Chapter 7 - The Night They Tried to Erase Me
Twelve hundred dresses.
I repeated the number until it stopped sounding real.
Twelve hundred copies of something my mother had designed while fighting for her life.
I wanted Noah to call whoever was handling the shipment and make them stop the trucks.
But he shook his head.
"My company's not the carrier on that order. I can't cancel someone else's shipment."
"Then what can we do?"
"Give your attorney the information I can properly provide and let her pursue it."
I called Rachel.
She listened carefully, then asked for the shipping company's name and whatever public product listings we could identify.
"We already have the demand letter prepared," she said. "We're going to notify the relevant businesses of the ownership dispute, seek preservation of the records, and assess whether emergency court relief is available."
"Can we stop them tonight?"
"I can't promise that."
I closed my eyes.
I hated that answer.
But I appreciated that she wasn't lying to me.
After hanging up, I watched Tasha refresh Harper's online store.
The Rose Collection was everywhere.
Green dresses.
Ivory wrap dresses.
Blue blouses.
Every photograph looked expensive.
Every description sounded beautiful.
And every garment had been reproduced from designs Derek had taken out of my apartment.
Tasha pointed to a product listing.
"Look at this."
I leaned forward.
Harper had used a photograph of my original green dress.
Not a copied dress.
Mine.
I recognized the tiny uneven fold near the waist.
It was a photograph Derek had taken for me during one of my first professional-looking shoots.
I'd paid him twenty dollars for helping.
He'd complained about the amount all afternoon.
Now his girlfriend was using that same photograph to advertise twelve hundred counterfeit versions.
I began laughing.
Tasha stared at me.
"Mia?"
"I paid him to take the picture."
My laughter turned into sobbing.
"I actually paid him to help steal from me."
She pulled me into a hug.
"Then that's one more thing we're going to document."
The next morning, another disaster arrived.
My livestream account had been temporarily restricted.
A notification explained that multiple reports alleging intellectual property violations were under review.
I read the message twice.
Then a third time.
"No."
Tasha looked over my shoulder.
"What?"
"They reported my account."
I tried to start a livestream.
The platform wouldn't let me.
My old videos were still visible, but I couldn't broadcast or use several selling features until the review was resolved.
I submitted an appeal with my documentation.
Then I called Rachel.
"Can Harper actually do this?"
"Anyone can submit a report. That doesn't mean the allegation is valid. Keep the notice and your appeal confirmation."
"But what am I supposed to do while they review it?"
Rachel paused.
"Do you have another way to reach your customers?"
I looked at the mailing list.
Three thousand, eight hundred and fourteen subscribers.
Then I remembered something my mother used to say.
Never build a house with only one door.
I opened a new email.
Subject: Second Stitch Is Still Here.
I explained that livestreaming was temporarily unavailable and that I was organizing an in-person event where customers could examine the original garments, meet the people who made them, and place orders directly through my verified business.
I needed somewhere to hold it.
I needed tables.
Clothing racks.
A payment system.
And enough inventory to make the event worthwhile.
I had six days.
I called the owner of a small event space I'd used for a holiday market the previous year.
She remembered me immediately.
"Mia! How's business?"
"Complicated."
I explained that I wanted to organize a clothing event.
She checked her calendar.
"Saturday afternoon is open."
My heart lifted.
"Really?"
"Yes. I can give you the smaller room at a reduced rate."
I almost cried with relief.
Then she added, "But I'd need the deposit today."
I looked at my account.
Four hundred and twelve dollars.
That was everything left after paying part of the overdue rent, securing temporary storage, and covering my immediate business expenses.
"How much?"
"Three hundred."
I closed my eyes.
"I'll take it."
I paid the deposit.
One hundred and twelve dollars remained.
I didn't tell Tasha.
I didn't want her offering me money she needed for her own life.
I wasn't too proud to accept help.
But I needed to know I could make decisions without turning every person who loved me into another emergency fund.
Mrs. Alvarez recruited two retired seamstresses from her church.
Tasha persuaded a friend to lend us clothing racks.
Noah offered to handle delivery logistics at his company's normal small-business rates, with payment after the event.
I insisted he put everything in writing.
He smiled.
"Good."
"What?"
"You're asking the right questions."
I felt my cheeks warm.
Then I immediately became annoyed with myself.
The man had just complimented my business judgment.
Why was I blushing like a teenager?
By Wednesday, we'd recovered enough material to finish eleven original dresses and repair eight sample pieces.
We could also display the remaining collection as made-to-order samples, provided we clearly explained the lead times.
Nineteen finished garments.
That was all.
Against Harper's twelve hundred.
I stared at the clothing rack.
"It's not enough."
Mrs. Alvarez looked offended.
"Not enough for what?"
"To compete."
She took the green dress from the rack.
"Your mother didn't compete with department stores. She made beautiful clothes for people who appreciated them."
"But Harper has so much more inventory."
"Then let Harper sell inventory. You sell workmanship."
I looked at the dress.
Every seam was clean.
Every button properly attached.
Every hem carefully measured.
Mrs. Alvarez turned it inside out.
"See? This is what people are paying for."
She handed it back.
"And if you're afraid, charge more."
I laughed.
She didn't.
"I'm serious, Mia. Stop pricing your work as though you should apologize for it."
I looked at the numbers.
Fabric.
Labor.
Packaging.
Shipping.
For years, I'd been charging just enough to keep moving.
Sometimes I made almost nothing after paying for materials.
I had been terrified that higher prices would make customers leave.
Derek had encouraged that fear.
"Keep it cheap," he'd always said. "Nobody's paying a hundred bucks for something you made in the spare bedroom."
I picked up a pencil.
For the first time, I calculated the actual cost of my labor.
The result made me sick.
I hadn't just been supporting Derek.
I'd been undervaluing myself to do it.
Thursday evening, my event venue canceled.
The owner sounded miserable.
"Mia, I'm so sorry."
"What happened?"
"We received a letter threatening legal action if we host an event selling the disputed designs. I can't afford to get involved."
I sat down.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"I wish there were."
After hanging up, I stared at the confirmation email.
My deposit would be refunded.
Eventually.
But the event was dead.
I had already sent the invitations.
Two hundred and forty-three people had RSVP'd.
My entire recovery plan had just disappeared.
I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and sat on the floor.
I didn't scream.
I didn't throw anything.
I simply stared at the tiles.
I was so tired.
Tired of being careful.
Tired of explaining.
Tired of watching someone with more money turn every opportunity into another locked door.
For the first time, I seriously considered quitting.
I could sell my sewing equipment.
Find an office job.
Move into a smaller apartment.
Stop trying to keep my mother's dream alive.
Then someone knocked.
"Mia?"
Noah.
I wiped my face.
"I'm fine."
"Okay."
He didn't leave.
After a moment, he sat down on the other side of the bathroom door.
I could see the shadow of his boots underneath.
"Tasha told me about the venue."
I didn't answer.
He waited.
Then he said, "You know, my first delivery truck broke down on the day I was supposed to sign my third client."
I sniffed.
"What happened?"
"I rented a van that cost more than I made on the job."
"That sounds stupid."
"It was."
I heard him laugh softly.
"But the client stayed with me for six years."
I rested my head against the door.
"What are you trying to say?"
"That losing your original plan doesn't mean your work disappears."
I closed my eyes.
"I only have nineteen dresses, Noah."
"Then show nineteen dresses."
"Harper has twelve hundred."
"Harper has twelve hundred things to explain."
A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth.
Then he said, "Mrs. Alvarez wants to know whether you've ever considered using her church's community hall."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"She says it has tables, good lighting, a parking lot, and a kitchen."
"Would they let us?"
"She's asking the committee right now."
I opened the door.
Noah was sitting on the hallway floor, his knees bent, holding two cups of coffee.
He handed me one.
"Thought you might need this."
I looked at him.
"Why are you doing all this?"
He considered the question.
"Because you keep showing up for people even when your own life is falling apart."
My throat tightened.
He looked away, suddenly awkward.
"And because Mrs. Alvarez scares me."
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
A few minutes later, my phone rang.
The community hall was available.
And they weren't charging me a rental fee.
Friday night, we prepared everything.
Tasha printed simple signs.
Noah arranged the transportation.
Mrs. Alvarez steamed every dress.
I packed the order forms myself.
At midnight, I sat alone beside my mother's sewing machine.
My phone vibrated.
Derek.
Harper knows about the event.
I stared at the message.
Another appeared.
You don't understand what she's capable of.
Then a third.
If you want to know what really happened to your money, meet me tomorrow morning.
I didn't reply.
Thirty seconds later, a photograph appeared.
It showed a check.
Made payable to Derek Walsh.
Amount:
$75,000.
Underneath, Derek had written:
She promised me this. Now she says I'm getting nothing.
I stared at the photograph.
Derek hadn't stolen my savings because he was desperate.
May you like
He'd stolen them because Harper had promised to make him rich.
And now, apparently, the two people who destroyed my life were turning on each other.
