The woman in gold struggled to stand.

“Miss Vale?” she whispered.

The girl held the dress carefully against her chest.

“My mother designed this before she died,” she said. “You kept it locked in glass like a trophy.”

The woman’s face tightened. “Your mother sold her shares.”

“No,” the girl said. “You forged her signature while she was in the hospital.”

The shoppers stopped whispering.

The employee stepped beside the girl and handed her a slim folder.

The woman in gold stared at it like it was fire.

Inside were copies of contracts, old emails, and one final letter written in the designer’s hand.

The girl opened it with trembling fingers.

Amara, if they ever make you feel small, wear the dress I made for the day you take your name back.

Her lips trembled, but she did not cry.

Not yet.

The woman reached for the folder. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Amara pulled it away.

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

The boutique doors opened, and two lawyers entered with security behind them.

The employee bowed again.

“The board is waiting upstairs.”

The woman’s voice cracked. “You’re just a child.”

Amara looked at the white gown, then at the woman who had dressed herself in gold while stealing from the dead.

“I was a child when you took everything,” she said. “I’m not one now.”

The woman had no answer.

Amara turned toward the fitting room as the gold curtain opened.

Before stepping inside, she looked back one last time.

“You told me to remember who I am.”

She lifted her chin.

“I’m her daughter.”

Then the curtain closed behind her, leaving the woman in gold standing on the marble floor, surrounded by all the beautiful things she could no longer pretend were hers.