Chapter 1: The Dress That Was Never Hers
“Take off my dress, you thief!””
My voice exploded through the auditorium just as the audience rose to applaud.
Hundreds of people turned toward me.
At the center of the runway stood Celeste Vaughn, smiling beneath a shower of golden spotlights. She wore a breathtaking pastel-pink ball gown, its sweetheart neckline covered in sparkling crystals, its corset decorated with hand-shaped flowers, and its enormous chiffon skirt floating around her like a cloud.
My dress.
Six months of work.
Four hundred and thirty-seven hours of sewing.
Twenty-seven broken needles.
And one thousand two hundred individually attached crystals.
Celeste was wearing every single hour of it.
She had just been announced as the winner of the New York Rising Designer Competition.
And she was accepting the award for a creation she had stolen from me.
The host, a handsome man in a navy tuxedo, froze with the microphone halfway to his mouth.
“Excuse me?”” he stammered.
Celeste's smile tightened.
“Aaliyah,” she said, forcing a laugh.
“What are you doing here?””
I walked toward the runway.
“Getting back what's mine.””
A few people gasped.
The event's photographers immediately began taking pictures. Someone in the front row whispered my name. Another person raised a phone to record.
Celeste stepped closer to the judges' table.
“I'm sorry about this,” she announced.
“My stepsister has been going through a difficult time. She's always struggled with accepting that we're on different paths.””
The audience murmured.
She placed one hand over her chest, making sure everyone could see the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
“She's always wanted to become a fashion designer. Unfortunately, wanting something and having the talent to achieve it are two very different things.””
I stopped at the foot of the runway.
“Take off the dress.””
Celeste laughed.
“You're embarrassing yourself.””
“No. You're embarrassing yourself. You're standing in front of hundreds of people wearing something you didn't make.””
She lowered her voice.
“You need to leave.””
“Not until you explain why my design is registered under your name.””
For the first time, her expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Then she turned toward the judges.
“This is a family matter. My mother can explain everything.””
A woman in the front row stood.
Vivienne Vaughn.
My stepmother.
She wore a cream-colored designer suit, a diamond necklace, and the satisfied expression of someone who had already decided how the evening would end.
“Security,” she called.
“Please remove this girl.””
I stared at her.
“Hello, Vivienne.””
Her lips tightened.
“Aaliyah, don't make this worse.””
“You stole my application.””
“We did no such thing.””
“You took my sketches, my measurements, my fabric, and my finished gown.””
Vivienne approached the stage.
“Celeste was the one who developed the concept.””
I almost laughed.
“Then why does the dress have my initials inside the corset?””
Celeste's fingers immediately moved toward her waist.
A tiny movement.
But the cameras caught it.
I pointed at her.
“Check the inside label.””
Celeste looked toward her mother.
Vivienne's face went pale.
The head judge, a silver-haired woman named Margaret Ellis, slowly removed her glasses.
“Miss Vaughn,” she said, “would you mind explaining what she's referring to?””
Celeste swallowed.
“It's ridiculous. My stepsister has always been obsessed with me.””
I reached into my handbag and removed a small black envelope.
“You're right about one thing, Celeste.””
I climbed onto the runway.
“I have been obsessed with one thing.””
I held up the envelope.
“Making sure nobody ever steals my work again.””
Inside were three things.
My original competition registration.
A dated photograph of the gown before its final fitting.
And a small flash drive containing six months of recorded footage.
Celeste stared at the envelope.
Then she whispered something I could barely hear.
“Mom, you said she deleted those.””
I smiled.
The microphone was still in my hand.
Unfortunately for her, everyone heard.
Six months earlier, I had been sitting alone in a cramped bedroom, sketching a dress beneath a flickering desk lamp.
The room was barely large enough for my sewing machine, a narrow bed, and two garment racks.
It was the smallest bedroom in my father's house.
But it was mine.
At least, that was what my father had promised when he married Vivienne Vaughn.
Daniel Carter had been a kind man before the marriage. He used to take me to fabric stores on weekends, buy me inexpensive sketchbooks, and tell me that one day I would design something people would remember.
After my mother died, he became quieter.
When he met Vivienne, I thought he was finally happy again.
I wanted that for him.
I didn't realize happiness would come at my expense.
Vivienne arrived with her daughter, Celeste, and six enormous suitcases.
Within two weeks, Celeste had the master bedroom, a private bathroom, and a walk-in closet.
I was moved into the room beside the laundry area.
Vivienne called it a practical arrangement.
Celeste called it hilarious.
“Honestly, Aaliyah, you should be grateful,” she told me one afternoon.
“Your old room had terrible lighting. This one is perfect for someone who spends all day sewing.””
I kept my eyes on the fabric.
“I'm glad you like my old room.””
She laughed.
“Don't be so sensitive.””
That was Celeste's favorite expression.
She could take something from you, insult you for noticing, and somehow make you feel guilty for being upset.
She had attended expensive fashion workshops in Manhattan since she was sixteen.
Vivienne paid for professional photographers, luxury fabrics, private tutors, and introductions to influential designers.
I worked weekends at a neighborhood tailor shop.
I shortened trousers, repaired wedding gowns, replaced broken zippers, and saved every dollar I could.
My father knew the difference.
But knowing wasn't the same as doing something about it.
One evening, I showed him my latest sketch.
It was a pastel-pink ball gown with sculpted flowers climbing from the neckline.
He studied it for a long moment.
“Aaliyah,” he said softly, “this is beautiful.””
I smiled.
“You really think so?””
“I think your mother would have loved it.””
My throat tightened.
“I'm entering the New York Rising Designer Competition.””
He looked surprised.
“That's the big competition in Manhattan?””
I nodded.
“The winner gets a cash prize, a development contract, and an introduction to several fashion houses.””
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Then you should enter.””
For the first time in months, I felt someone believed in me.
Unfortunately, Vivienne overheard us.
She appeared in the doorway wearing a silk robe.
“Enter what?””
I turned around.
“The Rising Designer Competition.””
Her eyes moved to my sketch.
Then she smiled.
Not kindly.
“That's ambitious.””
“I've been working on a collection.””
Celeste appeared behind her mother, eating strawberries from a glass bowl.
“Oh, are we talking about the competition?”” she asked.
Vivienne nodded.
“Your stepsister wants to enter.””
Celeste nearly choked.
“Seriously?””
“Yes.””
She looked at my drawing.
“That's actually cute.””
“Thank you.””
“I didn't say it was good.””
My father frowned.
“Celeste.””
She shrugged.
“What? I'm being honest.””
Vivienne placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder.
“Celeste has been preparing for this competition for years, Aaliyah. She has the right training and professional connections.””
“I have the skills,” I replied.
Vivienne raised an eyebrow.
“Skills developed in a little alterations shop are not necessarily comparable to professional fashion education.””
My father shifted uncomfortably.
“Vivienne, perhaps she should have a chance.””
Vivienne looked at him as though he had betrayed her.
“Of course. Encourage her to waste her savings. That seems reasonable.””
I folded my sketch.
“I don't need anyone's permission.””
Celeste smiled.
“Then good luck. You'll need it.””
I submitted my application that night.
Then I began making the gown.
I bought pastel-pink satin from a fabric supplier who gave me a discount because I had worked there during the previous summer.
I ordered chiffon in small quantities.
I built the corset from scratch, adjusting the pattern dozens of times until it hugged the waist without restricting movement.
The flowers took the longest.
Each petal was shaped, pressed, and stitched by hand.
I wanted them to look alive.
Not like decorations attached to a dress, but like flowers growing naturally from the fabric.
My fingers developed tiny cuts.
My back ached.
Sometimes I worked until sunrise.
At the tailor shop, my supervisor, Mrs. Bennett, noticed the dark circles beneath my eyes.
“Girl, when was the last time you slept?””
I laughed.
“Yesterday.””
“That's not an answer.””
“I'm fine.””
She examined the pink fabric hanging from my garment rack.
“Is that the competition dress?””
“Yes.””
She touched one of the sculpted flowers.
“Aaliyah, this is extraordinary.””
I smiled.
“Do you think judges will like it?””
She looked at me.
“Forget the judges. I think somebody is going to offer you a job before you even leave that runway.””
I carried those words home like a treasure.
Every night, I recorded my progress with a small camera positioned above my sewing table.
It was originally intended to help me review my stitching technique.
I recorded the first fitting, the construction of the corset, the placement of every flower, and the final crystal details.
I also photographed each completed stage.
I didn't know those recordings would eventually become the most important evidence of my life.
Three nights before the competition, I came home from work.
My bedroom door was open.
My sewing table was empty.
The garment bag was gone.
My sketches had disappeared.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then I ran downstairs.
Vivienne sat on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.
“Where's my dress?””
She didn't look up.
“You withdrew from the competition.””
I stared at her.
“What?””
“Your application was withdrawn this morning.””
“I didn't withdraw anything.””
Vivienne placed her phone on the coffee table.
“Perhaps you realized you weren't ready.””
“Where is my gown?””
She sighed.
“Celeste needed something for her final presentation.””
My stomach dropped.
“You gave her my dress?””
“I allowed her to use some materials.””
“Those weren't materials. That was my finished collection!””
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Celeste appeared wearing silk pajamas.
She held a glass of sparkling water.
“Found out, did you?””
I stepped toward her.
“Give it back.””
She took a slow sip.
“It's already been fitted.””
“You can't wear it.””
“Actually, I can.””
She smiled.
“Mom registered the design under my name.””
I looked at Vivienne.
“You changed my application?””
Vivienne stood.
“We corrected an administrative problem.””
“You stole my account!””
“Watch your language.””
I ran upstairs and tried Celeste's bedroom door.
Locked.
“Open it!””
Her laughter came from inside.
“Go to bed, Aaliyah.””
“That's my dress!””
A moment later, she opened the door just enough for me to see her face.
Behind her, my pink gown hung on a mannequin.
She was already wearing the crystal necklace I had sewn into its neckline.
“Look at it,” she whispered.
“It's much prettier on me.””
I reached for the garment.
Celeste slammed the door.
My father appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Aaliyah? What's happening?””
I turned toward him.
“Dad, she stole my dress.””
He looked at the closed door.
Then at me.
“Let's not make accusations without understanding everything.””
I stared at him.
“You watched me make it.””
His expression changed.
But he still didn't move.
“Give me until tomorrow,” he said.
I went into my room and closed the door.
Then I opened my laptop.
The camera footage was still there.
Every stitch.
Every flower.
Every crystal.
And, most importantly, a recording from the previous afternoon.
It showed Vivienne entering my room with a garment bag.
It showed her taking my finished gown.
And it showed her placing my original sketches inside her handbag.
I copied everything onto three separate drives.
Then I opened my email.
There was a message from the competition committee.
*Your withdrawal request has been received.*
I stared at the sender information.
The request had come from my registered account.
But the recovery email had been changed.
To an address I recognized.
Celeste's.
My hands began to shake.
They hadn't simply stolen my dress.
They had taken control of my identity as a designer.
And the next morning, I discovered that the theft went much deeper than I had imagined.
Because when I opened the competition website, my original design was already being advertised.
Under Celeste Vaughn's name.
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With the title:
*THE GARDEN OF DREAMS — AN ORIGINAL COLLECTION.*
