Chapter 4
I stayed hidden behind the upstairs railing.
My mother stood below me, speaking quietly into her phone.
"No, Vanessa cannot handle this herself."
She listened.
Then she whispered, "I already moved the money. I just need time."
My fingers tightened around the wooden banister.
Moved the money?
Where?
From whom?
Before I could hear more, Mom turned toward the stairs.
I rushed back into my bedroom.
A second later, I heard footsteps.
Then a knock.
"Maya?"
I climbed into bed.
"Yes?"
The door opened.
Mom stood in the hallway wearing the same cream dress.
For a moment, she simply looked at me.
Her expression was strange.
Not angry.
Not loving.
Calculating.
"Are you awake?"
"Obviously."
She sighed.
"I don't want us going to sleep angry."
I stared at her.
"Then why did you help Vanessa?"
She sat beside my bed.
"Your sister has struggled for years."
"So have I."
"Maya, you're talented. Things come naturally to you."
I almost laughed.
Nothing about sewing that dress had come naturally.
I had broken needles.
Ruined fabric.
Stayed awake until sunrise.
But Mom had never been interested enough to notice.
She reached for my hand.
"Sometimes family means making sacrifices."
I pulled away.
"You didn't ask me to sacrifice anything. You took it."
Her face tightened.
"You're too young to understand."
"Then explain it."
She remained silent.
I watched her carefully.
"What money were you talking about downstairs?"
Her eyes widened.
It lasted only a second.
But I saw it.
"What?"
"I heard you on the phone."
Mom stood immediately.
"You were spying on me?"
"What money?"
"Go to sleep, Maya."
She walked out and slammed the door.
I didn't sleep at all.
The next morning, Dad drove me to Rachel Monroe's office.
Rachel was a confident woman in her early fifties with sharp eyes and a calm voice.
She listened without interrupting.
I showed her the photographs, videos, application, and messages from Tasha.
Then Dad described what he knew about the financial arrangement.
Rachel leaned back.
"This is serious."
My stomach tightened.
"Can they still use my design?"
"They may try. But the evidence strongly supports that you created it. We'll notify the competition and sponsor that ownership is disputed."
She looked at Dad.
"There's another issue."
He nodded.
"My wife's involvement."
"Yes. And potentially the money."
I leaned forward.
"What money?"
Rachel examined the document again.
"The five-thousand-dollar advance is listed here. But the agreement also mentions additional payments if the design advances to production."
I stared at her.
"How much?"
"Potentially much more."
Dad frowned.
"Claire said Vanessa only received five thousand."
Rachel placed the document on her desk.
"Then we need the complete financial records."
She made several calls.
By lunchtime, Mrs. Carter sent us the official application package.
There were more documents than we expected.
One included a licensing arrangement with a boutique fashion company called Whitmore Atelier.
Another listed a projected collection budget.
And a third named a business entity.
Bennett Creative Holdings.
Dad stared at it.
"I've never heard of this company."
Rachel checked the registration.
Then she turned her monitor toward us.
The company had been formed eight months earlier.
Its listed manager was Claire Bennett.
Its primary beneficiary was Vanessa Bennett.
I looked at Dad.
His face had gone pale.
"Claire owns a company?"
Rachel nodded.
"Apparently."
Dad shook his head.
"She never mentioned it."
Then Rachel opened the financial summary.
A payment of forty thousand dollars had been deposited into the company as a development and exclusivity advance.
The five thousand Vanessa received was separate.
I covered my mouth.
Forty-five thousand dollars.
Connected to my stolen design.
Dad stood and walked toward the window.
He remained there for a long time.
Finally, he turned.
"Rachel, I need to know where that money went."
She nodded.
"I'll request the records through the appropriate legal channels."
Then she looked at me.
"Maya, I also want you to understand something."
I straightened.
"You have rights as the creator, regardless of what your mother and sister signed."
For the first time in two days, I felt hope.
Not certainty.
But hope.
Rachel helped prepare a formal notice.
It included my evidence and demanded that Vanessa stop claiming ownership.
Mrs. Carter confirmed the competition would preserve the disputed entry and review my original work separately.
Then Rachel asked me a question.
"Would you still want to compete if they allow you?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
She smiled.
"Good."
When we returned home, Mom and Vanessa were waiting.
Vanessa had been crying.
Mom looked furious.
"Marcus, where have you been?"
Dad placed his keys on the table.
"With our daughter."
Mom glanced at me.
"You took her to a lawyer?"
"Yes."
"You've turned this family against itself!"
Dad stared at her.
"No, Claire. You did."
Vanessa stepped forward.
"Please, Daddy. I made a mistake."
Dad looked at her.
"You made several."
She burst into tears.
"I could lose everything!"
I finally spoke.
"You were willing to let me lose everything."
Vanessa glared at me.
There it was.
The real Vanessa.
The tears vanished.
"You think you're better than me."
"No."
"Everyone does!"
Dad shook his head.
"Nobody said that."
Vanessa pointed at me.
"She gets praised for every little thing. Meanwhile, I work twice as hard and nobody notices!"
I stared at her.
"You stole my work."
She looked away.
Mom grabbed Dad's arm.
"Can we please handle this privately?"
He pulled away.
"Tell me about Bennett Creative Holdings."
Mom went completely still.
Vanessa stopped crying.
Dad continued.
"Tell me about the forty thousand dollars."
Mom whispered, "Marcus..."
"Where is it?"
She stared at the floor.
Then she said something that changed everything.
"It's gone."
Dad didn't move.
"What do you mean, gone?"
Mom began crying.
"I was trying to fix things."
"What things?"
She covered her face.
"Vanessa owed people money."
My sister suddenly screamed.
"Mom, stop!"
But Mom kept talking.
"She borrowed money after losing her job. She couldn't pay it back."
Dad looked at Vanessa.
"How much?"
Vanessa shook her head.
"Please."
"How much?"
She whispered, "Almost sixty thousand."
My knees weakened.
Sixty thousand dollars.
Dad stared at them both.
Then his face changed.
"What else haven't you told me?"
Mom looked terrified.
And Vanessa began backing toward the door.
May you like
Because Dad had just reached for a bank statement lying on the counter.
A statement from an account bearing my name.
