Chapter 8
I stared at the signature until the letters blurred.
The document was supposed to prove that I had voluntarily given Vanessa ownership of my work.
It was a lie.
"I never signed this."
Thomas examined the page.
"Do you have examples of your genuine signature from the same period?"
"Plenty."
I thought of contracts from my studio, bank documents, and the paperwork for my original business registration.
"We can provide them."
Robert looked sick.
"If this agreement is false, my investment may be based on fraudulent information."
"I understand," Thomas replied. "We'll preserve the original document and have it examined."
My mother sat silently beside me.
I could see the shame on her face.
"Mom, look at me."
She lifted her head.
"This isn't your fault because you failed to recognize a forged signature. The person who created it is responsible."
"But I helped her prepare the other statement."
"You believed your daughter. You were wrong about what she was doing, but you didn't knowingly help her steal my work."
She wiped her eyes.
"I should have asked more questions."
"Yes," I said gently. "You should have."
We didn't pretend everything was fine.
We simply agreed to face the truth.
Over the next several days, the investigation moved quickly.
My original sketches were compared with the copies submitted by Vanessa. Dates, photographs, purchase receipts, and digital records helped establish the timeline.
The specialist also found that several images in Vanessa's proposal had been created from photographs taken inside my studio.
The evidence was becoming difficult to explain away.
Then Denise called.
"The Bellamy board has scheduled a review meeting," she said. "They want to hear your account directly."
I swallowed.
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
My stomach tightened.
"What about the complaint against me?"
"They've suspended their decision until the evidence is reviewed. Your opportunity is still open, Nia."
I thanked her.
For the first time in days, I felt something close to hope.
That evening, my mother and I sat in the sewing room.
The ruined champagne gown remained folded in a box beneath the table.
I had kept it as evidence, but seeing it still hurt.
My mother touched the torn fabric.
"I wish I could take this day back."
I shook my head.
"You can't."
"I know."
She looked at me.
"But I can stop pretending that your sister's behavior is harmless."
I leaned against her shoulder.
"I need you to understand something. If Vanessa apologizes, I may eventually forgive her. But I won't hand her control of my life again."
"You shouldn't."
"I won't hide the truth to protect her reputation."
My mother nodded.
"I won't ask you to."
The next morning, I entered the Bellamy Atelier offices wearing a simple black suit.
I carried my original sketches, receipts, and a portfolio documenting my work.
Vanessa was already there.
She wore a pale designer outfit and sat beside a lawyer I had never met.
Her face tightened when she saw me.
"You're really going to do this?"
I placed my portfolio on the table.
"I'm going to tell the truth."
Her lawyer advised her to remain silent.
The board began reviewing the evidence.
First came my dated sketches.
Then the photographs from my studio.
Then the investor's proposal.
Finally, the disputed transfer agreement appeared on the screen.
The room grew quiet.
A board member looked directly at Vanessa.
"Ms. Vanessa, can you explain why this agreement bears a signature that the alleged signer says is not hers?"
Vanessa's lawyer leaned toward her.
She whispered something I couldn't hear.
Vanessa looked at me.
For a moment, I saw the frightened little girl she had once been, desperate to prove that she mattered.
Then her expression hardened.
"Nia gave me those designs."
I stood.
"That's not true."
"She told me I could use them."
"When?"
"Years ago."
"Then show them the permission."
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The board chairperson folded her hands.
"We will not make a final decision until the document is independently examined. However, the evidence raises serious concerns."
Vanessa's face drained of color.
As the meeting ended, Thomas received a call from the specialist.
He listened, then turned toward me.
"They've found something else in the original file metadata."
"What?"
He looked at the disputed agreement.
"The document was created on a computer registered to someone other than you."
My heart pounded.
"Who?"
May you like
Thomas lowered his voice.
"The record points to an account associated with your aunt Patricia."
