Her eyes shifted toward Daniel’s tablet.

Then she leaned close enough that only I could hear her.

“Ask him who really paid for your grandmother’s last collection.””

Before I could respond, Vanessa walked away.

And for the first time since the blacklights had come on, I forgot all about the gown.

Because my grandmother had died believing her final collection had failed.

And I had just discovered that someone might have been lying about that, too.

Chapter 3: The Secret in My Grandmother’s Ledger

My grandmother, Margaret Hart, had been dead for six years.

She had spent nearly forty years designing wedding gowns and eveningwear in a tiny shop in Queens, where the front window always smelled faintly of lavender and hot steam. Her customers were nurses, teachers, secretaries, and women who saved for months to afford a dress they could wear on the most important night of their lives.

She never became famous.

She never appeared on a magazine cover.

But when she died, three generations of brides came to her funeral.

I had always believed she left the fashion world with nothing except her sewing machines, a few unfinished garments, and a debt she had been too proud to discuss.

Now Vanessa Vale had suggested there was more.

I followed Celeste Monroe into a quiet conference room behind the auditorium. The room overlooked a narrow alley, and the sound of the crowd outside reached us as a distant rumble.

Daniel Price joined us a moment later, carrying his tablet and a bottle of water.

“Please sit,” Celeste said.

I lowered myself into a leather chair.

My fingers were still trembling.

Celeste noticed.

“Would you like some water?””

“I’m fine, thank you.””

She studied me for a moment.

“You should know that what happened on that runway is serious. If your evidence supports your claim, we’ll take action. But I don’t want you to assume the glowing name alone settles the matter.””

“I understand.””

“Good. Then let’s discuss the documents.””

Daniel placed his tablet on the table.

“Your grandmother was Margaret Hart, correct?””

I stiffened.

“Yes.””

“And she operated Hart Bridal Studio in Queens?””

“For thirty-two years.””

Daniel exchanged a glance with Celeste.

“Did she ever work with Bellamy Atelier?””

“Not that I know of.””

“Did she ever design a collection for a company called Bellamy International?””

The name meant nothing to me.

“No.””

Celeste opened the black folder and removed a photocopy of an old contract.

“This document was included in the anonymous complaint. It concerns a private design collaboration from twenty-three years ago.””

She turned the page toward me.

The paper was yellowed at the edges. At the top was the name BELLAMY INTERNATIONAL, followed by a project title:

*THE STARLIGHT COLLECTION — ORIGINAL DESIGN PARTNERSHIP.*

Beneath it were two names.

Margaret Hart.

And Richard Bellamy.

My grandmother’s signature appeared at the bottom.

I leaned forward.

“That isn’t possible.””

Daniel watched me carefully.

“Do you recognize the signature?””

“Of course I do. I watched her sign birthday cards for years.””

I touched the photocopy with one finger.

“But she never mentioned Bellamy International. Not once.””

Celeste folded her hands.

“The collection was reportedly developed in the early years of Richard Bellamy’s career. According to archived fashion records, it became the foundation of the company that eventually evolved into Bellamy Atelier.””

I looked at the contract again.

“What does this have to do with my gown?””

“That’s what we’re trying to establish,” Daniel said.

“The anonymous complaint claims your grandmother developed a distinctive embroidery technique used in the original Starlight Collection. It also alleges that the technique was later incorporated into Bellamy Atelier’s signature designs without proper attribution.””

My throat tightened.

“My grandmother’s work was always hers.””

“Did she keep records?”” Celeste asked.

I thought of the old wooden desk in my apartment, the drawers packed with fabric swatches and faded photographs. After the funeral, I had kept nearly everything from her studio. I couldn’t bear to throw away her pattern books, even when the ink had faded and the paper had begun to crumble.

“There are notebooks,” I said.

“A ledger, too. She wrote down every order, every payment, every fabric purchase. But I never found anything about Bellamy.””

Daniel leaned forward.

“Would you be willing to let us examine those records?””

“Yes.””

Celeste nodded.

“Then we may have two separate issues. The ownership of your gown, and the possibility that Bellamy Atelier has a much older dispute to answer for.””

I stared at the signature.

My grandmother had been a practical woman. She didn’t believe in conspiracy theories, and she hated gossip. When I was sixteen, I once asked why she never tried to sell her designs to a major fashion house.

She had put down her needle and looked at me with an expression I had never understood.