Chapter 5

I threw myself into designing for the competition.

The theme was "New England Now," a modern take on regional identity.

A single theatrical costume, no matter how elaborate, felt limiting.

I decided on a small collection: five outfits, contemporary, innovative, and practical.

Each piece drew inspiration from Vermont's landscapes and seasons, but with a clean, urban edge. I used modern fabrics, played with silhouettes, and focused on versatility.

The memories of my past life, decades of honing my craft, flowed through my fingers. It was like no time had passed. The skills were still there, sharper even, combined with the fresh perspective of this new chance.

The day of the competition arrived. The local community hall was buzzing.

Judges were seated at a long table, including, to my surprise, a sleek, sharp-looking man introduced as Alex Chen, an editor from a new NYC fashion magazine called "Urban Pulse."

Mark was there, looking confident, Tiffany by his side, beaming at him.

His entry was presented first.

The curtain drew back, and there it was. My gown.

Or a very close, technically proficient copy of it.

The Shakespearean-inspired design, the intricate beadwork I' d dreamed of, the dramatic sleeves.

He' d even managed to replicate the color palette I' d meticulously chosen.

A wave of cold anger washed over me. He stood beside it, explaining "his" vision, "his" inspiration.

He spoke of historical research and innovative techniques, words that sounded hollow, memorized.

The audience applauded politely. Tiffany' s father, a local businessman and one of the event sponsors, nodded approvingly from the front row.

Then it was my turn.

My five models walked the makeshift runway.

A tailored wool coat inspired by winter birch trees. A flowing dress in the colors of an autumn sunset over the Green Mountains. Sharp, modern separates in slate and granite tones. A vibrant, hopeful piece echoing spring wildflowers.

Each outfit was distinct yet cohesive, showcasing not just design, but a clear vision of modern New England style.

I explained my concepts, my fabric choices, the practicality woven into the aesthetics.

When I finished, there was a moment of silence, then applause, much louder, more enthusiastic this time.

The judges were leaning in, talking animatedly.

Alex Chen, the editor from New York, was watching me, a thoughtful, appraising look in his eyes.

The deliberation didn't take long.

Mark's piece, as I expected, received an honorable mention. Tiffany' s father made sure of that. The judges commented on its "theatrical flair" and "technical skill," but one subtly noted it felt "somewhat derivative of classic stagecraft."

Then Alex Chen stood up to announce the winner.

"While many entries showed promise," he began, his voice crisp and clear, "one designer presented not just an outfit, but a vision. A collection that is fresh, marketable, and truly captures the spirit of 'New England Now' with sophistication and innovation."

He paused, his eyes meeting mine.

"The winner of the New England Young Designers competition is Sarah Miller."

A gasp went through the crowd, then cheers.

I felt a dizzying rush of relief, of vindication.

Mark' s face was a mask of disbelief, then slowly, a dark, ugly flush crept up his neck.

Tiffany looked confused, then shot a sympathetic glance at Mark.

Alex Chen walked over to me, extending his hand.

"Exceptional work, Ms. Miller. Truly exceptional. I' d like to talk to you later, if you have a moment."

His smile was genuine, his eyes alight with professional interest.

I had won. Not just the prize money, but a far more important victory.

I had reclaimed my work, my talent, in front of everyone.

And Mark knew it. His stolen glory had been eclipsed by genuine artistry.