affect my application.
I wanted to celebrate.
But Camille sounded serious.
"There's one complication."
My heart sank.
"What is it?"
"We recently received a request to substitute a different designer at the showcase."
I stared at the phone.
"Who made the request?"
"A company called B. Monroe Creative."
Of course.
Camille continued.
"The request was rejected. However, that company has announced an independent fashion event scheduled for the same evening."
I looked at Maya.
"Brianna's holding her own show?"
"Apparently."
I almost laughed.
Brianna couldn't sew a straight seam.
How was she planning to produce an entire collection?
Then I remembered the missing sketches.
The photographs.
The money.
She had everything she needed to hire other people to create my designs.
Maya grabbed her laptop.
"Let's check."
We found an advertisement within minutes.
BRIANNA MONROE PRESENTS: REBIRTH.
An exclusive fashion debut.
Private investors.
Celebrity guests.
Press coverage.
The promotional image featured a silver-and-turquoise gown.
My gown.
Not the torn one.
The design from my private portfolio.
I felt my stomach turn.
"She's using Mom's ideas too."
Maya examined the advertisement.
"Look at the date."
Friday.
Seven o'clock.
The same evening as my scholarship showcase.
I stared at the screen.
She wasn't simply stealing my designs.
She was trying to compete against me with my own work.
Then a message appeared from the anonymous number.
"Don't confront Brianna at her event. She's hired someone to make sure you can't finish your dress."
I felt cold.
Another message followed.
"Check the lock on your sewing-room window."
I stood immediately.
Maya followed me.
We hurried home.
The sewing room was on the second floor.
I rushed upstairs and unlocked the door.
At first, everything looked normal.
Then I noticed the window.
The latch was broken.
May you like
My sewing table had been moved.
And my mother's sewing machine was gone.
