Chapter 1: The Daughter Who Was Never Chosen
“Take the pictures from her good side, Nia. If you're going to be useless, at least make yourself useful.””
My mother's voice cut through the bedroom.
I stood near the doorway, holding my camera, watching her fasten a diamond necklace around my younger sister's throat.
Brianna turned toward the full-length mirror.
She was wearing the most important dress I had ever created.
My dress.
Three months of sleepless nights. Hundreds of hours of hand stitching. Countless sketches, fabric samples, and ruined fingertips.
And now my sister was admiring herself as if the gown had magically appeared in her closet.
My mother, Denise Carter, adjusted the waistline.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
“You look like a real designer's model.””
Brianna tilted her head.
“Do you think Adrian will like it?””
“Darling, he'll love it. Everyone will.””
I lowered my camera.
“That's enough.””
Neither of them turned.
“Excuse me?”” my mother asked.
“I said that's enough. Take the dress off.””
Brianna finally looked at me through the mirror.
“Oh, here we go.””
“Brianna, that gown is for the Bellamy Fashion Foundation competition. The final submission is in five days.””
She laughed.
“Then you should probably get started on another one.””
My mother gave her a warning glance, but there was no real disapproval in it.
“Nia, don't embarrass yourself.””
I looked at the woman who had raised me.
“Embarrass myself? Mom, I designed that dress.””
“And Brianna is wearing it.””
“Because you took it.””
Denise stepped away from my sister and folded her arms.
“Let's get something straight. Your sister has an important photoshoot tomorrow. Adrian has connections in the fashion industry. This could open doors for her.””
I almost laughed.
“She's dating a real estate developer. What does he know about fashion?””
Brianna's expression hardened.
“Adrian knows more about business than you'll ever know.””
“I'm not asking him to judge my dress.””
“That's because you don't have the connections to get it judged.””
My mother picked up a small jewelry box.
“Now, take another picture. The lighting is better from the window.””
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then I placed the camera on the dresser.
“No.””
Denise's eyebrows rose.
“What did you say?””
“I said no. I'm not taking pictures of my stolen work.””
Brianna turned around.
“Stolen? You're being ridiculous.””
“You know exactly how much work went into that gown.””
“And you know how good I look in it.””
She lifted the skirt slightly and admired the embroidery.
The midnight-blue silk shimmered beneath the chandelier. Silver stars ran along the bodice, while delicate red flowers blossomed across the lower half.
Those flowers had a story.
A story my sister had conveniently forgotten.
Three weeks earlier, Brianna had spilled red wine across the original gown in my Brooklyn studio. I had spent two nights repairing the damage, transforming the stain into a pattern of embroidered flowers.
It had taken almost forty hours.
And now she was wearing the result.
My mother reached for the camera.
“Don't be childish, Nia.””
I caught her hand.
“Don't touch my things.””
Her face changed.
“Your things?””
“Yes. My camera. My dress. My work.””
She pulled her hand away.
“Everything in this family has become about you lately.””
I stared at her.
The irony was almost unbearable.
For twenty-six years, everything had been about Brianna.
When Brianna got an A, my parents bought her a new phone.
When I won an academic award, my mother asked why I hadn't won first place.
When Brianna announced she wanted to study fashion, my parents purchased an expensive sewing machine.
When I made the same announcement two years later, my father told me sewing was a hobby, not a career.
I learned on my grandmother's old Singer machine.
Grandmother Evelyn had given it to me when I was fourteen.
She was the only person in the family who ever looked at my sketches and saw something worth protecting.
“You have your hands, sweetheart,” she used to say.
“Nobody can take away what you know how to create.””
She died when I was nineteen.
I kept her machine, her sketchbooks, and the little silver thimble she had given me on my sixteenth birthday.
My mother called those things junk.
Brianna called them museum pieces.
I called them home.
For the past year, I had worked as an assistant designer at a small alterations studio in Brooklyn. My salary barely covered rent and groceries, but I saved every extra dollar.
The Bellamy competition was my opportunity.
The winner would receive $250,000, a private studio in Manhattan, and the chance to present an entire collection at New York Fashion Week.
It wasn't simply a prize.
It was my way out.
And my family knew it.
“I'm leaving,” I announced.
My mother looked relieved.
“Good. We have enough negativity in this house.””
I reached for the door.
Then Brianna spoke.
“Wait. Before you go, Mom wants you to bring the garment bag downstairs.””
I stopped.
“What garment bag?””
“The one with the dress.””
I turned slowly.
“You're keeping it?””
Brianna smiled.
“Obviously.””
I looked at my mother.
“Mom?””
Denise adjusted her bracelet.
“Brianna has already made arrangements with Adrian's photographer. It would be inconvenient to change things now.””
“You cannot give her my competition entry.””
“I didn't give her anything. I simply allowed her to borrow something that was sitting unused.””
“Unused?””
My voice cracked.
“It's finished. It's been finished for three months. I've been preparing that gown for the most important opportunity of my life.””
Denise sighed.
“Nia, you're twenty-six. You need to stop acting like a child whenever your sister succeeds.””
Brianna walked toward me.
She was holding her phone, already recording.
“Smile, big sister. Maybe this will be your first appearance on my page.””
I stared directly into the camera.
“Make sure you record this part. Tell everyone where you got that dress.””
She lowered her phone.
“You're threatening me?””
“No. I'm giving you an opportunity to tell the truth.””
My mother stepped between us.
“That's enough. Brianna, go downstairs.””
Brianna rolled her eyes.
“Fine.””
She swept past me, the skirt brushing against my legs.
My mother remained.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said quietly, “You should be happy for your sister.””
I looked at her.
“Would you say the same thing if she took your wedding ring?””
“Don't be absurd.””
“Why? It's something valuable that belongs to me. Surely I should just let her borrow it.””
Denise's expression turned cold.
“You've always been jealous of Brianna.””
“No, Mom. I've always wanted you to love me the way you love her.””
Her lips tightened.
“Don't start with that nonsense.””
I nodded.
That was my answer.
I walked downstairs, collected my coat, and left.
Outside, the November wind cut through my thin sweater. I stood beside my car for a moment, staring at the house.
Through the living room window, I could see Brianna dancing in my gown while my mother filmed her.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
I drove straight to Brooklyn.
My studio smelled of steam, fabric dye, and old wood. I switched on the lights and walked toward the worktable where my grandmother's sewing machine stood.
On the table lay my competition sketches.
I opened the bottom drawer and removed a small leather notebook.
Inside were measurements, embroidery patterns, and a series of notes written in my grandmother's handwriting.
I turned to the final page.
There was a sentence I had read hundreds of times.
When someone takes what you create, make sure they never take the truth with it.
I sat down.
Then I opened my laptop and logged into the Bellamy competition portal.
My submission was already registered.
But the final verification hadn't been completed.
I checked the deadline.
Five days.
Then I opened the technical documentation I had prepared three months earlier.
The dress had a hidden compartment beneath the inner lining.
It wasn't visible from the outside.
It wasn't part of the decorative design.
And it contained something that could prove exactly who had created the gown.
I reached into my desk and pulled out a small envelope.
Inside was a second piece of evidence.
I had never intended to use it.
But now I had a reason.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Brianna appeared.
Adrian says the photographer loves the dress. We're going to make a fortune with this.
A second message followed.
Don't worry. I'll mention you if anyone asks.
I stared at the screen.
Then I typed four words.
Don't touch the lining.
She responded almost immediately.
Why?
Before I could answer, my phone rang.
It was a number I didn't recognize.
I picked up.
“Hello?””
A woman's voice spoke.
“Is this Nia Carter? My name is Margaret Bellamy. I'm calling about your competition entry.””
I straightened in my chair.
“Yes. Is something wrong?””
There was a brief silence.
Then she said something that made my stomach tighten.
“Ms. Carter, we received a photograph of your gown this afternoon. Someone has submitted it under another designer's name.””
I closed my eyes.
“What name?””
May you like
“Brianna Carter.””
And suddenly, my sister's little photoshoot made perfect sense.
