Chapter 6 - The Winter Gala Contest
The Jefferson Hotel on Franklin Street was legendary for its grandeur. Built in 1895, its Beaux-Arts rotunda featured towering faux-marble columns, a massive stained-glass ceiling, and a grand, sweeping staircase that looked like it belonged in the Paris Opera House.
On the second Saturday of January 2027, the Virginia Youth Arts Endowment held its annual Winter Design Showcase inside the hotel's Grand Ballroom.
The event was massive. Over four hundred guests—museum curators, art school deans, philanthropists, and city leaders—crowded the floor. Professional models and student designers bustled backstage behind velvet privacy screens, adjusting hemlines, spraying hairspray, and steaming silks.
By an incredible coincidence—or perhaps what Aunt Emily called "poetic karma"—the Richmond Junior Cotillion had booked the hotel’s smaller Empire Room on the mezzanine level for their debutante presentation that very same night.
I stood backstage in the dressing quarters of the Grand Ballroom. My heart was thumping a wild rhythm against my ribs, so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Standing on the wooden riser in front of me was Clara, a sixteen-year-old student from the Richmond High School of the Arts whom Emily had hired to model my creation.
Clara was breathtaking. Tall, with dark brown skin and regal posture, she looked like an empress emerging from an enchanted forest.
The dress—my James River Ballgown—was finally real.
The sapphire silk skirt fell in heavy, sculptural pleats that shifted from deep midnight to shimmering royal blue as she breathed. The bodice, structured with flexible steel boning and lined with antique white linen, tapered into a high, Elizabethan-style frost collar made of hand-pleated silver organza. Over three thousand clear glass beads caught the backstage work lights, sparkling like freshly fallen snow under a full moon.
"Maya, honey," Aunt Emily said, stepping through the curtain holding a garment bag. She was wearing a stunning vintage emerald-green velvet dress, her hair pinned up elegantly. "You have five minutes before the designer lineup. How are you holding up?"
"I feel like I'm going to throw up," I admitted, clutching my clipboard with shaking hands.
"That's just the art talking," Emily said with a wink. "Julianne used to throw up behind the curtains at every single Broadway preview. It’s a family tradition. You’re ready."
"Emily... look."
I pointed toward the curtain opening that led to the central corridor connecting the Grand Ballroom and the mezzanine.
Vanessa was standing by the gilded registration desk, holding a glass of champagne. She was wearing an ivory evening dress with a fur stole draped across her shoulders, laughing loudly with several women from the cotillion committee.
Beside her stood my father.
Dad was wearing his black tuxedo. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slightly stooped as he checked his watch for the third time in two minutes. He had no idea I was in the building. As far as he knew, I was spending the weekend at Emily’s apartment "studying for midterm exams." Vanessa had specifically arranged for Brooke and Sadie to be featured in the Cotillion Promenade at 8:00 PM, intentionally scheduling their event to eclipse any interest Dad might have had in my life.
And there, standing beside Dad, was Brooke.
She looked pretty in her rose satin gown, but her head was tilted downward, her expression miserable. Tucked into her hair was my mother’s silver ivy clip. Brooke kept reaching up, touching the pearls nervously, as if she could feel the stolen weight burning against her scalp.
"David," Vanessa’s voice drifted through the mezzanine archway, carried by the hotel’s cavernous acoustics. "Stop checking your phone. The photographer from the *Richmond Times-Dispatch* is coming over to take a picture of Brooke for the society section. This is our moment."
"I was just wondering if Maya called," Dad murmured, his voice sounding tired and thin. "She hasn't answered my texts all day. I feel bad that she’s sitting in an apartment studying while Brooke is having this big night."
"Maya made her choice, David," Vanessa said, her tone snapping with that familiar, soft cruelty. "She chose to isolate herself. She’s jealous of Brooke’s accomplishments. We cannot put our lives on hold every time your daughter decides to throw a silent tantrum. Now smile. The camera is turning this way."
Behind the backstage curtain, my hands clenched into tight fists.
"Maya," Aunt Emily whispered, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Are you sure you want to go through with the original runway plan?"
I looked at Clara, who was watching me with calm, encouraging eyes. Then I looked at the dress—the hours of blood, tears, thread, and memory poured into every single fold of silk.
"No," I said, a strange, crystalline calm settling over my chest. "Change of plans, Clara."
Clara blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Unzip the dress," I said, reaching for the back closure.
Emily gasped. "Maya! You can't model it yourself! The designers are supposed to walk behind the models at the end!"
May you like
"Cinderella doesn't need a model," I said, unbuttoning my wool cardigan with steady fingers. "She wore her own dress to the ball."
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