“You sabotaged me!” she shrieked, her voice echoing in my small studio. The perfect wedding dress, my masterpiece, lay crumpled on the floor with a three-inch tear she had made herself.
This was Brianna. The wealthy socialite bride who thought my life’s work was worth pocket change.
For months, she had bullied me, belittled my craft, and paid me a fraction of what her dress was worth. A dress she swore she had designed herself, a dream she’d had since she was a little girl.
But I knew she was a liar. I knew she had stolen the design from another artist.
She threatened to ruin my reputation with a single Instagram post to her two million followers. She never dreamed I’d use her own stolen design to orchestrate her downfall on a stage much, much bigger than her phone screen.
A Promise in Silk and Spite: The Pinterest Princess
The bell over my shop door chirped, a pleasant sound that usually meant business. Today, it felt like an alarm. In walked Brianna, all sharp angles and expensive perfume, a scent so aggressive it seemed to be colonizing the air in my small studio, overpowering the familiar, soft notes of steamed linen and cedar. She was a full forty minutes late, talking into her phone with the kind of volume that assumes an audience.
“No, I told him, the uplighting has to be a warmer tone. It’s a wedding, not a surgical theater,” she said, her voice dripping with the casual authority of someone who had never been told no. She clicked off the call without a goodbye and offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They were a pale, calculating blue, and they were already scanning my studio, cataloging its modest size and worn wooden floors.
“You must be Elena,” she said, extending a hand laden with rings. Her grip was brief and cool. “I’m Brianna. My planner, Jessica, said you’re the best. A bit of a hidden gem.” It sounded less like a compliment and more like an assessment of my market value.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I lied, gesturing to the consultation table. “Please, have a seat. You said you had a design you wanted to discuss?”
She swiped open her phone, the screen glowing with a photo of a wedding gown. I leaned in, my professional curiosity piqued. And then I felt it—a genuine intake of breath. The dress was magnificent. A cascade of silk crepe fell from a structured, corseted bodice, with intricate, vine-like embroidery creeping over the shoulders and down the illusion back. It was elegant, complex, and stunningly original.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice full of sincere admiration.
“I designed it myself,” Brianna declared, beaming with a pride that seemed almost theatrical. “I’ve been sketching it since I was a little girl. It’s my dream dress.”
I looked from the photo back to her. My mind was already reverse-engineering the construction. The bias cut of the skirt, the hand-sewn appliqué, the internal boning required to achieve that flawless silhouette. It was hundreds of hours of work. It was a masterpiece. And as I stared at her perfectly manicured nails and unblemished smile, a small, cold seed of doubt began to sprout in the pit of my stomach. Something felt… off. It felt too perfect, too polished for an amateur’s dream sketch. But the rent on this studio was due, and my son Leo’s final tuition payment for the semester was a number that haunted my sleep. I pushed the feeling down. It was just a job.
The Price of Exposure
I took my time, tapping a pencil on my notepad as I broke down the components of the gown. I listed the materials: imported silk crepe, French Alençon lace for the appliqué, dozens of tiny, silk-covered buttons. I estimated the hours—the pattern-making, the muslin mock-up, the fittings, the thousands of hand stitches. This wasn’t just a dress; it was a piece of architectural art.
“Okay,” I said, looking up. I try to be gentle with this part. It’s the moment a client’s dream collides with reality. “Given the complexity of the design and the quality of the materials, you’d be looking at a cost of around eight thousand, five hundred dollars.”
Brianna’s smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the edges. She let out a small, tinkling laugh, as if I’d just told a charmingly naive joke. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “That’s not going to work at all.”
I waited. I’d learned not to speak first in these moments.
“Jessica said you were reasonable,” she continued, her tone shifting from airy to sharp. “I was thinking something more in the neighborhood of two thousand.”
I almost laughed myself, but it would have been a bitter, harsh sound. “Brianna, the materials alone will cost more than that. The silk I would use for a gown like this is over two hundred dollars a yard.”
“Look,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, as if letting me in on a secret. “This is going to be a huge wedding. The guest list is full of… important people. And Vows & Venues magazine is doing an exclusive feature. Think of the exposure for you. A little mention in a national magazine, a tag on my Instagram—I have over two million followers. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
It was the oldest, most insulting line in the book. Landlords don’t accept “exposure” as payment. The university bursar’s office doesn’t take Instagram tags. She was asking me to subsidize her lavish wedding with my labor, to trade my very real electric bill for her imaginary social currency. I could feel the familiar, hot flush of anger creeping up my neck.
But then the image of Leo’s face popped into my head, his excitement about his final year of his engineering program. The email from the university, with its bold, red “Past Due” stamp. My husband, Mark, looking over our budget last night, the worry lines etched around his eyes. We were stretched so thin.
“Two thousand is… impossible,” I managed, my voice tight. “I would be losing money.”
“Fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Two thousand five hundred. That’s my final offer. And frankly, for the press you’ll be getting, you should be thanking me.”
I did the math in my head. If I used slightly less expensive silk, if I cut corners on the lace, if I worked sixteen-hour days and didn’t pay myself a dime for my time, I could maybe, just maybe, break even on materials. The profit would be zero. The “exposure” felt like a slap in the face. But the $2,500 would cover Leo’s tuition installment. It was a devil’s bargain.
“Okay,” I heard myself say, the word tasting like ash. “I can do it for that price.”
Brianna’s brilliant, false smile returned. “Perfect! I knew you’d be reasonable.” She stood up, grabbing her thousand-dollar handbag. “I’ll have Jessica send over the contract and the deposit. I’m so excited. This is going to be amazing.” She chirped the bell on her way out, leaving behind only the lingering scent of her perfume and a profound sense of dread.
A Thousand Tiny Cuts
The first payment arrived, a check for a thousand dollars delivered by a courier. It felt flimsy in my hand, not nearly heavy enough for the weight of the work it represented. Brianna was scheduled for her fabric selection and initial measurements that afternoon. I laid out my best bolts of silk, my most delicate laces, arranging them in the soft light of the studio window. I wanted her to see the quality, to understand the craft she was buying, even at a fraction of its cost.
She arrived, on time for once, but with a sour look on her face. “Jessica told me about the upcharge for the courier. A bit nickel-and-dime, don’t you think?” she said by way of greeting.
“He’s from an independent service I use,” I said, keeping my tone even. “I don’t build that cost into my pricing.”
She just waved a dismissive hand and turned to the fabrics. I ran my hand over a bolt of heavy, lustrous silk charmeuse. “This one has a beautiful drape,” I offered. “It would move like liquid.”
Brianna pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. “It feels a little… flimsy. Don’t you have anything better? I don’t want it to look cheap.”
Each word was a tiny, sharp jab. I, who had built a twenty-year career on my obsessive dedication to quality. I, who sourced fabrics from mills that had been operating for centuries. Flimsy. Cheap. I took a slow breath and pulled out another bolt, this one a four-ply crepe. Heavier, more structured.
“This one is more substantial,” I said.
“Hmm,” she murmured, her attention already drifting to her phone. “Fine, whatever you think. Just make sure it’s a pure white. Not ivory, not cream. It has to be pure white, or it will wash me out in the photos.”
The rest of the appointment was a series of similar small humiliations. My tape measure was old. The lighting in my studio gave her a headache. The silence was unnerving. She filled it with complaints about her florist, her caterer, her fiancé’s choice of groomsmen. I was just another vendor on her list to be managed and controlled. I took her measurements with methodical precision, my knuckles occasionally brushing against the cold, hard diamond of her engagement ring. It was the size of a small quail’s egg.
When she finally left, I sank into my chair, the silence she’d found so unnerving a welcome balm. My studio felt like my own again. I called Mark.
“How’d it go with the bridezilla?” he asked. His voice was warm, a comforting contrast to the afternoon’s chill.
“She’s… a lot,” I understated. “But the deposit came through. Leo’s tuition is covered.”
“That’s great, honey. See? It’ll be worth it.”
“I don’t know, Mark,” I said, tracing the pattern of the lace with my finger. “I have a really bad feeling about this one. It feels like I’ve sold my soul for two and a half grand.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Your soul is worth a lot more than that, El. Just get the dress done, get the rest of the money, and then you never have to see her again. Frame the check and hang it on the wall as a trophy.” His attempt at humor made me smile, but it didn’t ease the knot in my stomach. This felt like more than just a difficult client. It felt personal.
The Ghost in the Machine
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The design haunted me. It was too specific, too professional. My fingers itched to start the pattern, but my mind was stuck on that single, jarring note of disbelief. I padded out to my studio in my robe, the moonlight striping the floor through the large front window. I made a cup of tea and sat down at my computer.
I started by searching for the elements Brianna had mentioned. “Vine-like lace appliqué wedding gown,” I typed into the search bar. Pages of generic dresses appeared. I refined the search. “Structured bodice silk crepe illusion back gown.” More of the same. I spent over an hour falling down a rabbit hole of bridal blogs and Pinterest boards, the digital world awash in a sea of white tulle and predictable mermaid silhouettes. Nothing.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Brianna really was some kind of savant, a secret prodigy of bridal design who also happened to be a world-class narcissist. It seemed unlikely, but possible. I was about to give up and go to bed when I clicked on a link buried on the fifth page of my search results. It was a small blog, poorly designed but passionately written, dedicated to highlighting independent international designers. The post was titled “The Unsung Artistry of Amélie Dubois.”
I clicked. And there it was.
It wasn’t similar. It wasn’t “inspired by.” It was the dress. Every detail. The exact curve of the neckline. The precise placement of the embroidered vines coiling over the shoulders. The delicate row of buttons down the spine. The photo was from a small, independent fashion show in Lyon, France, dated eighteen months ago. The caption underneath read: “Designer Amélie Dubois with her signature creation, ‘Le Jardin Secret.’”
My blood ran cold. I opened a new tab and pulled up the photo from Brianna’s phone. I placed the two images side-by-side on my screen. They were identical. A perfect, undeniable match.
She didn’t design it. She had screenshotted it. She had stolen it, wholesale, from a small artist an ocean away and was passing it off as her own childhood dream. All her talk of “my design,” her theatrical pride, her condescension—it was all a lie. A carefully constructed performance to support a theft.
I just sat there, staring at the two glowing rectangles on my screen, the silence of my studio suddenly feeling heavy and oppressive. The knot in my stomach tightened into something hard and painful. This wasn’t just a difficult job anymore. I was now an unwilling accomplice to an act of artistic plagiarism.
My phone buzzed on the table, making me jump. It was a text message from a number I didn’t recognize, but I knew who it was from. The time stamp read 2:13 AM. I opened it. It was a photo of the muslin mock-up I had painstakingly couriered over to her that evening for a preliminary fit check. Or what was left of it. A pair of gleaming scissors had been plunged through the bodice, and a long, jagged slash ran all the way down the skirt.
The text underneath read: “The proportions are all wrong. It’s hideous. I had to fix it myself. Start over. And don’t bill me for the wasted fabric.”
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