The theater downtown was full of garment racks, makeup stations, nervous students and assistants calling names into headsets. Brianna arrived with Vanessa, two hair stylists and a garment bag carried like a trophy. She wore a silver bracelet that belonged to her mother and a look of relaxed certainty that made me remember all the nights I had watched her win arguments simply by speaking first. Vanessa looked at my plain black jacket and asked whether I had decided to come as a spectator. I told her I was presenting. She laughed quietly, but I noticed her eyes move toward the covered garment case beside me.
The private review took place in a small room behind the auditorium. Three committee members sat across from Brianna and me, with an assistant taking notes. I showed them the original sketches of Blue Hour, the dated progress images, the receipts for fabric and crystals, and the application where I had submitted it under my own name. Inez explained the construction methods she had seen me use. When a judge asked Brianna how she had reinforced the neckline, she glanced at Vanessa before offering an answer that did not fit the gown. When asked why the seam allowance changed at the back, she had no answer at all.
The committee chair did not shout or accuse. She asked Brianna to provide any independent record of her design process, and Brianna said the records were at home. The chair explained that credit for Blue Hour would remain disputed until the review was complete and that it could not be considered Brianna's original work on the strength of possession alone. I expected to feel triumphant. Instead, I felt strangely tired. I had spent so much energy proving something I already knew that the truth sounded almost ordinary when spoken by someone with authority.
The showcase continued while the committee gathered its final documentation. Brianna had already been scheduled to walk in Blue Hour as part of the evening's sponsored display, separate from the judged final round. Rather than stop the show, the organizers allowed the appearance but removed the designer credit from the screen until the dispute could be resolved. Brianna stepped onto the runway beneath soft blue lights, her skirt widening around her like a glittering tide. The room applauded, and my father rose with the other guests, clapping before he noticed me waiting at the side of the stage. I saw the moment he lowered his hands.
Blue Hour was beautiful. Watching it move almost hurt more than seeing it stolen on a hanger, because I recognized each decision I had made: the slight curve at the shoulder, the delicate beading at the waist, the way the skirt opened around a turn. I had wanted to be the person who introduced it to the world. Instead my stepsister smiled beneath the lights as if my hands had never touched it. I felt the old anger rising, but I reminded myself that a stolen dress could not make another person its maker. Even if everyone in the room believed Brianna, the stitches would still tell the truth.
Then my name was called. I stepped behind the curtain, removed my jacket and let Inez fasten the clasp at the back of the black bodice. Amaya settled the small silver tiara above my hair, then arranged the sheer veil so it trailed without obscuring the embroidery. I had used the tiara from a discarded theater costume, repairing its loose settings and softening its sharp edges. Under the backstage bulbs, the gown looked dark and severe. But when the stage manager tested the moving spotlight, the stars appeared across the fabric in a slow, widening sweep. Inez squeezed my hand once and stepped back.