After Malachi shows me the shots on his computer, I barely recognize myself. Holy crap, I whisper.

“Right?” he says, zooming in on one photo of me laughing, my curves unapologetic, eyes fierce. “This is gold.”

Malachi looks at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “Mind if I send these to a few people?”

“Where?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“Some brands I work with. Including Lucy at Except Lingerie. She’s been looking for new faces.”

My heart stops. Except is the biggest body-positive brand in the country. Their billboards are everywhere.

“Send them wherever you want,” I tell him, trying to suppress my grin. “I’m done being invisible.”

“Take off your robe whenever you’re ready,” Malachi calls from behind his camera.

I’m standing in a professional studio, wearing nothing but black lace lingerie and a silk robe. It’s been two weeks since my test shoot, and now I’m here for my first real lingerie shoot, trying not to hyperventilate.

“You’ve got this,” Lucy, the Except CEO, says from her position near the monitors. She’s exactly what you’d expect from a body positivity icon—confident, sharp, and radiating authenticity.

I close my eyes and picture my mother’s living room—the way Laurel couldn’t even look at me while suggesting I hide during her wedding photos. The countless family pictures where I was positioned in the back, or worse, asked to take the photo instead of being in it.

The robe hits the floor.

“Beautiful,” Malachi says softly.

“Now tell me what you’re thinking?” he asks, camera still in hand.

“I’m thinking about every time they made me feel ugly,” the words come out stronger than I expect. “Every time they told me to cover up or stand in the back or skip the beach trip or—”

Click. Click.

“Keep going.”

“I’m thinking about my sister’s wedding. How they’re so worried about their precious aesthetic that they’d rather pretend I don’t exist.” I straighten up, shoulders back, head high. “So I’m going to be everywhere.”

“Yes,” Lucy claps from the sidelines. “That’s the money shot.”

The next hour flows like a dream. Every click of the camera feels like reclaiming a piece of myself. Malachi keeps talking, drawing out more emotion, more truth.

“You’ve never done this before?” he asks, showing me some of the shots.

“Never,” I admit, staring at the photos in amazement. I’ve never even worn lingerie before. Mom always said girls like me should stick to practical underwear.

“Girls like you,” I say bluntly.

“Sorry, plus-size,” Lucy corrects gently. “Don’t apologize for the word ‘fat.’ It’s a descriptor, not an insult. They made it an insult to control us. Take it back.”

The afternoon continues with outfit after outfit—black lace gives way to deep red silk, then emerald satin. With each change, I feel more comfortable in my skin.

“Last set,” Malachi announces. “The white bridal collection.”

I freeze. “Bridal?”

“Too soon?” he asks gently.

“No,” I square my shoulders. “It’s perfect.”

The white lingerie is stunning—delicate lace and pearl details that would make any bride feel beautiful. As I pose, I think about Laurel in her size two Vera Wang dress, and something shifts inside me.

“You know what?” I say to Malachi between shots. “I actually feel sorry for them.”

“Why is that?” he asks, snapping another picture.

“Because they’re so trapped by what they think beauty should look like. They’re missing out on so much joy, trying to maintain this perfect image.”

Click. Click. Click.

“That’s it,” Malachi says softly. “That’s the shot we’ve been waiting for.”

Later, looking at the final photos, I barely recognize myself—not because of how I look, but because of how I feel when I look at them. There’s no shame, no apology in my eyes. Just strength.

“We need to talk about the campaign rollout,” Lucy says, pulling up a chair next to me. “These are going to be everywhere. Magazines, social media, billboards.”

“Billboards?” My heart races.

“We’re thinking major cities, high-traffic areas.”

“Why?”

“I pull out my phone and open the wedding invitation I’d been avoiding. St. Margaret’s Cathedral, downtown, right on Main Street. How much would it cost to get a specific billboard location?”

Lucy studies my face. “You’re thinking something deliciously petty, aren’t you?”

“The pettiest,” I grin, showing her the Google Maps location. “There’s a massive billboard directly across the street. Currently advertising luxury watches. The wedding’s in eight weeks. Is that enough time?”

Lucy’s smile turns wicked. “Oh honey, for this level of poetic justice, I’ll make it happen in six.”

Malachi looks between us, then at the bridal shots on his screen. “You’re going to put these up across from her wedding venue?”

“Not just any shots,” I say, pointing to one specific photo. “Me in white lace, looking directly at the camera with years of pent-up defiance. This one.”

“Let’s see them try to keep me out of the wedding photos when I’m 50 feet tall across the street.”

“You know this will burn bridges,” Lucy warns.

“I think about that torn-up envelope of cash, about years of subtle cruelty masked as concern, about a lifetime of being told to make myself smaller. Some bridges need to burn,” I say. “And I’m done hiding in the shadows.”

My phone lights up with another group text from my family. They’ve been planning Laurel’s bridal shower, acting like nothing happened, like they didn’t just cut me out of the wedding party. I’ve been ignoring their messages for weeks, but this one catches my eye.

Mom: Has anyone heard from Annabelle? She hasn’t RSVPed for the shower.

Laurel: Probably too busy feeling sorry for herself.

Holly: Maybe someone should check on her.

I screenshot the conversation, adding it to my growing collection of evidence. Darius calls it my “revenge receipts.”

My phone buzzes again. It’s Lucy.

“Billboard contract signed. Installation date confirmed—6 a.m. on wedding day.”

“You ready for this?”

Before I can respond, another family message pops up.

Mom: I’m worried about her. This isn’t healthy behavior. Maybe we should suggest therapy.

Laurel: She’s probably just depressed about her weight again. Remember when she tried that crash diet last year?

Holly: Guys, she might see these messages.

Mom: Don’t be silly. She left the group chat weeks ago.

Except I didn’t. I’ve been silently watching their true colors bleed through every message.

The doorbell rings, and I open it to find my mother standing there, holding a gift bag with tissue paper spilling out the top.

I consider not answering, but curiosity wins.

“Darling,” she breezes past me into my apartment. “We’ve been so worried. You’ve been avoiding everyone’s calls.”

“I’ve been busy,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Between modeling shoots and campaign meetings, my schedule’s been packed.

“Too busy for your sister’s bridal shower?” she asks, setting the bag down.

“I’m not going to the shower,” I reply. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Of course, you are. Family supports family.”

I laugh. “Since when?”

“Annabelle,” she sighs, that familiar disappointed sigh. “I know you’re hurt about the wedding photos, but we were trying to be kind. Sometimes love means protecting people from embarrassment.”

“Protecting who exactly?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she walks around my apartment, picking things up and putting them down with slight grimaces. She pauses at a framed photo on my bookshelf of me and Darius at his birthday party last month. I’m wearing a red dress that shows every curve.

“You posted this on Facebook,” she says quietly. “Aunt Margaret called me about it.”

“Was she clutching her pearls when she did?” I ask, not bothering to hide my smirk.

“This isn’t you, Annabelle. These attention-seeking outfits. This rebellious attitude. What happened to my sweet, sensible girl?”

I step closer. “She grew up. Realized she deserved better than being your family’s dirty secret.”

My mother’s face hardens. “We have never treated you like a secret. We’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”

“Do you think I enjoy seeing my daughter throw herself at cameras, flaunting her condition?”

“My condition?” I step closer. “You mean my body? The one you’ve been trying to shame into submission since I was 8 years old?”

She grabs her purse. “The shower is next Saturday at noon. Wear the dress I brought. Show everyone you can be mature about this.”

After she leaves, I text the family group chat: “Can’t make the shower. Have a work commitment that day. Send Laurel my love.”

Within seconds, my phone explodes.

The next few days are a blur of chaos. The billboard goes up, and my social media explodes. People are taking selfies with the billboard. News outlets start picking up the story.

Lucy calls, her voice brimming with excitement. “You’re everywhere. News outlets are picking up the story. Want to do an interview?”

“Why not?” I reply, smiling to myself.

The wedding feels like a lifetime ago, though it’s only been weeks. The photos eventually came out—stiff, forced smiles, half the guests missing from the ceremony shots because they were outside with my billboard.

The marriage lasted exactly six days before Neil filed for annulment, citing irreconcilable differences after Laurel tried to sue me. Five minutes later, the stage manager calls.

“Malachi’s ready. The Vogue team’s in position. You know what to do.”

I check my reflection one last time. The wedding gown I’m wearing isn’t white. It’s a deep, powerful red—the same shade I wore to crash my sister’s wedding. The same color that’s become my signature.

 

The lights are blinding as I step out onto the runway. The crowd’s energy fills the room, but I hardly hear it. My heart pounds in my chest, and yet, for the first time in my life, I feel completely calm. This is my moment. Every step I take is for the little girl who thought she was too much, too loud, too big. Every turn is for the teenager who was told to stand at the back of family photos. And every pose is for the woman I’m becoming—a woman unapologetic, confident, and powerful.

I walk the runway like I own it. Because I do.

The audience is captivated, eyes fixed on me as I glide toward the end of the runway. I stop, my hand resting on my hip, the bold red gown hugging every curve. The air is thick with anticipation, and I hear the sound of a few gasps as the lights catch my face. I’m ready. More than ready. This is the moment I’ve worked for.

But instead of turning at the end of the runway, I step down, walking to Holly, who’s sitting in the front row.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Your turn to be seen.”

She hesitates for a moment, and then, with a slow but steady breath, she joins me. Together, we walk down the runway, hand in hand. Two sisters, finally choosing each other over the toxic expectations of our family.

The crowd goes wild. The applause is deafening, and I can feel the pride swelling in my chest. This is our moment. This is who we are now. For the first time in our lives, we’re not hiding.

Later, backstage, the excitement continues. Darius is filming everything, his grin spreading across his face as he watches Holly and I exchange high-fives.

“You know,” he says, lowering his camera for a second, “I think this might just be the start of something huge.”

“You’re damn right it is,” I say, my eyes already flicking over to the team of stylists and photographers, most of them already swarming over the models in the bridal collection.

It feels surreal. This whole world feels surreal, but it’s mine now. Finally, for once, it’s mine.

As the show continues, Lucy pulls me aside. She’s wearing that confident smile of hers—one that says everything’s in place.

“We’re thinking about expanding,” she says. “You’ve become a sensation. We need you to head up the next campaign, maybe even launch a new line. The Visibility Project could go nationwide.”

I nod, my heart racing. The Visibility Project is exactly what we need—a platform for those who’ve been marginalized for their size, their skin color, their gender. And now, with the momentum of the billboard and the show, we have the chance to make real change.

“You’re changing lives, Annabelle,” Lucy says, her voice low and genuine. “Not just your own, but thousands of others. You’re helping people see themselves.”

I feel a surge of emotion, but I hold it in. Not today. Today, I’m not going to cry over the past. Today is about reclaiming everything I thought I lost.

That evening, as the lights dim and the after-party gets underway, I receive a message that makes my phone buzz again. It’s from Holly.

I saw the article on the news site. You’re everywhere. You did it.

I smile, my fingers flying over the screen as I type back: We did it, Holly. We’re finally seen.

The next morning, my phone won’t stop buzzing. It’s the same kind of chaotic whirlwind I’ve been dreaming of for years—press interviews, endorsements, and people asking about the campaign. But amidst it all, one text stands out.

It’s from Neil.

“I saw the campaign photos. I saw you on that runway.”

I read it twice before my thumb hovers over the screen. I can feel the weight of my emotions.

He was the one who made me feel like I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t worthy of the attention I deserve. He was part of the machine that tried to erase me.

But somehow, this message, this small gesture from Neil, isn’t enough to undo the damage.

I type back: You weren’t the one who was there when I needed you. I’m not looking for your approval anymore. I’m standing in my own light now.

I hit send and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. It’s over.

A week later, the family drama has exploded across every platform. The leak of the group chat screenshots has gone viral, and the comments are pouring in. My mother’s attempts to damage control on Facebook only backfired, and now the world knows exactly how they treated me.

They’ve been publicly humiliated. And I haven’t even said a word.

My mother calls again, the same old guilt trips and half-hearted apologies. But I don’t pick up. I don’t need to hear it anymore.

I’ve gotten everything I need. Validation, power, freedom.

The campaign is a hit. Lucy’s team is rolling out new ads, and the hashtag #BillboardBride is everywhere. People are sharing their own stories of being body-shamed, of being told they weren’t good enough. My story has become their story, and the impact is far beyond what I ever expected.

Three months later, I’m standing on stage again, this time at a press conference for the Visibility Project. The room is packed with reporters, influencers, and advocates for body positivity. I’ve been named the body positivity director, and the project is being launched nationwide.

As I take the podium, I look out at the sea of faces, and I see something I never thought I’d see: people who look just like me. People who have been made to feel invisible, or worse, like they weren’t worth celebrating.

I’ve been there. I know how it feels to be shoved into the background, to be told you’re not enough, that you need to shrink yourself to fit into someone else’s idea of beauty.

But I’m here now. And I’m not shrinking for anyone.

My phone buzzes with another message from Holly, who’s now attending therapy and finding her own voice.

I saw the latest Vogue spread. You’re a role model now, Annabelle.

I smile as I read it, feeling a warmth spread through me. I’ve made peace with so many things, but this? This is something I never thought possible.

I reply with one simple sentence: We’re both a work in progress.

Later that evening, I stand in front of the mirror again, this time in a stunning red gown, preparing for another event. The light catches the fabric, and for a brief moment, I remember everything. The pain, the rejection, the feeling of being overlooked. But it’s all gone now.

I’m not the girl who was made to feel small anymore. I’m not the girl who was shoved aside for not fitting a mold. I’m not the girl who allowed her family’s cruelty to define her.

I’m Annabelle. And I’m seen.

The world might have tried to make me invisible, but I chose to make myself impossible to ignore.

And as I step into the car, ready for my next step, I know this is only the beginning. I’ve burned the bridges that were holding me back, and in their ashes, I’ve built something stronger. A future that’s all mine. A future where I will never, ever be invisible again.

And the view from the other side?

It’s better than I ever imagined.

End!