Chapter 3: The Contract My Father Hid for Nine Years
I drove home with the photograph on the passenger seat.
Rain streaked across the windshield, turning Atlanta's streetlights into long golden lines. Every few seconds, I glanced at the note on the back.
Once the contract is transferred, the girl never needs to know.
My father's handwriting was unmistakable.
He wrote his capital V with a sharp downward stroke. He crossed his t's so firmly that the pen often tore the paper.
I'd seen those letters on birthday cards, permission slips, and the bills he left on the kitchen counter.
I had never imagined seeing them beside a sentence that made my childhood feel like a carefully constructed lie.
When I turned into our driveway, every light in the house was on.
Vanessa's black SUV sat beside my father's truck.
She was home already.
I parked near the garage and sat still for a moment, listening to the rain tap against the roof.
My mother's old sewing machine stood in the corner behind a stack of paint cans. I could see its silhouette through the small garage window.
For years, I'd worked beside it without understanding how much of my mother's life might have been hidden just beyond my reach.
I took the photograph and stepped out.
The front door opened before I reached the porch.
My father stood there in his shirtsleeves.
"Nia, come inside.""
"Where's the portfolio?""
His eyes moved to the paper in my hand.
"Who gave you that?""
"Maya.""
His jaw tightened.
"Of course she did.""
"Don't blame her. You wrote this.""
I held up the photograph.
He looked at the words on the back, and something in his expression collapsed.
For one brief second, he looked like the man who had sat beside my mother's hospital bed, holding her hand while I slept in a chair nearby.
Then the expression disappeared.
"Inside," he said.
"Answer me first.""
"Not on the porch.""
"Why? Afraid the neighbors will hear?""
His face hardened.
"Don't start with me.""
I almost laughed.
There it was again.
The phrase that had ended countless arguments when I was a teenager. Don't start. Don't question. Don't make things difficult.
For years, I'd swallowed my questions because I believed my father was grieving too.
Now I wondered whether he'd been protecting his grief or his secrets.
I walked past him into the living room.
Vanessa stood near the fireplace, still wearing the navy dress she'd chosen for the competition. She had changed out of her heels and was holding a glass of water.
She looked at the photograph in my hand.
Then she looked at my father.
"You let her see it?""
"I didn't give it to her," he replied.
"That isn't what I asked.""
I placed the photograph on the coffee table.
"Both of you are going to tell me what this means.""
Vanessa took a measured sip of water.
"It means your stepsister has been snooping through my belongings.""
"Maya found it in your handbag.""
"Then perhaps she should learn to respect other people's property.""
"You had a document with my name on it hidden in your dressing room. Marcus Bennett found it. The competition is investigating you.""
Vanessa set down her glass.
"Do you have any idea what you've done tonight?""
"Yes. I showed people what you did to my gown.""
"You humiliated me in front of hundreds of people!""
"You destroyed three months of my work!""
"And you made an entire spectacle out of it!""
My father stepped between us.
"Enough. Both of you.""
I stared at him.
"Why is she acting like I'm the one who did something wrong?""
"Because you aired a private family dispute in public.""
"It stopped being private when she tried to destroy my future.""
"Your future?"" Vanessa repeated.
"You have a job. You have a roof over your head. You have opportunities other people would be grateful for.""
"Then why are you so afraid of me winning a design competition?""
Her lips pressed together.
My father looked away.
I saw it.
The smallest movement.
A flicker of recognition.
He knew something.
I turned toward him.
"Show me the portfolio.""
He rubbed his forehead.
"Nia, this isn't simple.""
"Then explain the complicated part.""
"Your mother made a business arrangement before she died.""
"What kind of arrangement?""
"She signed an agreement with a fashion company.""
I blinked.
"Mom never told me about a fashion company.""
"You were fourteen.""
"I was old enough to know she was designing clothes. I helped her with sketches. I watched her make samples. She told me she was trying to build something.""
"She was.""
"Then what happened?""
My father glanced at Vanessa.
She gave him a warning look.
He ignored it.
"Your mother developed a collection she believed could be sold nationally. A company called Bellamy House was interested in acquiring the designs.""
I'd heard the name.
Bellamy House was a well-known American fashion retailer with stores across the country. Its current collections appeared in magazines and on celebrity stylists' social media pages.
"Mom designed for Bellamy House?""
"She was negotiating with them.""
"That's not what you said. You said she signed an agreement.""
He lowered himself onto the sofa.
"She signed an option agreement. It gave the company the right to purchase certain designs under specific conditions.""
"And the contract was transferred?""
He didn't answer.
I looked at Vanessa.
She folded her arms.
"Your mother was very talented, Nia. But talent doesn't mean you understand business.""
"Did you steal her designs?""
Vanessa's eyes widened theatrically.
"How dare you?""
"Did you?""
"Your mother was my friend.""
The lie came so smoothly that I felt a chill.
"You were married to my father.""
"After Evelyn's death.""
"You were in our lives before she died.""
Vanessa's expression changed.
It was tiny, but I caught it.
She had been waiting for me to say something else.
My father stood abruptly.
"That's enough.""
"No," I said.
"You don't get to end this conversation.""
"You're upset.""
"I'm furious.""
"You don't know the circumstances.""
"Then tell me.""
He walked toward the hallway.
I followed him.
"Where are you going?""
"To get the portfolio.""
He disappeared into his study.
Vanessa remained beside the fireplace.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she picked up her glass again.
"You should be careful about what you accuse people of, Nia.""
"Why? Because you might sue me?""
"Because you might discover something you cannot live with.""
I stared at her.
"Is that a threat?""
"It's advice.""
"Then here's some advice for you. Stay away from my designs.""
She laughed under her breath.
"You still don't understand, do you?""
"Understand what?""
"That the dress you wore tonight may have been yours in your imagination, but the work behind it belongs to a much older story.""
My stomach tightened.
Before I could respond, my father returned carrying a blue leather portfolio.
Its corners were worn. A brass clasp held it shut.
I recognized it immediately.
I'd seen it once when I was fourteen, shortly before my mother died. She had been sitting at the kitchen table, writing notes beside a stack of sketches.
When I'd asked what it was, she'd smiled and said it was the beginning of something wonderful.
After her funeral, the portfolio disappeared.
Now it lay in my father's hands.
He placed it on the coffee table.
"I should have shown you this years ago.""
I reached for the clasp.
Vanessa moved quickly.
"Don't open it.""
My father turned toward her.
"You've had nine years to explain this.""
"And you've had nine years to keep your daughter from destroying everything we built!""
The room went silent.
My father stared at her.
I stared at both of them.
"Everything you built?"" I repeated.
Vanessa's mouth tightened.
My father looked exhausted.
"Open it, Nia.""
The clasp clicked.
Inside were sketches, fabric samples, photographs, and several thick envelopes. The first pages contained designs I remembered from childhood: a red evening coat, a cream-colored wedding gown, a collection of silk blouses my mother had sewn for a charity auction.
Then I found the midnight-blue dress.
The original sketch was dated October 2017.
Nine years earlier.
It was almost identical to the design I'd submitted to the competition.
Silver flowers spread across the bodice. The skirt fell in layered midnight-blue panels. A gold accent curved along the waist.
My hands went cold.
"I've never seen this drawing.""
"I know," my father whispered.
I turned the page.
There was another sketch.
Then another.
A whole collection.
Each design bore my mother's signature.
And tucked between the drawings was a photograph of a young woman wearing the midnight-blue gown.
I looked closer.
The photograph had been taken in a studio. The woman stood against a white backdrop, her face turned slightly toward the camera.
It was Vanessa.
She was younger, with longer hair and the same diamond bracelet she wore tonight.
My mouth went dry.
"Why are you wearing Mom's dress?""
Vanessa didn't answer.
I lifted the photograph.
"Why are you modeling her designs?""
"She asked me to," Vanessa replied quickly.
"Why?""
"Because she wanted photographs for her portfolio.""
"Then why did you hide them?""
"Your father kept them.""
I turned toward him.
"Did you give her Mom's collection?""
"No.""
Vanessa let out a bitter laugh.
"Tell her the truth, Daniel.""
He flinched at the sound of his own name.
I had never heard Vanessa speak to him that way.
"What truth?"" I demanded.
My father sat down slowly.
"After your mother died, Bellamy House contacted me. They wanted to know whether the collection was still available.""
"And?""
"I told them I would handle it.""
"Handle what?""
"The paperwork. The estate. The agreement.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because you were grieving.""
"I was grieving when I was fourteen. I'm twenty-three now.""
He closed his eyes.
"I know.""
"Did you sell her designs?""
He remained silent.
Vanessa stepped forward.
"The collection needed someone who could present it properly. Your mother was gone. The company wasn't going to wait forever.""
I turned toward her.
"That doesn't answer my question.""
My father opened his eyes.
"Yes," he said.
"The collection was sold.""
The words seemed to drain the air from the room.
"To Bellamy House?""
He nodded.
"Under whose name?""
He looked at the floor.
I already knew.
I just needed him to say it.
"Whose name is on the contract?""
My father swallowed.
"Vanessa's.""
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything except the rain.
Vanessa's designs.
Vanessa's success.
Vanessa's name on the collections that had appeared in national advertisements and fashion magazines.
I remembered the expensive trips she'd taken, the jewelry she'd bought, the way she'd laughed whenever I talked about becoming a designer.
I had always assumed her money came from her first marriage and my father's business.
Now I wondered how much of it had come from my mother's hands.
"You stole her work," I whispered.
Vanessa's face hardened.
"I acquired a collection through a legal agreement.""
"Mom was dead.""
"And your father was the executor of her estate.""
I turned to him.
"Is that true?""
He nodded reluctantly.
"Your mother left me responsible for her unfinished business.""
"And you transferred her designs to Vanessa?""
"I thought I was protecting you.""
The sentence was so absurd that I stared at him in disbelief.
"Protecting me from what?""
"From the legal complications. From the financial uncertainty. From the pressure of trying to manage a business while you were still a child.""
"So you gave her work to Vanessa.""
"I believed it was the best decision at the time.""
"Did you receive money?""
He looked at me.
That was all the answer I needed.
My throat tightened.
"How much?""
"I don't remember the exact amount.""
"Then get the contract.""
He rubbed his face.
"Nia—"
"Get. The. Contract.""
Vanessa moved toward the portfolio.
"That document doesn't belong to you.""
I pulled it against my chest.
"It's my mother's work.""
"It's the estate's property.""
"And you said you acquired it legally. So why are you afraid of me reading the paperwork?""
Her eyes flashed.
"I'm not afraid.""
"Then let me see it.""
She reached for the portfolio.
My father caught her wrist.
"Vanessa, stop.""
She stared at him.
For the first time that evening, I saw something beyond anger in her expression.
Panic.
"You promised me," she whispered.
My father released her.
I looked between them.
"What did he promise you?""
Neither answered.
Then my phone rang.
Patricia Wells's name appeared on the screen.
I answered immediately.
"Hello?""
"Nia, we finished reviewing the first set of documents recovered from the competition office," Patricia said.
"We found evidence that the complaint against you was submitted using a company account associated with Bellamy House.""
I glanced at the blue portfolio.
"Okay.""
"There's something else. The company has requested an emergency review of your submission because they believe your gown reproduces a protected design from their archive.""
I felt the room tilt.
"But the design is my mother's.""
"That's why we need to verify the chain of ownership.""
I gripped the phone.
"Can you prove who owns the collection?""
"Not yet. But we found a second agreement in the envelope. It appears to contain a clause that was never disclosed to the competition.""
"What clause?""
Patricia paused.
"The original designer's heir may have retained certain rights, depending on the terms of the estate transfer.""
I looked at my father.
He had gone pale.
Vanessa stood completely still.
"Who is the original designer's heir?"" I asked.
Patricia's voice softened.
"That is precisely what we are trying to establish. The document names someone, but the signature on the transfer appears to have been challenged.""
I looked down at my mother's sketches.
Then at the note Maya had given me.
Once the contract is transferred, the girl never needs to know.
"Patricia," I said, "I have the original portfolio here.""
"Please don't alter or remove anything. Our legal team will need to examine it.""
"I won't.""
"And Nia?""
"Yes?""
"If the document is authentic, this may be much bigger than the competition.""
I ended the call.
My father stared at me as though he could see the next nine years unfolding in front of him.
Vanessa took a step backward.
I opened the portfolio again and began sorting through the envelopes.
The first contained sketches.
The second held photographs.
The third contained the original Bellamy House agreement.
But beneath it was a smaller envelope, sealed with yellowed tape.
My mother's handwriting covered the front.
*For Nia. Open when you're old enough to understand why I fought.*
I stopped breathing.
My father whispered my name.
Vanessa lunged toward the table.
"Don't open that!""
I pulled the envelope away just before her fingers reached it.
She stood frozen, her face stripped of every practiced expression.
I looked at the handwriting.
My mother's handwriting.
Then I looked at the two people who had spent nine years keeping it from me.
"What did you do to her?"" I asked.
My father began to cry.
Vanessa said nothing.
And somewhere inside that sealed envelope was the answer to the question that had haunted my childhood without my ever knowing it.
May you like
Why had my mother fought so hard to protect her designs?
And why had the people closest to her been so desperate to make sure I never learned the truth?
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