Chapter 35: A Legacy That Could Never Be Stolen

The question fell like a blade through the Bright Auditorium.

"...One would wonder," Mindy said softly, her voice carrying through the vast hall with unnerving calm. "If Missy stole this design..."

Her gaze drifted toward the three gowns displayed beneath the dazzling stage lights, their jeweled fabrics shimmering like ghosts of stolen dreams.

"...then what about the others?"

The silence that followed was absolute.

It wasn’t the silence of confusion—it was the silence of fear.

Every designer, every judge, every reporter, every wealthy patron seated in the VIP section froze in place. Even the livestream, which moments ago had been a storm of insults and accusations, slowed to a crawl. The audience seemed to hold its breath as the weight of her words sank in.

What did she mean?

What others?

The question hung in the air like smoke, impossible to ignore, impossible to escape.

For a few seconds, no one dared to move. Then the dam broke.

The livestream exploded.

[What does she mean?]

[Others??]

[Don’t tell me...]

[Impossible.]

[Is she saying the other dresses are stolen too?]

[No way! Missy won last year’s championship!]

[She’s trying to drag Missy down with her.]

[Wait... after everything today... I’m not so sure anymore.]

The tide of public opinion shifted like a wave turning against the shore.

On stage, Missy’s face drained of color. Her lips trembled as she stumbled forward, her voice cracking. "No! They’re all mine! This one—this was the only design I took! I never took anything else! I don’t have any of your other designs!"

Her words tumbled out in panic, desperate and unconvincing.

Emily’s heart lurched. Her fingers trembled so violently she had to clutch the edge of the table to steady herself.

How could Mindy possibly know?

That secret—no one knew. Not Raymond. Not Drake. Not Jagger.

Only she and Missy.

Mindy’s eyes flicked toward Emily, a single glance that sliced through the air like a knife. There was no anger in her gaze, no triumph—only cold indifference.

Emily’s breath caught. For the first time, she felt something she had never felt toward Mindy before.

Fear.

Raymond stepped forward, his expression dark and heavy. "Mindy," he said, his voice carrying the authority of a patriarch who expected to be obeyed. "That’s enough."

The hall stirred.

"Missy has already admitted her mistake," he continued. "She apologized. She has withdrawn from the competition. Don’t push this matter any further."

His tone was measured, reasonable. The kind of voice that made people nod without thinking.

And many did.

After all, Missy had already been exposed. What more could possibly be gained by continuing?

The livestream reflected the division instantly.

[Enough already.]

[She apologized.]

[Exactly. Don’t bully her.]

[Mindy is going too far.]

[She already lost everything.]

But just as quickly, another wave of comments surged back.

[She framed Mindy six months ago.]

[Missy deserves whatever comes next.]

[Let Mindy finish!]

The hall became a battlefield of whispers and divided loyalties.

Mindy stood unmoved. Her expression didn’t flicker. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, almost detached.

"Mr. Hawthorne," she said, her tone polite but glacial. "You seem to have misunderstood."

She paused, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable.

"I never said," she continued softly, "that they were my designs."

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Raymond frowned. "What?"

Emily’s stomach twisted. An ominous chill crawled up her spine.

Missy’s breathing quickened. "What do you mean?"

Mindy didn’t answer. She turned instead toward Wade, who stood quietly at the edge of the stage.

"Wade."

A single word. A command.

He smiled faintly, as if he had been waiting for this moment. "I’ve been waiting for you to say that."

From his pocket, he withdrew another flash drive and handed it to the competition management. "Please play this."

The giant LED screen flickered to life.

A timestamp appeared in the corner—ten years ago.

The location: Hawthorne Mansion. Maria Wilson’s Design Studio.

Raymond’s breath caught. His pupils constricted violently.

He knew that room.

That room had belonged to Maria.

After her death, no one had entered it for years. He had kept it locked, untouched, preserved exactly as she had left it. It was her sanctuary. Her memorial.

The video began.

A woman appeared on screen, quietly unlocking the studio door. She stepped inside, glancing around as though afraid of being caught. Her movements were cautious, deliberate.

She opened drawers. Checked cabinets. Pulled open boxes.

She wasn’t cleaning. She was searching.

Minutes passed. Then her eyes landed on an old cardboard box tucked beneath a shelf. She knelt, opened it, and froze.

Inside were stacks of discarded sketches—design drafts, some complete, some unfinished, some crossed out with red ink.

The woman flipped through them carefully, her fingers trembling slightly. Then, without hesitation, she selected several sketches, folded them, and slipped them beneath her clothes.

She looked around once more, then quietly left the room.

The camera caught her face perfectly.

Emily Hawthorne.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

No whispers. No gasps.

Nothing.

Every eye in the auditorium turned toward Emily.

Her face turned ashen. Her lips parted soundlessly. "N-No..."

Raymond stared at the screen, then slowly turned toward her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were dark with something between disbelief and dawning horror.

He recognized that room. He remembered how much Maria had loved it—how she had spent nights there, sketching until dawn, humming softly to herself.

Drake frowned. "Mom’s studio..."

Jagger’s brows furrowed. "What does this prove?"

Raymond finally spoke, his voice low and strained. "Mindy. This proves nothing. That is Maria’s studio. So what if Emily entered it?"

Drake nodded quickly, eager to defend. "Exactly! This only proves Aunt Emily went into Mom’s studio!"

Emily found her voice at last. She stepped forward, her eyes glistening with tears. "Mindy," she said, her tone trembling, "I was cleaning Maria’s room."

Her voice cracked perfectly, the performance instinctive. "I respected your mother. I only wanted to organize her belongings."

She looked around the hall, her expression pitiful. "I know you hate me. But please... don’t use your mother’s memory just to attack us."

It was flawless.

The kind of performance that might have swayed hearts—if today hadn’t already stripped her mask away.

Mindy turned toward her slowly. Their eyes met.

Emily flinched.

There was something in Mindy’s gaze that made her blood run cold. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t hatred. It was worse.

It was knowledge.

The kind that saw through every lie.

Missy grabbed Emily’s arm, her voice trembling. "Sister—"

Mindy cut her off. "You still haven’t learned."

Her tone was calm, almost gentle. "So I’ll make it easier for everyone."

She turned toward the judges. "I request that Miss Hawthorne’s three competition gowns be brought onto the stage. I would like everyone to see them."

Missy’s composure shattered. "No! You can’t touch my dresses! They’re mine! Stop this! You don’t have any evidence!"

The audience stirred, restless and uneasy. What was Mindy planning?

Erwin Bright exchanged glances with Selena Marwin and Jonathan Harper. After a long pause, he nodded. "Approved. Bring Miss Hawthorne’s gowns."

Several staff members moved carefully, carrying the three gowns onto the stage—the Bloom gown, the Butterfly Queen, and the bridal masterpiece that had dazzled the nation.

The lights caught on their jeweled surfaces, making them gleam like trophies of deceit.

Mindy stood before them, her expression unreadable.

"Missy," she said quietly, "I’m giving you one last chance."

The hall fell silent again.

"If there is something you want to confess," she continued, "now is the time."

Missy’s breathing quickened. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Mindy nodded slowly. "I see."

Her voice remained calm. "Are these three dresses truly your own designs? Every line? Every stitch? Every inspiration?"

Missy lifted her chin defiantly. "They’re mine."

"You’re absolutely certain?"

"Yes," Missy snapped. "They’re mine. They’ve always been mine."

Mindy smiled faintly. It wasn’t cruel—it was pitying. "Good," she said softly. "I wanted everyone to hear that."

Confusion rippled through the audience. Even Lucy Wale frowned, unable to guess what Mindy intended. Adam Gray’s eyes narrowed. Steven stood silently behind him.

In the audience, Layton Knight watched without expression, his gaze fixed on the woman who had once been his wife. Even he couldn’t predict what she would do next.

Mindy stepped closer to the gowns. Her fingertips brushed the fabric of the first dress, tracing the delicate embroidery. For the first time that day, her expression softened.

"My mother," she said quietly, "wasn’t just a designer. She was an artist. Every dress she created carried a story—a memory, a lesson, a part of herself."

Her voice deepened, steady and resonant. "You can imitate the fabric. You can imitate the embroidery. You can even imitate the silhouette."

She looked up, her eyes locking on Missy’s.

"But you can never imitate the soul."

The hall was silent. Even Jonathan Harper leaned forward, his breath caught.

Mindy continued, her tone almost reverent. "My mother also had a habit. A secret. She never told the public. Only the people she truly loved knew."

Every ear strained to hear her next words.

"In every completed masterpiece," she said softly, "she left behind a tiny signature. It wasn’t written. It wasn’t embroidered where everyone could see. It was hidden. Only someone who knew exactly where to look would ever find it."

Emily’s heartbeat stuttered.

No.

Impossible.

She had never noticed anything like that.

Mindy turned her gaze toward Raymond. He had been staring at the gowns, his breathing uneven. Then, as if something long buried clawed its way to the surface, his lips parted.

"...A star."

The word was barely a whisper, but in the silence, it echoed like thunder.

The entire hall froze.

Mindy’s eyes softened for the briefest moment. "I’m glad," she said quietly, "that you still remember that."

Raymond’s body went rigid.

Mindy turned her gaze toward Emily. "It’s unfortunate," she said, her voice like ice, "that you forgot everything else."

Emily’s face turned ghostly white.

Raymond’s memories crashed into him like a tidal wave.

Ten years ago.

Maria had been sitting in her studio, the soft glow of lamplight illuminating her gentle smile. She was embroidering the hem of a gown, her fingers moving with patient grace.

He had leaned against the doorframe, watching her. "What are you sewing?"

Maria had smiled without looking up. "A little secret."

"What secret?" he had asked, amused.

She had laughed softly. "If one day someone copies my designs, they’ll copy the dress—but they’ll never understand its soul."

He remembered how she had lifted the fabric, showing him the faint shimmer of a hidden thread. "I’m stitching a tiny symbol beneath the layers," she had said. "A star. If anything ever happens to me, our daughter will know. You will know. Because only family knows where to look."

Raymond staggered backward, his face pale.

He remembered. Every word. Every smile.

Maria had told him once, "Every masterpiece deserves a star."

He had laughed then, thinking she was joking.

He had forgotten.

Completely forgotten.

Until now.

Without another word, Mindy knelt beside the Bloom gown. Her fingers moved with quiet precision, lifting the hem, searching beneath the embroidered heart.

A few seconds later, she stepped aside. "There."

The giant screen zoomed in.

The audience leaned forward as she carefully folded back the inner layer of silk.

"There," she said again, her voice steady. "Mr. Harper, would you kindly verify it?"

Jonathan Harper rose from his seat. Despite his age, his movements were swift, purposeful. As one of Greendale’s most respected designers, he knew what hidden craftsmanship meant.

He accepted the white gloves handed to him and bent over the gown. His eyes widened. His pupils contracted sharply.

"There..." His voice trembled. "There really is one."

He turned the gown toward the audience.

Hidden beneath the embroidery, almost invisible, was a tiny silver star—hand-stitched, delicate, perfect.

Not printed. Not glued.

Embroidered by hand.

The audience gasped as one.

Selena Marwin covered her mouth. "My God... so this was her signature."

Jonathan nodded slowly.

The livestream erupted.

[THERE REALLY IS A STAR!!]

[It’s hidden inside the dress!]

[Miss Mindy wasn’t lying!]

[Maria Wilson was a genius!]

Every eye turned toward the tiny star, then toward Missy, whose face had gone utterly blank.

Mindy rested her hand gently on the gown. Her expression was peaceful, almost tender.

"You called this design," she said softly, "’A flower patiently waiting for true love to bloom.’"

She shook her head. "No. That was never its meaning."

Her gaze swept across the hall.

"The true soul of this gown," she said, "is a woman who blooms into a queen despite growing among thorns. The flower isn’t waiting—it’s surviving. And every thorn becomes part of her crown."

The silence that followed was reverent.

Even the livestream slowed, as if the world itself had paused to listen.

Mindy turned slowly, her fingers brushing the next gown—the Butterfly Queen.

Her voice was calm, but the air around her seemed to tighten.

"Now," she said softly, "let’s look at the second one."

Her fingers began to lift the delicate layers of fabric.

The audience leaned forward unconsciously.

Even Missy forgot to breathe.

Because somewhere deep inside, she already knew.

Whatever Mindy was about to reveal next—

—would destroy everything she had ever built.