“Turn off the lights,” she hissed at the lighting technician.
He looked at the control panel.
“I’m running the approved sequence.””
“Then stop running it!””
“I can’t cut the entire rig without shutting down the stage.””
Vanessa grabbed his headset.
“Do it!””
But the damage was already done.
At the end of the runway, Brianna clutched the sides of the skirt.
“What is this?”” she demanded, turning toward the wings.
“Vanessa!””
Her voice carried through the room.
The audience heard it.
So did the judges.
And so did the woman who had shouted for the show to stop.
That woman was Celeste Monroe, the editor in chief of Vogue North America and one of the most influential figures in the fashion industry. Her silver hair was cut into a sharp bob, and her expression suggested she had just discovered something far more interesting than the collection itself.
“Miss Cole,” Celeste called, rising from her chair, “did you design this gown?””
Brianna swallowed.
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“It’s my original concept.””
Celeste’s gaze dropped to the glowing name.
“Then why does it say Evelyn Marie Hart?””
Brianna looked toward the stage entrance.
Vanessa appeared in the wings, frantically signaling for her to leave the runway.
“It’s a technical mistake!”” Brianna announced.
“The atelier must have used an old sample lining.””
A murmur spread through the audience.
Celeste didn’t sit down.
“An old sample lining with a complete name embroidered into it?””
Brianna’s jaw tightened.
“I’m sure I can explain.””
“Then explain.””
The silence that followed was worse than any accusation.
Brianna opened her mouth, but no words came out.
I stood behind the black curtain, feeling my pulse in my fingertips.
The moment I had imagined in private had finally arrived. Yet watching it unfold was nothing like the fantasy. I wasn’t smiling.
I wasn’t celebrating. I was thinking about my grandmother’s sewing table, the little jar where she kept broken buttons, and the way she used to guide my hand when I was too young to push a needle through thick fabric.
She had taught me that a stitch was a promise.
And I had made thousands of promises in that gown.
Vanessa suddenly appeared beside me.
“You,” she whispered.
I turned.
Her eyes were blazing.
“What did you do?””
I met her stare.
“I finished my dress.””
She seized my wrist.
“You sabotaged a company event!””
“You stole my work.””
“Keep your voice down!””
“Why? You’re the one who told me nobody would believe it was mine.””
Vanessa tightened her grip until her nails dug into my skin.
“You have no idea what you’ve done. Bellamy Atelier has investors in that audience. Buyers.
Executives. If this becomes a scandal, you will never work in fashion again.””
I glanced toward the runway, where Brianna was now being escorted toward the wings by two stage assistants.
“Maybe you should have thought about that before stealing my gown.””
Vanessa released me with a sharp shove.
“You think that little trick proves anything? A name in a lining doesn’t establish ownership.””
For the first time that evening, she said something that sounded almost reasonable.
She knew it, too.
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Anyone can stitch a name into a dress,” she continued.
“You have no official proof that you designed it.””
I looked at her.
Then I smiled.
“Would you like to see my receipts?””
Her expression flickered.
“What?””
“My sketches. My dated pattern files. My fabric invoices.
The photographs I took every night while making the gown. The messages you sent me asking for progress updates.””
I took my phone from my pocket.
“And the email where you told me the design was too risky for the collection, three days before you secretly approved Brianna’s runway appearance.””
Vanessa stared at the screen.
For the first time since I’d met her, she seemed unable to decide what to say.
Then she laughed.
It was a small, brittle sound.
“Those files belong to the company. You signed an employment agreement.””
“I read it.””
“Then you know the atelier owns designs created during your employment.””
“Not every design created by an employee automatically belongs to an employer under every circumstance,” I replied.
“And this dress was entered under my own name in the emerging designer competition before you ever claimed it for the collection.””
Vanessa’s mouth tightened.
“You filed a complaint?””
“I filed the design submission. I also sent a copy of my documentation to the competition director.””
Her eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t dare.””
“Apparently, I already did.””
Across the auditorium, the music had stopped completely. The announcer was attempting to calm the audience, but the murmurs were growing louder.
Celeste Monroe had left her seat and was speaking with the competition director, Daniel Price, near the judges’ table.
Daniel was holding a tablet.
