The whole hall went quiet, every eye fixed on Tessa as she fell apart.
I walked slowly to stand in front of her, my voice calm and clear, carrying through the exhibition hall, every word certain.
“You know exactly who I am, don’t you? I’m the ugly duckling you said would never be worthy of wearing your clothes.”
“I’m your big sister — the one whose work you stole, whose savings you took, whose whole family hurt her out of favoritism. I’m Elise.”
The truth was out. Murmurs swept the room.
Tessa completely lost it. She broke down sobbing on the spot and frantically called Mom and Dad for help.
But justice was on my side.
After verifying every piece of evidence, the show’s organizers pulled all the copied garments on the spot, stripped Tessa of all award eligibility for the student fashion show, and posted a formal plagiarism notice across the school.
I didn’t need to say another word. I turned and walked calmly out of the hall.
Fifteen years of swallowing my pride and stepping aside — every theft, every humiliation, every wound — ended right there.
Not long after, the high-end fashion brand that had scouted me opened the final round of its quarterly print model auditions.
And on that day, standing among the candidates called in for the same casting, was Tessa — desperate to rebuild her life through modeling.
When she saw how far I’d come, she still couldn’t hide her contempt.
“Even with her teeth fixed, she’s still plain underneath. That poise is all an act. She could never beat someone born beautiful like me.”
But the final round’s requirement was simple — contestants had to style themselves in original designs of their own making and shoot both stills and motion in front of the camera.
Tessa had zero original design ability.
All she could do was order cheap influencer outfits online and piece them together. In front of the lens, she was stiff and awkward, her performance hollow and cheap, with none of the high-end polish the brand wanted.
As for me?
I wore my own original designs, completely at ease in front of the camera, my eyes calm, my whole presence a perfect match for the brand’s minimalist, sophisticated aesthetic.
The judges deliberated and signed me on the spot. Tessa was cut.
After she lost, Tessa went home and threw a screaming, hysterical fit, blaming every bit of her failure on me.
That evening, Mom called.
The voice I hadn’t heard in so long came through sharp and vicious, burning with accusation.
“Elise, how much longer are you going to cause trouble?! You used to be an ugly monster, and now that you’ve gotten a little prettier, you go out of your way to steal your sister’s chances and wreck her modeling career. What the hell is wrong with you!”
Dad grabbed the phone, his tone hard and demanding.
“Turn down that contract and tell them to give Tessa another chance! You’re the older sister. It’s your job to support her.”
“Don’t be selfish and small-minded!”
I blinked, then calmly hung up.
The next day, Mom and Dad drove straight to my apartment building.
They blocked the entrance, red-faced with fury, ready to corner me and force me to give in.
Until they saw me.
I walked out of the building, and the sunlight fell on me.
The features that had been hidden under bandages were now clean and striking, my posture tall and unhurried.
My parents, mid-tirade, froze in place, their mouths hanging open.
The belief they’d held for twenty years — that Elise was ugly, insecure, forgettable, never a match for Tessa — crumbled to dust in that instant.
Both of them reached out instinctively, wanting to touch me.
I stepped aside, my expression cool, unmoved. My wolf wanted to go to them, but in the end she only turned and walked away.
“Sorry. I don’t know you.”
Belated guilt. Cheap and useless.
Back then, when they chose to hurt me again and again, they’d never softened for a second.
So why should I grant them any dignity now?