Chapter 3: The Secret Inside My Mother's Portfolio
I didn't sleep.
At six in the morning, I was still sitting at my desk, staring at the photograph on my phone.
The document was blurry, but the details were unmistakable.
My father's signature.
My mother's business name.
A date from two years after her death.
I enlarged the image until the letters became jagged pixels.
Then I called the unknown number.
It went straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
"Who are you?"" I whispered into the phone.
"What are you trying to tell me?""
No answer came.
At seven fifteen, Dad knocked on my door.
"Emily? Are you awake?""
I shoved my phone beneath a notebook.
"Yes.""
He entered carrying a paper bag from the bakery near his office.
"I brought you breakfast. Margaret wants us at her studio by nine.""
He placed the bag on my desk, then studied my face.
"You didn't sleep.""
"Neither did you.""
He gave me a tired smile.
"Occupational hazard.""
I looked at him.
"Dad, can I ask you something?""
"Of course.""
"What happened to Mom's sewing studio?""
His expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
"What do you mean?""
"The room upstairs. Her machines, her sketches, her business files. Are they all still there?""
He set his keys on the desk.
"Most of them.""
"Most?""
"I had to move some things when we renovated the house.""
"When?""
"About two years ago.""
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because you weren't ready to go through everything.""
"How would you know?""
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Because every time you walked past that door, you looked like you were about to fall apart.""
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked at the notebook covering my phone.
"Did you sell anything that belonged to her?""
Dad's forehead creased.
"No. Why would you ask that?""
I almost showed him the photograph.
Almost.
But something stopped me.
Maybe it was the way he had hesitated when I asked about the studio.
Maybe it was the fact that the document bore his signature.
Or maybe I was simply afraid that the man who had spent twelve years protecting my mother's memory had done something I couldn't forgive.
"I was just wondering," I said.
Dad nodded, but his expression remained troubled.
"Come downstairs when you're ready. We should leave soon.""
After he left, I pulled the notebook away and stared at the photograph again.
The unknown sender had given me no explanation, only a question.
Ask your father what happened to your mother's sewing studio.
I decided I would.
But first, I needed to know what Samantha had done with the dress.
When I entered the hallway, I heard voices coming from the kitchen.
Victoria was speaking in a low, urgent tone.
"You cannot let her see those files.""
Samantha answered, "I know that.""
"Then why did you bring it up last night?""
"I didn't bring up anything! She started asking questions.""
"Because you couldn't keep your mouth shut.""
A chair scraped against the floor.
Samantha lowered her voice.
"Mom, if Dad finds out what happened to the designs, we're finished.""
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I stepped backward before the floorboard beneath my foot could creak.
For a moment, I stood perfectly still.
Then I heard Victoria say, "Your father will never believe Emily over me.""
Samantha gave a nervous laugh.
"That's what you said before.""
Silence followed.
I hurried downstairs, making enough noise to announce my arrival.
Both women turned toward me.
Victoria was standing beside the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee. Samantha sat at the table, scrolling through her phone.
"Good morning," Victoria said too brightly.
"Morning.""
I looked at Samantha.
"Can I talk to you?""
She didn't look up.
"If this is about the dress, save it.""
"It's about something else.""
"Then I'm busy.""
I pulled out the chair opposite her.
"Did you know someone submitted an academic misconduct complaint against me?""
Her thumb stopped moving.
Victoria's coffee cup froze halfway to her mouth.
I watched them both.
"Interesting," I said quietly.
"Neither of you looks surprised.""
Samantha set her phone down.
"What are you accusing me of now?""
"I'm asking a question.""
"And I don't know anything about your stupid university.""
"Then you won't mind if I ask the university to trace the complaint.""
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Victoria put her cup down with a sharp click.
"Emily, this is not the time for accusations.""
"Then tell me why Samantha looked like she knew exactly what I was talking about.""
"I didn't!"" Samantha snapped.
She shoved her chair back.
"God, you are obsessed with making me look bad!""
I stood too.
"Someone tried to get me investigated for cheating. Someone knew private details about my coursework. And last night, you destroyed the one thing I cared about most. Forgive me if I don't automatically trust you.""
Samantha's eyes filled with angry tears.
"You think everything bad that happens to you is my fault!""
"No. Just the things you do.""
For a moment, she looked as though she might throw something.
Then Victoria stepped between us.
"Enough. Both of you.""
I stared at her.
"You heard what you just said to Samantha, didn't you? About Dad never believing me?""
Her face went pale.
"What?""
I hadn't meant to say it aloud.
But now that the words were out, I couldn't take them back.
Victoria recovered quickly.
"You were eavesdropping?""
"I was walking down the stairs.""
"Then perhaps you should learn to respect other people's privacy.""
I laughed, although nothing about the situation was funny.
"That's interesting advice coming from someone who thinks it's acceptable to discuss my life behind closed doors.""
Dad appeared in the kitchen entrance.
"What's going on?""
Victoria turned toward him immediately.
"Your daughters are fighting again.""
"I'm not fighting," I said.
"I'm asking questions.""
Dad looked from me to Samantha.
"What questions?""
I opened my mouth.
Then I remembered the document.
The portfolio.
The warning about the sewing studio.
I looked at Victoria.
She was watching me with a strange, almost pleading expression.
Not anger.
Fear.
And I suddenly understood that she was afraid of something I hadn't even discovered yet.
"I want to see Mom's sewing studio," I said.
Dad blinked.
"Now?""
"Yes.""
He glanced at the clock.
"We need to get to Margaret's.""
"After that, then.""
"Emily—"
"Please, Dad. I want to see it.""
Something passed across his face.
Regret, perhaps.
Or recognition.
Finally, he nodded.
"All right. After we see Margaret.""
Samantha stood so quickly that her chair toppled backward.
"You can't be serious.""
Dad turned toward her.
"Pick up the chair.""
She stared at him.
"What?""
"You heard me.""
For a second, I thought she would refuse.
Then she grabbed the chair and slammed it upright.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered.
She stormed out of the kitchen.
Victoria followed her, leaving Dad and me alone.
He reached for my hand.
"Whatever you're thinking, Emily, I need you to know something.""
I looked at him.
"What?""
"Your mother made mistakes. I made mistakes. But neither of us ever stopped loving you.""
The words should have comforted me.
Instead, they made the photograph in my pocket feel heavier.
"What kind of mistakes?"" I asked.
He stared at me.
For one long moment, he didn't answer.
Then he said, "The kind people make when they're trying to protect someone.""
I pulled my hand away.
"Protect them from what?""
Dad looked toward the staircase.
Before he could answer, Victoria called from upstairs.
"Daniel! We need to talk!""
He closed his eyes.
"I'll explain everything after graduation.""
I felt something inside me go cold.
"Why not now?""
"Because some things are more complicated than they look.""
"That's what people say when they don't want to tell the truth.""
His face tightened.
"Emily, please.""
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to believe the father who had sat beside me on the floor collecting my mother's pearls, who had cried when he saw me wearing her design, who had spent years making sure I never felt alone.
But I could no longer ignore the possibility that love and honesty weren't always the same thing.
"Fine," I said.
"After graduation.""
Dad nodded, visibly relieved.
I hated that I noticed.
At eight thirty, we drove to Margaret's studio.
The city was waking up around us. Delivery trucks blocked the side streets, and students in graduation robes crowded the sidewalks near Westbridge.
I sat in the passenger seat, holding the box containing the ruined dress on my lap.
Dad kept both hands on the steering wheel.
Neither of us spoke until we reached a red light.
"Emily," he said, "I know last night was awful.""
I stared out the window.
"Awful doesn't really cover it.""
"I know.""
"Do you?""
He swallowed.
"Yes.""
The light turned green.
He drove on.
After a few minutes, he said, "Samantha has always struggled with feeling like an outsider.""
I turned toward him.
"So have I.""
He looked at me.
"That's different.""
"Why?""
"Because your mother—"
He stopped.
I waited.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"Because you lost someone you loved.""
I looked away.
"Samantha has a mother. She has a father. She has you, and Victoria.
She has people who show up for her. I spent half my childhood wishing I could call my mother when something good happened.""
Dad's eyes glistened.
"I know, sweetheart.""
"Then stop acting like Samantha's jealousy is something I have to fix.""
He nodded slowly.
"You're right.""
It was the first time he had said those words without adding an excuse.
I wasn't sure what to do with them.
Margaret's studio occupied the second floor of a narrow brick building downtown. The windows were filled with mannequins wearing elegant evening gowns, and the air smelled faintly of steam, fabric dye, and coffee.
Margaret opened the door before we knocked.
She was sixty-eight, with silver hair cut neatly at her jaw and measuring tape draped around her neck.
When she saw the box in my arms, her expression softened.
"Oh, sweetheart.""
I nearly broke down.
She led us to the cutting table and carefully lifted the lid.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she removed the torn bodice.
"Good Lord.""
Dad stood beside her.
"Can you repair it?""
Margaret examined the fabric, turning it gently beneath the overhead lights.
"Some of the seams can be restored. The skirt is another matter. Whoever did this cut through the grain in several places.""
I stared at the table.
"So it's ruined.""
Margaret looked at me.
"No. But it won't be the dress your mother designed anymore if I simply replace everything that's been cut.""
My throat tightened.
"What do you mean?""
She returned to the box and lifted one of the sleeves.
"Your mother's original design included a hidden panel beneath the skirt. She wanted to leave enough fabric for future alterations, something that would allow the gown to be passed down.""
I looked at Dad.
He nodded.
"I remember her mentioning that.""
Margaret continued.
"If we can find the original fabric samples and the remaining pieces from Elena's studio, I may be able to reconstruct the damaged sections without changing the design.""
I held on to the edge of the table.
"Then we can fix it?""
"We can try.""
Margaret's eyes met mine.
"But I need the original pattern. The one Elena kept in her private portfolio.""
My heart skipped.
"The leather portfolio?""
"Yes. She never trusted anyone else with that pattern.""
I looked at Dad.
He had gone very still.
Margaret noticed.
"Daniel?""
He cleared his throat.
"I thought the portfolio was still in the studio.""
Margaret frowned.
"You thought?""
He looked away.
"Some things were moved during the renovation.""
"Moved where?"" I asked.
Dad didn't answer.
Margaret slowly set down the sleeve.
"Daniel, the pattern isn't the only thing in that portfolio. Elena kept her business records there, too.""
I stared at her.
"What business records?""
She looked from Dad to me.
"The original licensing agreements. Her designs. The contracts for the collection she was preparing before she became ill.""
I remembered the photograph on my phone.
The transfer document.
My father's signature.
"Margaret," I said carefully, "did Mom ever sign over ownership of her designs?""
Her expression changed.
"No.""
The answer came too quickly to be uncertain.
"Not to anyone?""
"Never. Elena was very particular about protecting her work. She had plans for those designs, and she wanted you to inherit the business someday if you chose to.""
I felt the room tilt.
"She wanted me to inherit it?""
Margaret nodded.
"She told me herself.""
I turned toward Dad.
He was staring at the ruined dress as though it contained the answer to every question he had refused to answer.
"Dad," I whispered, "what happened to Mom's company?""
He opened his mouth.
Before he could speak, Margaret reached into a drawer beneath the cutting table.
She pulled out an old photograph.
It showed my mother standing beside a younger Margaret in front of a fashion-show backdrop. Both women were smiling. Between them stood a mannequin wearing a stunning ivory gown.
My gown.
Not a recreation.
The original.
I looked closer.
The photograph had been taken more than a year before Mom died.
Beneath it, in her handwriting, were the words:
The Emily Dress — original sample. Not for sale.
I touched the photograph with trembling fingers.
"Why do you have this?""
Margaret looked at Dad.
"Because Elena asked me to keep it safe.""
"Safe from whom?""
Margaret hesitated.
Then she opened a second drawer and removed a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
The handwriting was my mother's.
I stopped breathing.
Margaret held it out to me.
"Your mother gave me this shortly before she went into the hospital for the last time. She told me not to open it unless you came looking for the truth about her designs.""
I stared at the envelope.
For twelve years, I had believed my mother's final promise was simply about a dress.
But now I was beginning to understand that the dress was only one piece of something much larger.
I turned the envelope over.
The seal was intact.
Then I looked at Dad.
He had gone pale.
"Emily," he said, his voice barely audible, "before you open that, there's something you need to understand about the night your mother died.""
I clutched the envelope.
"What about it?""
Dad's eyes filled with tears.
And Margaret, standing beside him, whispered the words that made my entire childhood seem suddenly unfamiliar.
"Your mother didn't leave that studio because she was too sick to work.""
May you like
She looked directly at my father.
"She left because someone had stolen her designs.""
