Chapter 5
I spent that night in my tiny apartment staring at the blue-gown sketch.
The stain had dried.
The paper was warped.
The heel mark cut through the lower half of the train.
I had tried to smooth it with clean sheets of paper.
But every time I touched it, I remembered Vanessa's laughter.
Then I remembered Arthur's words.
Your father never agreed to give them away.
I opened the wooden box Dad had left me.
Inside were old photographs.
Birthday cards.
A few letters from my mother.
And a leather-bound sketchbook.
I'd found it after his funeral.
At the time, I couldn't bear to study it closely.
Every page smelled faintly of the mechanic shop where he worked.
Sometimes grief made ordinary objects impossible to touch.
But that night, I opened it.
The first pages contained rough fashion drawings.
Coats.
Evening dresses.
Jackets with unusual stitching.
Then I found the blue gown.
Not exactly my design.
But unmistakably related.
A fitted bodice.
Silver embroidery shaped like branches.
A flowing sapphire train.
Across the top, Dad had written:
MIDNIGHT GARDEN.
My hands began shaking.
I turned the page.
Another gown.
Then another.
Twelve designs.
An entire collection.
I recognized details I'd unconsciously used in my own sketches.
Dad had taught me to draw those lines.
Those shapes.
Those tiny silver branches.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
For years, I'd believed I was simply following my dream.
Now I understood that I was also continuing his.
My phone rang.
It was Arthur.
I hesitated before answering.
"Hello?"
"Maya?"
His voice sounded tired.
"Yes."
"Are you home safely?"
I looked around my little apartment.
"Yes."
He exhaled.
"Good."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, "I found Dad's sketchbook."
Silence.
"What?"
"The Midnight Garden collection."
I heard his breathing change.
"Do you have the original sketches?"
"Yes."
Arthur sounded overwhelmed.
"Please keep them safe."
I looked at the book.
"Why?"
He took a breath.
"Because they may help establish what happened to Daniel's work."
I swallowed.
Then asked the question I'd been avoiding.
"Do you think Victor stole it?"
Arthur was quiet.
Finally, he answered.
"I think there are questions we've ignored for too long."
I appreciated that he didn't pretend to know everything.
But I could hear the fear in his voice.
The next morning, Camille arranged a meeting with an intellectual-property attorney named Naomi Reed.
She explained that original sketches, dated records, contracts, and company archives could help establish authorship and ownership.
Dad's designs had been developed years earlier.
The relevant legal rights depended on the agreements he signed, if any.
But the sketchbook was important evidence.
I handed it over for careful documentation while keeping the original secure.
Naomi examined the first page.
Then another.
Her expression changed.
"These are extraordinary."
My throat tightened.
"Thank you."
She looked at me.
"Did your father ever tell you about his career?"
I shook my head.
"Only little things."
She nodded.
"Then we have work to do."
The investigation began with old company records.
Arthur authorized an independent review.
He didn't want his family relationships influencing the findings.
Camille recommended outside auditors.
Arthur agreed immediately.
I was surprised.
For years, I'd imagined him as an arrogant billionaire who cared only about money.
But every time I saw him now, he seemed more like a man trying to repair something he'd broken.
That didn't erase the past.
Still, I was beginning to see him differently.
Three days later, Naomi called.
She had found something important.
A fashion magazine from fifteen years earlier.
The cover showed a model wearing a blue gown.
Silver branches climbed across the bodice.
The train flowed behind her like a river.
My stomach dropped.
It was Dad's design.
Underneath the photograph were the words:
VICTOR CARTER PRESENTS MIDNIGHT GARDEN.
I stared at the screen.
My hands went numb.
Dad had spent his final years repairing cars while his older brother received praise for his designs.
The magazine called Victor a visionary.
It described the collection as a breakthrough in contemporary eveningwear.
I kept reading.
The collection had helped launch a luxury label.
That label later became part of Carter Holdings.
I looked at Arthur.
He was sitting across from me.
His face had gone pale.
"Did you know?"
My voice cracked.
He shook his head.
"I believed Victor created it."
I felt tears burn my eyes.
"Nobody asked Dad?"
Arthur looked down.
"I should have."
I stood.
Anger flooded through me.
"You had all that money."
My voice grew louder.
"You had investigators, lawyers, accountants."
Arthur didn't interrupt.
"And my father spent fifteen years trying to pay rent!"
I covered my face.
I remembered Dad selling his watch to buy me a sewing machine.
I remembered him skipping dinner and claiming he wasn't hungry.
I remembered the final hospital bill I paid in installments after he died.
Then I looked at the magazine again.
Victor was smiling beside a model.
Celebrating work that might have belonged to my father.
I couldn't breathe.
Arthur slowly stood.
"Maya, I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"I don't know what to do with sorry."
He nodded.
"I understand."
I picked up my portfolio.
"I need to leave."
He didn't stop me.
Camille offered to arrange a car.
I declined.
I needed space.
Outside the building, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
I opened the message.
It contained a photograph of Dad standing beside Victor in a design studio.
Dad looked furious.
Victor was pointing at a contract.
Below the photograph was a sentence.
Your father tried to expose Victor before he disappeared.
My heart pounded.
Then another message arrived.
Ask Arthur what happened on the night Daniel was accused of stealing.
I stared at the screen.
Who is this?
The answer came almost immediately.
Someone who was there.
I gripped my phone.
Then the sender added one more sentence.
Victor didn't only steal your father's designs.
May you like
He made sure nobody would believe your father when he tried to get them back.
And suddenly, I realized the money accusation, the missing designs, and the destruction of my family might all be connected.
