Chapter 9: The Original Designer
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Vivienne held the photograph between two fingers.
My mother's face smiled back at me from a world I barely remembered.
The pink gown was unmistakable.
It had the same sculpted flowers, the same sweetheart neckline, and the same layered chiffon.
But the date was impossible.
I had created that gown six months ago.
How could my mother have worn it twenty-three years earlier?
“Where did you get that photograph?”” I asked.
Vivienne slipped it back into her handbag.
“From my personal archive.””
“That's my design.””
“Is it?””
“You copied it from my sketches.””
She laughed.
“Your sketches?””
My father stepped forward.
“Vivienne, stop this.””
She turned on him.
“You have been useless from the beginning, Daniel. You couldn't even protect your own wife's work.””
My father looked stunned.
I stared at Vivienne.
“What are you talking about?””
She took a slow breath.
Then she said something that changed the entire story.
“Your mother and I worked together long before she met your father.””
According to Vivienne, she and Elise had met at a small design studio in Manhattan more than twenty-five years earlier.
They were both young and ambitious.
Elise was talented with fabric construction.
Vivienne was talented at business development.
They had discussed building a fashion company together.
But their partnership had collapsed after a disagreement over intellectual property.
Vivienne claimed she had developed the original flower technique.
Elise had supposedly refined it and registered it under her own name.
“You can imagine how I felt,” Vivienne said.
“I spent years developing the concept, only to have Elise present it as her own invention.””
I stared at her.
“Then why didn't you sue her?””
“Because she had already registered the patent.””
“So you waited twenty-five years to steal it?””
Vivienne smiled.
“I waited for the right opportunity.””
My father shook his head.
“That's not what happened.””
Vivienne turned toward him.
“You weren't there.””
“No. But Elise told me everything.””
She laughed.
“Your wife was a very convincing storyteller.””
I felt anger building in my chest.
“Where is the proof?””
Vivienne opened her handbag and removed another document.
“This is the original partnership agreement.””
She placed it on the cutting table.
The document appeared old.
It contained two signatures.
Elise Bennett.
Vivienne Vaughn.
And beneath them was a clause stating that both women had contributed to the development of a textile sculpting technique.
I examined the page.
“Why didn't I know about this?””
“Because your father buried the past.””
My father stepped forward.
“That's enough.””
Vivienne ignored him.
“Your mother took everything when she left the partnership. The designs, the contacts, the patent.””
I looked at the signature.
It appeared genuine.
But something was wrong.
The paper was dated twenty-six years earlier.
Vivienne's signature included the surname Vaughn.
I looked up.
“Your maiden name was Carter.””
For the first time, Vivienne hesitated.
“What?””
“Your name was Vivienne Carter when you met my mother. You didn't marry Mr. Vaughn until years later.””
Her eyes narrowed.
I pointed to the document.
“This agreement uses the name Vaughn.””
My father looked at the paper.
Then he stepped closer.
“That's impossible.””
Vivienne grabbed the document.
“It was updated.””
“Why?””
“Because my name changed.””
I shook my head.
“You can't update a twenty-six-year-old signature by changing your surname.””
Vivienne's face hardened.
“Enough.””
She snatched the paper from the table.
But I had already photographed it.
Rebecca had taught me to document everything.
I turned toward the investigator.
“Please make sure that document is preserved.””
Vivienne stared at me.
“You think a few photographs will save you?””
“No.””
I looked at her handbag.
“But the original document might.””
That afternoon, Rebecca arranged for a forensic document examiner to inspect the partnership agreement.
The examination was conducted in her office.
Vivienne had refused to provide the original, but the photographs were enough to identify several inconsistencies.
The examiner, a woman named Patricia Moore, enlarged the signature.
“The ink appears newer than the paper,” she explained.
She pointed to the lower corner.
“Also, the company registration number printed here didn't exist at the time this agreement was supposedly created.””
I looked at Rebecca.
“So it's fake?””
“Potentially,” Rebecca replied.
“We need the original document to make a definitive determination.””
My father sat beside me, staring at the floor.
I turned toward him.
“Did Mom ever mention working with Vivienne?””
He nodded slowly.
“She told me they had known each other professionally.””
“Did she say Vivienne stole her work?””
He hesitated.
“She said Vivienne had tried to claim ownership of her research.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
He rubbed his face.
“Because I thought it was over.””
I looked at him.
“Dad, she has been stealing from Mom for years.””
“I know.””
“And you let her into our home.””
He closed his eyes.
“I thought marrying her would give you a stable family.””
I laughed bitterly.
“I already had a family.””
He looked up.
For the first time, he didn't try to defend himself.
At six that evening, Marcus Reed published his investigation.
The headline appeared across several fashion news websites.
*THE MILLION-DOLLAR GOWN: DID MERIDIAN COUTURE BUILD ITS NEXT STAR ON A STOLEN DESIGN?*
The article included photographs of my original sketches, the footage from my bedroom, and copies of the disputed licensing documents.
Within an hour, the story had spread across social media.
People began sharing photographs of Celeste wearing my gown.
Some called her a fraud.
Others demanded that Meridian explain its role.
The competition's official account disabled comments.
Then a new announcement appeared.
*Meridian Couture Group has temporarily suspended its sponsorship of the New York Rising Designer Competition pending an independent investigation.*
Naomi showed me the announcement.
“They're panicking.””
I looked at the screen.
“Good.””
But Rebecca wasn't smiling.
“There is something else we need to consider.””
“What?””
“Vivienne may try to transfer the disputed intellectual property before the investigation is completed.””
“How?””
“Through a company overseas. If she moves the rights into a separate entity, recovering them could become more complicated.””
I thought about the $2.4 million agreement.
The company.
The patent.
The second collection.
“What can we do?””
Rebecca opened her laptop.
“We can file an emergency injunction and notify Meridian's board.””
She looked at me.
“But we need one more thing.””
“What?””
“Your mother's original research notebook. The complete one, not just the pages you found.””
I frowned.
“I photographed everything in the cabinet.””
“Was there an index?””
“Yes.””
Rebecca leaned closer.
“Did you notice any missing pages?””
I thought about the notebook.
The first page.
The sketches.
The letter.
Then I remembered the torn section near the back.
There had been several pages removed.
I told her.
Rebecca immediately sat upright.
“That's important.””
“Why?””
“Because the missing pages may contain the original development records and any information about the partnership.””
I looked toward my father.
“Do you know where they are?””
He shook his head.
“No.””
Then he stopped.
His expression changed.
“There was a second notebook.””
I turned toward him.
“What second notebook?””
“Your mother kept a smaller one. She called it her working journal. She used to carry it everywhere.””
“Where is it?””
My father swallowed.
“Vivienne took it.””
That night, I received a message from Celeste.
*We need to talk. Alone.*
I stared at it.
Then another message arrived.
*I found the original journal.*
My fingers tightened around the phone.
I called her.
She answered immediately.
“Where are you?””
“Not at home.””
“Where's the journal?””
“I have it.””
“Why?””
“Because I finally read it.””
Her voice trembled.
“What did you find?””
A pause.
Then she whispered:
“The original flower technique wasn't invented by Vivienne or your mother.””
I stood up.
“What?””
“It's older than both of them.””
I stared at the wall.
“Who invented it?””
Celeste took a shaky breath.
“Your grandmother.””
I couldn't speak.
“My grandmother?””
“Your mother's mother. Her name was Margaret Bennett.””
I remembered the few photographs I had seen of her.
A woman with silver hair and a gentle smile.
She had died long before I was born.
Celeste continued.
“The journal says Margaret developed the first technique when she worked in a small costume workshop. She taught it to Elise. Elise improved it. Then Elise and Vivienne began working together.””
I closed my eyes.
“So Vivienne's claim is false.””
“Not completely.””
Celeste sounded frightened.
“There's a page explaining that Margaret never patented the original method because she believed it belonged to the craft community. But she created a special version of it that Elise later developed into the patented technique.””
I swallowed.
“Where is the journal?””
“At the old townhouse.””
“What townhouse?””
“The one Mom used before she married your father.””
I froze.
Vivienne had never mentioned owning another property.
“Why are you telling me this?””
Celeste was silent for a moment.
“Because Mom is going there tomorrow night.””
“Why?””
“To destroy the journal.””
I looked at the clock.
“Where exactly?””
Celeste gave me an address in Manhattan.
Then she said something that made my heart race.
“There's another page you need to read. It explains why Mom married your father.””
I gripped the phone.
“What does that have to do with anything?””
Celeste began crying.
“Because your mother left something behind that Vivienne never found.””
“What?””
“The original inheritance agreement.””
I waited.
Then Celeste whispered:
“Your grandmother didn't leave the patent to Elise.””
I felt the room spin.
“Then who did she leave it to?””
Celeste answered in a voice barely louder than a breath.
“You.””
At 9:30 p.m., I met Naomi and Rebecca outside the Manhattan townhouse.
The building was old, narrow, and hidden between two modern apartment blocks.
A single light glowed on the second floor.
Rebecca examined the address.
“This property is registered to a holding company connected to Vivienne.””
I looked at the windows.
“Celeste said the journal is inside.””
“We'll contact the authorities before entering.””
I nodded.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Celeste.
*I'm sorry.*
I frowned.
Another message followed.
*Mom knows I told you.*
Then a third.
*She's inside with the original patent.*
I looked toward the townhouse.
A shadow moved behind the second-floor curtains.
Suddenly, the light went out.
A loud crash came from inside.
Rebecca immediately called for assistance.
I ran toward the entrance.
Naomi grabbed my arm.
“Aaliyah, wait!””
But before I could answer, the front door opened.
Celeste stumbled onto the steps.
Her face was streaked with tears.
There was blood on her sleeve.
And in her hands was a small leather journal.
I rushed toward her.
“Celeste! What happened?””
She looked behind her.
Then she whispered:
“Mom found the last page.””
I glanced at the journal.
“Where is it?””
Celeste began shaking.
“She burned it.””
I stared at her.
“What?””
“The inheritance agreement. The page that proves the patent belongs to you.””
I felt my knees weaken.
Then Celeste opened the journal.
A small photograph slipped onto the pavement.
It showed my grandmother standing beside a little girl.
The little girl was holding a pink fabric flower.
On the back, in my grandmother's handwriting, were seven words.
*For Aaliyah, the rightful owner of everything.*
But beneath those words was another sentence.
One that made Rebecca grab my arm.
*The patent is only half the inheritance.*
I looked at Celeste.
“What does that mean?””
She shook her head.
“I don't know.””
Then she looked toward the townhouse.
“Mom took the other half.””
At that exact moment, a black car pulled away from the curb.
Vivienne was in the back seat.
She held something against her chest.
A small metal box.
May you like
And as the car disappeared into the night, I realized she wasn't running away from the investigation.
She was racing to destroy the final piece of my grandmother's legacy.
