My mother was a foolishly kind woman. Years ago, she started a fashion line with an unemployed friend. My mom was solely responsible for the designing, sourcing, and pattern-making. Just as the workshop started to take off, that woman ran off overnight with all the design patents and corporate cash, vanishing into thin air. She left behind a mountain of debt, and it all fell on my mother’s shoulders. She cleaned houses by day and drove Uber by night, stubbornly paying off every single cent on her own. But her body broke down. She died of sudden cardiac arrest from overwork. Ten years later, the brand I founded became the pinnacle of the fashion industry. At the Fashion Week Emerging Designer Competition, I sat in the head judge's chair. The girl standing opposite me was poised, calm, and full of confidence as she presented her portfolio. I stared at those familiar designs and froze. The rest of the panel gave her high scores. I looked at her and pressed my buzzer: "Eliminated. Next."
The entire hall fell dead silent. Maya Ross, the judge sitting next to me, leaned over and nudged my elbow. She kept her voice incredibly low. "Elena, are you sure you didn't make a mistake? Her work just got the highest scores of the night. She got a 9.8 for technique and a 9.7 for creativity. Your instant veto..." She didn't finish her sentence, but the warning was clear. I laid down my grading sheet and tapped my finger on the design descriptions. "I saw it very clearly." The girl on stage was Summer Sterling, twenty-three years old, who had just graduated from Parsons School of Design. She wore a sharply tailored black blazer dress, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Under the spotlights, she stood tall and sharp, like an unsheathed sword. When she was presenting her work just now, her pace was perfect, and she nailed every single technical term. As the slides of her design drafts flipped by—showing fabric swatches, technical details, and inspiration boards—everything looked flawless. The crowd had applauded several times. But as I stared at those sketches, my hand gripped my pen so hard my knuckles turned white. They were too familiar. The way she handled the pleats, the specific angle of the neckline cut, and even the proportions in the color palette—they were all drawn by my mother. Years ago, my mom used to crouch on the floor of our cramped apartment, working under a dim desk lamp, drawing sheet after sheet. Her fingers were deformed from holding pens for too long, leaving a thick callus on the joint of her middle finger. Every time she finished a sketch, she would hold it up and look at it for a long time. Sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she sighed. Those sketches disappeared later. Along with my mother's so-called friend, every penny in the workshop’s bank account vanished, along with three registered brand patents. My mom didn't call the police. It wasn't that she didn't want to. She couldn't. That woman’s name was never on any legal documents. My mom had trusted her so blindly that they never even signed a formal partnership agreement. As a result, the workshop went bankrupt. Suppliers blocked our door, and workers demanded their wages. My mom cleaned toilets during the day and drove Uber until two in the morning. On the night she died, before she walked out the door, she turned and smiled at me. She said, "Elena, after I finish this last ride, I'll come back and make you something delicious." By the time I rushed to the hospital, she was already in the ICU. Intubated, pale, and completely unrecognizable. I held her hand, but she could no longer speak. The last message she managed to pass to me through a nurse was: "Don't be like me. I was too foolish." And indeed, I didn't follow in her footsteps. I was not foolish enough to trust anyone. And I certainly wasn't foolish enough to let my enemy’s daughter win a championship on my stage. "Elena, may I ask for a reason?" Summer stood on the stage, holding the microphone close to her lips. Her voice was steady, but her fingers gripping the mic were tight, her knuckles turning white. I looked up at her. Her face was a carbon copy of her mother, Vivian Sterling, in her youth. "Your work," I said coldly, "is suspected of plagiarism." Summer’s face froze. The crowd gasped, and the sound of camera shutters filled the room. "That's impossible!" Summer’s voice pitched higher. "Every single one of my designs is original. From the mood board to the final drape, I did it all by myself. I have the entire process documented!" Maya nudged me again, harder this time. "Elena, that’s a very serious accusation. Do you want to reconsider?" Ignoring her, I pulled a few sheets of paper from my folder and spread them across the table.
On the left was Summer’s design shown today; on the right were the sketches my mom had drawn years ago. The paper of the sketches had yellowed, and the pencil lines were slightly smudged, but the skeleton of the design was crystal clear. "Your collection is called "Refraction", and your inspiration is listed as a fusion of origami art and modern structure," I said, staring at Summer. "But I noticed that the diagonal cut of the collar, the three-piece structure of the sleeves, and the vertical darting on the back are identical to my mother's designs from ten years ago." Summer’s face went pale. She parted her lips, but no sound came out. I held up the comparison sheets toward the nearest camera. "These designs were fully prototyped by my mother twenty years ago. The person she was partnering with back then was named Vivian Sterling." Hearing that name, Summer stumbled back a step. She gripped the edge of the podium, her nails digging into the wood. "Do you know Vivian Sterling?" I asked. Summer’s lips trembled. She lowered her head, then looked up again, the confidence in her eyes completely shattered. "She... she is my mother." "What a coincidence." I let out a cold laugh and tossed the papers back onto the table. "Your mother and mine started a garment workshop together back then. My mother was in charge of design and production, while yours handled marketing and sales." "Just as the business started to thrive, your mother stole all the patent documents, design sketches, and cash overnight, and disappeared." "That's a lie," Summer stammered, her voice shaking. "My mom isn't that kind of person... She told me that your mother’s poor management ruined the workshop, and she was forced to leave..." "Then tell me, how does a poorly managed workshop manage to secure three registered trademarks and seventeen design patents in just three months?" My voice wasn't loud, but every word echoed clearly in the quiet room. Summer had no answer. The media in the audience went wild. Reporters began typing furiously on their phones, while photographers pushed forward to get a better shot. On the live-stream platform, the comments were flying across the screen. Summer’s mentor, a middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses named Professor Harrison, stood up. He cleared his throat. "Elena, could there be some misunderstanding here? Summer has been an outstanding student. Her talent is undeniable. She wouldn't..." "Professor Harrison," I interrupted him. "You say her talent is undeniable. But have you actually seen her complete creative process for her graduation project? Is the documentation for every step—from research to sketches, to muslins, to the final garment—complete?" Professor Harrison hesitated. "Well... most students just submit the final pieces. The process files are..." "Which is why I have the complete process files right here." I pulled a thick stack of papers from my folder. "These are the original manuscripts left by my mother. Every single page is dated and contains revision logs. Miss Sterling’s work shares a seventy-percent similarity with the designs her mother stole from mine." I slammed the stack of manuscripts onto the table. It wasn't loud, but it carried immense weight. The air froze. Summer stood on the stage, her lips trembling, her eyes red. But she bit her lip, refusing to let herself cry. "I will say it one more time." I sat back up, my gaze sweeping over the room. "Summer Sterling is eliminated. Next." Nobody moved. The host stood frozen on stage, holding the microphone halfway up, completely forgetting to speak. Maya whispered something next to me, but I didn't care to listen. Suddenly, Summer spoke up. "Elena."
Her voice was hoarse, but she forced out every word. "I knew absolutely nothing about what you just said. The work I submitted was indeed done by me, independently." "If you believe there is plagiarism, please show direct evidence that "I" copied it, rather than blaming me because of my mother." I looked at her. She stared back, her eyes red but her chin held high. In this regard, she was nothing like Vivian. Before Vivian ran off with the money, she had cried like a baby in front of my mother, saying, "Sister, I’m so glad I have you." Then she turned around and wiped the place clean. "Miss Sterling," I picked up my glass and took a sip of water. It was just the right temperature. "I have no obligation to prove anything to you. As a judge, I have the right to grade based on my professional judgment." "Your work is suspected of plagiarism, and I voted to eliminate you. That is well within my authority. If you are unsatisfied, you can appeal to the committee after the show." I set my glass down and nodded at the host. "Continue." The host swallowed hard, finally finding his voice. "Right... okay, next contestant, please get ready..." Summer still didn't move. She stared at me with a complex mix of grievance, anger, and something I couldn't quite decipher. Probably resentment. After all, this was likely the first time in her life she had been publicly rejected so brutally. But today, she had run straight into a brick wall. "Why are you still standing there?" I shot her another look. "Your evaluation is over." Summer took a deep breath, turned, and walked off the stage. As she descended, the sharp clicks of her heels on the floor echoed through the quiet room. As the next contestant walked up, I leaned back, my fingers resting on the edge of the grading sheet, my eyes scanning the new girl. She was very young, maybe two years younger than Summer. Her voice trembled when she spoke, but her designs actually had substance. I gave her an above-average score, neither holding her back nor overhyping her. Beside me, Maya wanted to say something several times. During the intermission, she finally couldn't hold it in anymore. She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into a corner. "Elena, what the hell are you doing? You were too impulsive today! Summer is Vivian’s daughter. Don't you know Vivian's status in this industry?" "She controls half of the supply chain. If you cross her, how are you going to survive in this business?" I looked into Maya’s eyes. They were filled with anxiety and frustration on my behalf. She genuinely cared about me, and I appreciated that. But some things couldn't be measured by business interests. "Maya," I gently pulled my sleeve from her grip. "Do you know how my mother died?" Maya froze. She had known me for years, but I rarely mentioned my mother. Every time she asked, I would change the subject. This was the first time I had ever brought it up myself. "She died of overwork," I said. "Cleaning houses by day, driving Uber by night. On the night she died, she had been driving for eleven consecutive hours. She rear-ended a truck on the highway right after her last trip." Maya opened her mouth, but no words came out. "She worked herself to death to pay off debts. Debts that Vivian left her." I turned and walked away, saying nothing more. The afternoon session continued. Summer didn't return to the audience, and Vivian was nowhere to be seen. But I knew this wouldn't end here. Sure enough. At eight o'clock that night, my phone started buzzing. The first message was from my business partner: "Elena, this is bad! Go online right now!"
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