Chapter 1
The first thing Vanessa Whitmore did was shove me so hard that my back struck the marble floor.
The second thing she did was laugh.
"You don't belong at this event!"
Her voice rang through the luxury fashion gala, loud enough to make dozens of people turn around.
My black portfolio flew out of my hands.
The clasp snapped open.
Months of sketches scattered across the polished white floor.
Blue silk gowns.
Hand-embroidered jackets.
Evening dresses inspired by the women in my family.
Every drawing represented another night without sleep.
Another skipped meal.
Another hour spent believing that someday, someone might recognize my talent.
Now they were lying beneath the expensive shoes of people who thought I was nothing.
"Please!"
I scrambled toward the nearest page.
"Those are my designs!"
Vanessa smiled.
She looked beautiful in a bright-fuchsia gown.
Her jeweled necklace probably cost more than everything I owned.
But there was nothing beautiful about the way she looked at me.
"Your designs?"
She bent down and grabbed my portfolio.
"Sweetheart, people like you don't design clothes for people like us."
She threw the remaining pages into the air.
I watched them flutter through the bright sunlight pouring through the high-rise windows.
A few landed beneath the floral arrangements.
Others drifted toward the marble columns.
One landed directly beneath Vanessa's heel.
My favorite sketch.
A sapphire-blue evening gown with a fitted waist, embroidered silver branches, and a long flowing train.
I'd spent fourteen nights perfecting it.
Vanessa looked down.
Then deliberately stepped on it.
I heard the paper tear.
My chest tightened.
"Please don't!"
She twisted her heel.
The drawing ripped beneath her shoe.
Then she reached for a drink sitting on a nearby table.
Before I could react, she tipped the glass.
Dark liquid spilled across my remaining sketches.
The blue gown disappeared beneath a spreading brown stain.
I made a sound I barely recognized.
"No!"
Two women standing beside Vanessa burst into laughter.
One wore an emerald gown.
The other wore bright orange silk.
I had seen them earlier posing for photographs with famous designers.
Now they were laughing while I tried to rescue my work.
"Look at her," the woman in green said.
"She's actually crying over paper."
I pressed the wet drawings against my chest.
"They're not just paper."
Vanessa tilted her head.
"Then what are they?"
I looked up through my tears.
"My future."
Her smile widened.
"Oh, honey."
She crouched in front of me.
"People like you don't have futures in this industry."
I swallowed.
My name is Maya Carter.
I'm twenty-three years old.
I grew up in a small apartment in Atlanta with my father, Daniel.
He worked as a mechanic.
He raised me after my mother died when I was seven.
We never had much money.
But Dad always made sure I had pencils, fabric scraps, and a little table where I could draw.
When other children asked for toys, I asked for sketchbooks.
When girls at school talked about becoming singers, I talked about designing dresses.
Dad never laughed at my dreams.
He used to tell me that beautiful things could come from difficult places.
Two years ago, he died from a sudden heart attack.
Since then, I'd worked two jobs while studying fashion design at a community college.
I'd entered competitions.
Submitted portfolios.
Written letters to fashion houses that never answered.
And somehow, I'd received an invitation to this gala.
The Carter Fashion Foundation was reviewing emerging designers for a prestigious scholarship.
The winner would receive funding, mentorship, and a chance to present a collection in New York.
I believed this might be my opportunity.
Instead, I was kneeling on a marble floor while wealthy women laughed at me.
Vanessa suddenly grabbed one of my long braids.
I gasped.
She jerked my head upward.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."
Pain shot across my scalp.
"Let go!"
I tried to pull away without losing the drawings in my arms.
She released me with a disgusted laugh.
"You're lucky security hasn't thrown you out."
The woman in orange covered her mouth.
"Vanessa, you're terrible!"
But she was smiling.
I gathered the remaining papers.
My large round glasses had slipped down my nose.
My beige cardigan was stained.
My white blouse was wrinkled.
My dark plaid skirt was covered with dust from the floor.
I wanted to disappear.
But I couldn't leave the sketches.
They were all I had brought to prove I belonged.
Vanessa folded her arms.
"Now pick up your garbage and get out."
I looked around.
People were watching.
Some looked uncomfortable.
Others looked amused.
Nobody stepped forward.
My hands began shaking.
I reached for the blue gown sketch.
The silver embroidery I'd drawn so carefully was almost completely covered by the stain.
I pressed it against my chest.
Then I heard footsteps.
Not the light clicking of designer heels.
Heavy, determined footsteps.
The laughter stopped.
One by one, the guests turned toward the entrance.
I looked up.
An elderly Black man in an immaculate white suit was walking through the crowd.
His silver hair was neatly styled.
His beard was trimmed.
Several security officers followed him.
People moved aside immediately.
I recognized him from business magazines.
Arthur Carter.
Founder of the Carter Fashion Foundation.
One of the wealthiest businessmen in Georgia.
And the grandfather I'd been told wanted nothing to do with me.
My breath caught.
I'd never stood this close to him.
The last time I'd seen him in person, I was eight years old.
He stopped when he noticed me.
His gaze moved across the stained floor.
The scattered sketches.
My torn cardigan.
Then he bent down.
His fingers carefully lifted the ruined blue-gown drawing.
He studied it.
Something changed in his expression.
He turned another page.
There, written clearly across the bottom, was my name.
MAYA CARTER.
He stared at those letters.
Then slowly looked at my face.
For one terrible second, I thought he might order security to remove me.
Instead, his eyes filled with recognition.
"Maya?"
I couldn't answer.
Vanessa stepped forward quickly.
"Mr. Carter, I'm so sorry about this disturbance."
He didn't look at her.
His attention remained on me.
I saw his hand tremble as he held my sketch.
He looked at my braids.
My glasses.
Then my eyes.
His expression changed from shock to something that frightened me even more.
Fury.
He stepped beside me.
His security officers moved closer.
Then his voice thundered across the silent conservatory.
"Who did this to my granddaughter?"
Vanessa went completely pale.
The two women beside her stopped smiling.
I stared up at the grandfather who had vanished from my childhood.
I didn't know why he was defending me.
I didn't know why he looked as though he'd just discovered something terrible.
May you like
But when his eyes locked onto Vanessa's face, I realized this moment was far from over.
And for the first time that afternoon, Vanessa looked afraid.
