Chapter 7: My Father Wasn't the Man I Remembered
"Tell me where you are.""
My voice sounded unfamiliar, even to me.
I stood outside the House of Couture with my phone pressed against my ear. Manhattan traffic rushed past, horns echoed between buildings, and people hurried along the sidewalk carrying shopping bags and coffee cups.
But everything around me had become strangely distant.
My father was alive.
The man I had spent nineteen years believing had abandoned us was alive.
And he was telling me that the gown I had just presented to an audience of influential designers was connected to something Richard Hayes had stolen from him.
"Nia, are you alone?"" he asked.
"No. Camille is with me.""
"Good. Don't go anywhere with Arthur.""
I looked through the glass entrance doors.
Arthur was standing near the reception desk.
"Why shouldn't I trust him?""
"Because Arthur knows what happened to the original collection.""
"So do you, apparently. Why don't you tell me?""
He sighed.
"Not over the phone.""
"That's not good enough.""
"Nia, please. I haven't spoken to you in nineteen years. I know you have questions.""
"Questions?"" I almost shouted.
"I have an entire childhood full of questions!""
A passing couple glanced at me.
I lowered my voice.
"You let me grow up believing you didn't want me.""
There was silence.
Then he said something that made my throat tighten.
"I never stopped wanting you, sweetheart.""
I closed my eyes.
I remembered a little boy's bicycle in our driveway. My mother's birthday cakes. The sound of a man laughing in the kitchen.
Then I remembered the day my father disappeared.
I was seven.
I had waited beside the front window for hours, holding a drawing I had made for him.
He never came.
"Where were you?"" I whispered.
"Trying to keep you safe.""
"From whom?""
"Richard Hayes.""
I looked at Camille.
She was watching my face carefully.
"Tell me where you are," I repeated.
"Come to Brooklyn. I'll send you the address.""
"How do I know this isn't another lie?""
He took a long breath.
"Because I still have the wooden music box I made for you when you were five. The one with the little ballerina inside. You broke the lid when you tried to make it dance faster.""
My hand flew to my mouth.
I remembered that music box.
My mother had kept it on a shelf in her bedroom.
After she died, I couldn't find it.
"Where is it?""
"With me.""
I looked down.
"Send me the address.""
The call ended.
A moment later, a text arrived.
*Carter Custom Tailoring, Brooklyn. Come alone if you can.*
Camille read the message over my shoulder.
"You're not going alone.""
"He asked me to.""
"And you think that's a good idea after everything we've learned?""
I shook my head.
"No. But I need to see him.""
Camille nodded.
"Then we're going together.""
Before we left, I turned toward the glass doors.
Arthur had disappeared.
The tailoring shop stood on a quiet Brooklyn street, between a small grocery store and a neighborhood bakery.
The sign above the entrance was faded.
The window displayed three men's suits, two wedding dresses, and a handwritten notice advertising alterations.
It wasn't the kind of place I had imagined my father working.
I had imagined him living in a beautiful house, surrounded by expensive furniture, perhaps even running a successful fashion company.
Instead, I found a small shop with peeling paint and a doorbell that barely worked.
Camille squeezed my hand.
"Ready?""
"No.""
She smiled.
"Me neither.""
I pushed the door open.
A bell rang.
The shop smelled of pressed fabric, leather, and warm coffee.
A man stood behind the counter with his back toward us.
He was adjusting the sleeve of a dark jacket.
His hair was mostly gray.
His shoulders were slightly bent.
But when he turned, I recognized his eyes.
The same dark brown eyes I saw in the mirror every morning.
He dropped the jacket.
"Nia.""
I couldn't move.
He took one hesitant step toward me.
"You look so much like your mother.""
I stared at his face.
There were lines around his eyes that hadn't existed in the photographs. His hands looked older. A small scar ran along his jaw.
But it was him.
My father.
"You're alive," I whispered.
He nodded.
"Yes.""
"All these years...""
His expression crumpled.
"I know.""
I stepped closer.
"Why didn't you come back?""
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"I tried.""
"When?""
"Several times.""
"That's not an answer.""
He looked down.
"Your mother told me to stay away.""
I felt something inside me snap.
"Don't blame Mom.""
"I'm not blaming her.""
"Then explain why you let me believe you abandoned us!""
He rubbed his face.
"After the agreement with Richard, everything became complicated. He threatened to sue me for breach of contract. He threatened to destroy the business. Then he started making threats involving your mother.""
I stared at him.
"What threats?""
"He had photographs of me meeting with a journalist. He claimed I had violated confidentiality agreements. He said he would make sure your mother lost everything if I tried to expose him.""
My father walked toward a chair.
"Denise believed that if I disappeared, Richard would leave you both alone.""
I shook my head.
"She should have told me.""
"You were seven.""
"Then you should have come back when I was seventeen. Or eighteen. Or twenty.""
He lowered his eyes.
"You're right.""
His answer caught me off guard.
He didn't defend himself.
He didn't make excuses.
He simply stood there, looking like a man who had spent nineteen years rehearsing an apology he never got to deliver.
Camille quietly stepped toward the window.
My father looked at me.
"Can I hug you?""
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
He wrapped his arms around me.
His shirt smelled faintly of detergent and fabric starch.
For a few seconds, I was seven again.
Then I pulled away.
"I have a competition to win.""
He smiled sadly.
"I know. I saw the photographs.""
"Then you know what happened.""
"I do.""
I placed my bag on the counter.
"Tell me about the original gown.""
My father walked to the back of the shop.
He unlocked a cabinet and removed a large flat portfolio.
Inside were dozens of sketches.
Some were faded.
Others were remarkably detailed.
He spread them across the table.
I recognized the wings immediately.
They appeared in several designs, each one more elaborate than the last.
"The Angel Collection," he said.
I touched one of the sketches.
"This is beautiful.""
"It took us three years to develop.""
"Mom helped you?""
"She made everything possible. I could draw, but she understood how fabric behaved. She could look at a complicated silhouette and know exactly where it would fail.""
He smiled.
"She was better than I ever was.""
I looked at the sketches.
"Why did Richard want them?""
"Because he knew the collection could become internationally successful. He offered us a partnership. We would retain creative credit, while his company would handle production and distribution.""
"And then he changed the agreement.""
My father nodded.
"He replaced the original contract with one that transferred the commercial rights to Hayes Luxury Group. I signed the first document without understanding the additional clauses.""
"Didn't you read it?""
"I did. But Richard presented the second document as a routine amendment. By the time I understood what he had done, his lawyers were already claiming ownership.""
I looked at him.
"Why didn't you fight?""
"I did.""
He opened another folder.
"Your mother and I filed objections. We challenged the registrations. We sent letters. We contacted journalists.""
"What happened?""
"Richard had more money, more lawyers, and more connections.""
He showed me a letter.
It was from a legal firm.
The document stated that any further claims against Hayes Luxury Group would result in financial penalties under the disputed agreement.
I felt sick.
"So he bullied you into silence.""
"Yes.""
My father looked at the drawings.
"But I kept the original patterns.""
"Where?""
He hesitated.
"That's the problem.""
I looked up.
"What?""
"The original Angel Collection was stolen from my studio six months ago.""
My heart began racing.
"When?""
"Three weeks before the competition complaint was filed.""
"Who took it?""
"I don't know. Someone entered the shop after closing and searched the back room. They didn't touch the money or equipment.""
He pointed toward an empty cabinet.
"They took one thing. The original design archive.""
I remembered the photograph of the black document case.
"Was it inside that case?""
He nodded.
"Yes.""
I felt cold.
"Victoria took the case from my mother's storage unit.""
My father went completely still.
"Victoria Hayes?""
"Yes.""
"Then she has the original archive.""
He sat down heavily.
"That explains everything.""
I stared at him.
"Everything?""
He looked toward the window.
"Richard didn't destroy your blue gown because he wanted you out of the competition.""
"Then why?""
"Because he recognized the blue crystal pattern.""
I frowned.
"What does that have to do with anything?""
"Your mother used a distinctive embroidery arrangement from the Angel Collection in your original design. It was a family technique. Richard knew that if you presented the pink gown with the wings, people might begin asking questions about the old collection.""
I looked down.
"But I created the pink gown from the materials Mom left me.""
"I know.""
He studied the photographs on my phone.
"Your mother had a habit of leaving clues in her designs.""
I remembered the little bird symbol.
"The bird.""
My father smiled.
"Exactly.""
He picked up a pencil and drew the symbol on a piece of paper.
"Three lines beneath the wings. Every original design carried it somewhere, usually inside the garment.""
I thought of the inside of my pink bodice.
I had embroidered the tiny bird there.
But I had done it because I remembered seeing it in my mother's sewing box.
My father looked at me.
"Did you put the symbol in your gown?""
"Yes.""
He closed his eyes.
"Then you may have done something Richard never expected.""
"What?""
"You created a new piece using an original family mark. That makes the design's history much harder to erase.""
I looked at the sketches.
"Can we prove the archive belongs to us?""
He nodded.
"There's a registration certificate. But it's in the black case.""
I grabbed my phone.
"Then we need to get it back.""
My father shook his head.
"Not before we know where Victoria has taken it.""
I called Arthur.
No answer.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
Then a text arrived.
*Nia, I need you to meet me. I have something important to tell you about your father. Come to the old studio. Alone.*
The message was from Arthur.
I showed my father.
He read it and frowned.
"Don't go.""
"Why?""
"Because the old studio was closed twenty years ago.""
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
*If you want to know why Denise really died without telling you the truth, come tonight.*
My fingers went numb.
Camille stepped away from the window.
"Nia?""
I looked at my father.
He was staring at the message with a terrible expression.
"That's not Arthur," he whispered.
"How do you know?""
He pointed at the phone.
"Because Arthur knows Denise never intended to keep the truth from you forever.""
May you like
Then he looked directly into my eyes.
"And because the old studio burned down the night your mother discovered what Richard had done.""
