The sound of the seam breaking was so small that, for one hopeful second, Janelle Carter convinced herself she had imagined it. It was only a faint snap beneath her stepsister's fingers, almost lost under the low hum of the air conditioner and the traffic moving beyond the bedroom window.
Then the pale blue overskirt dropped on one side, pulling the entire line of the gown crooked. Brielle Vaughn was still holding a fistful of fabric. She looked at the damage, then at Janelle's face, and smiled as though the room had finally arranged itself exactly as she wanted.
"Well," she said, "I suppose the judges won't have much trouble deciding which of us understands fashion." Janelle stood motionless in front of the mirror. The gown had taken her four months to make, and the Harrington Foundation showcase began the following evening.
"Let go of it," Janelle whispered. Brielle released the fabric with exaggerated care. Janelle caught the torn panel before it brushed the floor. The light blue silk crepe was cool against her palms, but her hands felt hot and unsteady. A line of stitching had opened from the left hip almost to the lower edge of the fitted bodice. The damage was worse than a split hem. The gown's layered skirt had been built to fall from that precise point, and now its structure sagged like a broken wing. In the mirror, Janelle could see herself in the strapless corset-style top, the dress she had designed to look effortless while concealing hundreds of hours of exacting work. She had imagined walking into the showcase with quiet pride. She had never imagined standing in her childhood bedroom while her stepsister measured the cost of destroying that hope.
Brielle smoothed the front of her own one-shoulder blue evening dress. She had bought it at a designer boutique that morning and left the price tag on the dresser where Janelle would notice. The dresses were nearly the same shade, which Brielle had called a coincidence despite asking to see Janelle's fabric samples the previous week. "Don't be dramatic," she said. "If it came apart that easily, it wasn't ready for a runway. You should be thanking me for finding the problem here instead of in front of photographers." Janelle bent to examine the exposed stitches. One short section had been pulled sharply against the grain, and several thread ends were torn rather than loosened. She knew the difference between a seam that failed under movement and one somebody had deliberately strained. Knowing it was one thing. Proving it would be another.
Their father, David Carter, knocked once and came in without waiting. His wife, Denise, followed him carrying her phone and the persistent expression of a person who had already heard one version of the story. "What happened?" he asked. Brielle answered before Janelle could speak. "I was trying to help