Chapter 2: The Price of a Stolen Dream
Vanessa recovered first.
She adjusted the gown over Brianna's arms and turned toward my father with the expression she usually reserved for church fundraisers and expensive dinner parties.
“Marcus, thank goodness you're home. We've had a little disagreement.””
Dad closed the front door, still holding his car keys.
His eyes moved from Vanessa to Brianna, then up the stairs to where I stood with one hand pressed against my cheek.
“What happened to your face, Nia?””
For one brief second, hope rose inside me.
I walked down two steps.
“Vanessa hit me.””
The room went silent.
Brianna immediately shook her head.
“She didn't hit you. You lost your balance because you were grabbing the dress.””
“Brianna,” Dad said slowly, “put the dress down.””
She clutched it tighter.
“But Dad—”
“Put it down.””
Brianna lowered the gown onto the living room sofa, making sure the skirt didn't touch the floor.
Vanessa let out a weary sigh.
“I was trying to teach Nia some respect. She became aggressive when I asked her to stop making unreasonable demands.””
“What demands?”” Dad asked.
“She wants to spend the entire week working on that ridiculous dress instead of helping around the house. Then she accused Brianna of ruining it.””
I stared at her.
“You watched Brianna laugh at the paint.””
Vanessa turned toward me.
“And you have absolutely no proof that she did anything.””
I took out my phone.
“I have pictures of the paint container in my room. I have pictures of the damage. I have pictures from before she touched it.””
Brianna's face tightened.
“You've been taking pictures of us?””
“Of my dress.””
“You're obsessed with yourself!””
“Enough,” Dad said.
His voice was louder than usual, and for a moment I thought he might finally stand up for me.
He walked to the sofa and lifted the gown.
Blue stains covered the front, but the back remained mostly white.
“What happened here?”” he asked.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“I told you. It was an accident.””
“An accident?”” I repeated.
“Someone poured paint over it.””
Dad looked exhausted.
“Nia, please. Not tonight.””
I stared at him.
“Not tonight?””
He rubbed his forehead.
“I've been at work since six this morning. I don't have the energy for another argument.””
“Dad, she hit me.””
“I heard you.””
“Then do something!””
Vanessa gave a small, offended laugh.
“Marcus, I will not stand here and be treated like a criminal in my own home.””
My father looked at her.
Then at me.
Then at the dress.
He set the gown back on the sofa.
“Everyone needs to calm down.””
That was all.
No apology.
No consequences.
No question about why my cheek was swelling.
Just the same tired request he had made every time Vanessa crossed a line.
Calm down.
I turned and walked upstairs.
Behind me, Brianna whispered something to her mother.
Vanessa answered loudly enough for me to hear.
“Don't worry. She'll get over it.””
I shut my bedroom door.
For several minutes, I sat on my bed staring at the photograph of my mother beside my pillow.
Her smile was warm and familiar. Her hands rested on the shoulders of the little girl sitting in front of her sewing machine.
I remembered the day that photograph had been taken.
I had been eight, and I had insisted on making a dress for my stuffed rabbit.
The fabric was crooked. The seams were uneven. I had used so much thread that the rabbit's waist looked like a belt made of rope.
Mom had examined my creation with exaggerated seriousness.
“Well,” she had said, “I believe the fashion world is in trouble.””
I had giggled.
“Is it good?””
She had kissed my forehead.
“It is yours. That makes it worth finishing.””
I closed my eyes.
Then I heard a knock.
Dad entered without waiting for permission.
He carried a glass of water and stood awkwardly beside my desk.
“Let me see your face.””
I lowered my hand.
His expression changed when he saw the red mark across my cheek.
“Did she really hit you?””
I looked at him.
“Why would I lie?””
He sat on the edge of my bed.
“I didn't say you were lying.””
“You didn't believe me either.””
He looked down at the glass.
“Vanessa said you grabbed her.””
“Because she was taking my dress.””
“Nia, you know how things get heated in this house.””
I almost laughed.
“Is that what we're calling it now?””
He sighed.
“I'll speak to her.””
“When?””
“Tomorrow.””
“Dad, my graduation is in three days. The dress I spent three months making is ruined, and Vanessa wants to give it to Brianna.””
He looked toward the doorway.
“Your stepsister has a competition this weekend.””
“And I have graduation.””
“I'm aware of that.””
“Then why does everything I want become less important than everything she wants?””
He didn't answer immediately.
For a moment, he looked like the father I remembered from before Vanessa arrived—the man who used to make pancakes on Sunday mornings and carry me on his shoulders when we visited the county fair.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
Vanessa had sent him a message.
I watched his expression change as he read it.
“What does she want?”” I asked.
“Nothing important.””
“Then put the phone away.””
He stood up.
“Nia, don't make this harder than it has to be.””
I looked at him in disbelief.
He walked toward the door.
“Get some sleep. We'll figure out the dress tomorrow.””
After he left, I sat perfectly still.
Then I opened my phone and called Mrs. Alvarez.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Nia? It's nearly midnight. Is everything okay?””
I tried to speak, but my throat tightened.
“Mrs. Alvarez, I need help.””
Her voice changed immediately.
“Tell me what happened.””
I told her about the paint, the slap, and Vanessa's plan to give my gown to Brianna.
Mrs. Alvarez listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked, “Did you photograph the damage before anyone touched it?””
“Yes.””
“Good. Keep those pictures somewhere your family cannot access. Email them to yourself, too.””
I sat up straighter.
“Why?””
“Because people who behave badly often become very interested in changing their stories when consequences arrive.””
I wiped my eyes.
“I don't want to ruin my family.””
“Nia, you didn't pour paint on your dress. You didn't hit anyone. And you didn't steal anything. Don't confuse protecting yourself with hurting someone else.””
I stared at the blue stains.
“What if I can't fix it?””
“Then we'll find another solution. But first, tell me something. Did you register that gown for the showcase?””
“Yes.””
“Did the director confirm the preview?””
“Yes.””
“Then you have a responsibility to yourself, sweetheart. Don't let anybody take that away from you.””
After we hung up, I followed her instructions.
I emailed the photographs to myself.
I saved copies to a new folder.
Then I opened the regional showcase website and read the entry rules again.
Every garment had to be the original designer's work.
Any attempt to submit another person's design without authorization could result in disqualification.
The designer had to confirm ownership and present the garment for inspection.
I read the rules twice.
Then I opened the email from the competition director, a woman named Evelyn Brooks.
Her message included the schedule for the private preview.
*Friday, 10:00 a.m. — Original Garment Inspection.*
The same Friday as Brianna's competition.
I glanced at the clock.
It was 12:17 a.m.
My stepsister had less than thirty-six hours to decide whether she wanted to explain why she was carrying a dress that belonged to someone else.
The next morning, I went downstairs early.
The gown was gone.
I searched the living room, the laundry room, and the hallway closet.
When I entered the kitchen, Brianna was sitting at the island, eating strawberries from a glass bowl.
She wore a white blouse and gold earrings.
She looked as though she were preparing for a magazine photo shoot.
“Where's my dress?”” I asked.
Brianna didn't look up.
“Good morning to you, too.””
“Where is it?””
“Mom took it to the cleaners.””
I stared at her.
“After you poured paint on it?””
Her fork stopped.
“You really need to stop accusing me of things.””
“Then tell me where it is.””
Vanessa entered carrying a shopping bag.
“Brianna has a fitting at noon. We don't have time for your interrogation.””
I turned toward her.
“You cannot take my dress.””
Vanessa placed the shopping bag on the counter.
“I can take whatever is necessary to keep this household running smoothly.””
“It's not your dress.””
“Everything in this house is part of this family.””
“Then why am I the only one who has to pay for my own things?””
Vanessa's eyes narrowed.
“Because you are old enough to learn responsibility.””
I almost laughed.
I had paid for every inch of the gown with money earned after school. I had bought groceries when Dad forgot to leave enough money. I had repaired Brianna's school uniform when she tore the seam and needed it for a presentation the next morning.
Yet somehow, responsibility always meant that I had to sacrifice something.
I reached for my phone.
Vanessa immediately pointed at it.
“If you take one more photograph of this family, I will confiscate that phone.””
I slipped it into my pocket.
“I'm going to school.””
“Not until you clean the kitchen,” she said.
I looked at the spotless counter.
“It's already clean.””
“Then it shouldn't take long.””
Brianna laughed into her glass.
I stood there for several seconds, feeling the familiar pressure in my chest.
Then I picked up my backpack.
“No.””
Vanessa blinked.
“What did you say?””
“I said no.””
“You are not leaving this house until your chores are done.””
“I'm seventeen, not your servant.””
Her hand struck the counter.
“Don't you dare speak to me like that!””
I walked toward the door.
She followed me into the hallway.
“If you walk out now, don't expect me to do anything for your graduation.””
I stopped with my hand on the doorknob.
Then I turned.
“You've never done anything for my graduation.””
For the first time, Vanessa had no immediate answer.
I left before she could find one.
At school, I went straight to the counselor's office and asked to use the phone.
The counselor, Ms. Reed, noticed the fading redness on my cheek.
“What happened to you?””
I hesitated.
Then I told her the truth.
She closed her office door and listened while I explained everything, including the missing money my mother had left behind.
When I finished, she handed me a box of tissues.
“Nia, I want you to understand something. You don't have to handle this alone.””
I stared at the tissues.
“I don't want anyone to think I'm trying to destroy my family.””
“Reporting what happened isn't destroying your family. The person who chose to hurt you is responsible for that choice.””
She helped me document the incident and gave me information about local support services for young people experiencing violence at home.
She also called Mrs. Alvarez with my permission.
By lunchtime, I had a plan.
I would attend the private garment inspection on Friday.
I would present the photographs of the damage.
And I would not allow anyone to submit my design as their own.
After school, I went directly to the alterations shop.
Mrs. Alvarez was waiting near the front counter.
She was a small woman with silver hair, sharp eyes, and a habit of wearing measuring tape around her neck like a necklace.
When she saw me, she came around the counter and hugged me.
Then she held me at arm's length.
“Let me see the damage.””
I showed her the photographs.
She studied them carefully.
“The satin may be salvageable,” she said.
“The lining is another matter.””
“Can we fix it?””
“Perhaps. But that's not the only problem.””
She went to her office and returned with a folder.
Inside was a printed email from the showcase organizers.
“They contacted me this morning,” she said.
“They asked whether I could verify your design process.””
I looked up.
“Why?””
“Because someone has already submitted a photograph of a gown very similar to yours.””
My stomach tightened.
“Who?””
Mrs. Alvarez turned the page.
The submission had been made under Brianna Carter's name.
The photograph showed my white satin gown before it was painted.
My original design.
My signature was visible on the inside label.
I felt the room tilt.
“She stole my design.””
Mrs. Alvarez nodded grimly.
“And she has claimed that she made the gown herself.””
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“Can they disqualify her?””
“They can. But first, we need to establish the facts.””
She opened another document.
The showcase organizers had received Brianna's submission at 8:42 the previous evening.
That was less than an hour after Vanessa had taken the gown downstairs.
At the bottom of the email was a declaration signed electronically by Brianna.
I certify that this garment is my original work and that I have not copied another designer's creation.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I looked at Mrs. Alvarez.
“She's going to stand on a stage and tell people she made my dress.””
Mrs. Alvarez closed the folder.
“Only if you let her.””
For the first time since the paint had dried on my satin, I felt something stronger than anger.
I felt purpose.
I would not scream at Brianna.
I would not beg Vanessa.
I would not spend another night hoping Dad might suddenly remember what it meant to be my father.
I would let the truth speak.
But before I could leave the shop, my phone rang.
It was Dad.
I answered.
“Nia, where are you?””
“At work.””
“Come home. Now.””
His voice sounded strange.
“What happened?””
“Vanessa found an email from the showcase committee.””
I went still.
“What did it say?””
He hesitated.
May you like
Then he asked the question that changed everything.
“Why does a fashion competition director say your stepsister may have committed fraud using your dress?””
