If I hadn’t loved my father so much, I might have laughed.

The church was quiet in that heavy, suffocating way that only funerals seem to create. Light pushed through the stained-glass windows in soft, fractured colors. People shifted in the wooden pews, murmuring their condolences in low voices that faded as quickly as they came.

Up at the front, beneath the spray of white lilies and roses, my father’s casket rested on its stand.

And in front of his casket, my sister decided this was the perfect moment to critique my outfit.

“God, Elena, could you at least try?”

Her voice cut through the silence like a shard of glass. Heads turned. A few whispers actually died mid-sentence.

Victoria Hale did not whisper. She never had.

She stepped closer, the click of her heels echoing off the stone floor. Her black dress was tight and dramatic, the kind of thing that belonged at a red-carpet premiere, not at the burial of the man who’d raised us.

She looked me up and down, slow and deliberate, taking in my dress—the simple, black sheath that skimmed just above my knees, high neckline, long sleeves, an elegance that didn’t need sequins or cutouts.

Then she wrinkled her nose.

“That dress looks like something from a clearance bin,” she announced, loudly enough for the first three rows to hear. “A disgrace, really. Especially today.”

My mother stiffened beside me, her hands tightening on the tissue she’d been twisting to shreds for the last hour. She didn’t look at me. She never did when Victoria was being cruel. My aunts glanced away, faces tightening with discomfort.

Nobody said anything.

Heat climbed up my neck, not from shame but from the effort it took not to react.

Because here’s what no one in that church knew:

The dress hugging my figure—simple, black, understated—was valued at thirty thousand dollars.

It was a prototype from a private, unreleased collection.

It had been cut by hand in an atelier in Paris, from silk-wool crepe woven in a limited run.

I had personally approved the final pattern.

And the small, almost invisible embroidery detail at the cuff? That was my idea.

Because no one knew that I was the silent founder and sole owner of HÉLOISE, the luxury fashion brand Victoria modeled for.

For five years, my sister had strutted down runways and smiled from glossy magazine pages as one of HÉLOISE’s faces. She’d preened over billboard campaigns and front-row seats at Fashion Week. She’d treated junior models like props and makeup artists like servants. And she’d done it all without ever knowing that every paycheck, every glamorous job, every contract she bragged about… came from me.

She thought she was the star.

She had no idea she was on my stage.

I watched her now, in the church where our father had taken us every Sunday when we were kids, mocking me in front of his casket.

And something settled in me.

Something quiet.

Something sharp.

I had spent my whole life being the “plain” younger sister. The one who studied instead of partying. The one who wore jeans instead of designer gowns. The one my parents had called “practical” when what they really meant was “less impressive.”

Victoria had been born for the spotlight—or so everyone said. Blond hair, high cheekbones, innate drama. No one ever asked her to be humble. They rewarded her for the opposite.

And I… let them.

Because I had another plan.

I built HÉLOISE in silence, piece by piece, late nights and early mornings and a thousand rejections turned into one “yes” that changed everything. I built something so big that even my family couldn’t ignore it—once they found out.

But I hadn’t told them.

I’d wanted to keep HÉLOISE separate from the Hale family circus for as long as I could.

I’d wanted at least one thing in my life that wasn’t shaped by their favoritism or Victoria’s entitlement.

So when she turned to me at our father’s funeral, lashes batting, lips curled, and called me a disgrace in front of half our relatives…

That was the last line.

That morning, in the sleek, glass-walled office far from this church, I had signed a document.

Termination of Modeling Agreement — Victoria Hale

Effective immediately.

Now, standing between her and our father’s casket, I met her smug gaze and smiled. Soft. Controlled.

She smirked back, misreading the curve of my mouth as submission.

She had no idea that was the last time she’d ever look down on me from any kind of height.

The first crack in her perfect life was about to appear.

The service ended in a blur of organ music and awkward hugs.

People filed past the casket to say their final goodbyes, touching the polished wood like it was him. Close relatives moved to the family reception room in the back of the church, where badly brewed coffee and small sandwiches waited.

Victoria walked like she was on a runway even now, hips swaying, head high, soaking up every murmur of “You’re so strong, dear,” as if it were applause.

“You did so well,” one of our aunts whispered to her, squeezing her arm. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

And me? No one said anything to me about pride.

They offered me condolences, sure. Told me I’d “always been such a good, quiet girl.” Asked if I needed help with anything at the house.

But proud?

No.

Why would they be? I was just Elena. The invisible one.

For now.

I waited until Victoria had peeled away from the crowd, gliding toward the corner of the reception hall where the bar was set up.

Of course there was a bar. This was my family.

She plucked a flute of champagne from the tray—champagne, at a funeral—and tossed it back like water.

“Elena,” she said when I approached, not bothering to hide her irritation. “Before you say anything, no, I’m not going to apologize for telling you the truth. That dress is embarrassing. At least for a Hale.”

“You thought that comment was necessary standing five feet from Dad’s casket?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Dad’s gone. He doesn’t care what you’re wearing. But people talk. You looked like you threw on whatever Old Navy had on sale this week.” She took another sip. “Next time, try wearing something that doesn’t scream ‘I gave up on myself at twenty-five.’”

I exhaled slowly.

There was a time when her words would’ve gutted me.

That time was over.

“Victoria,” I said calmly. “About your contract—”

She rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t fall out.

“What about it?” she snapped. “If this is about you wanting me to get you into one of HÉLOISE’s shows, I already told you. You’re not runway material. It’s not my fault you don’t know how to present yourself.”

“My office job,” I repeated, tasting the words. “Right.”

Before she could launch into another lecture, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Ms. Hale,” Daniel said, nodding politely.

Victoria brightened instantly, lips parting in a practiced smile. She flipped her hair over one shoulder.

“Finally,” she said. “Someone with taste. Can you talk some sense into my sister, Daniel? She insists on dressing like—”

He didn’t even look at her.

He addressed me.

“Ms. Hale,” he said. “Legal has confirmed your signature. The termination becomes active at noon. We’ve already frozen her bookings in the system.”

Victoria’s smile faltered.

“Termination?” she repeated, scanning his face. “Of who?”

Daniel turned his gaze to her then. He was the operations manager at HÉLOISE, efficient to a fault, always perfectly polite.

“Of you, Ms. Hale,” he said smoothly.

She laughed.

Not a happy laugh. A sharp, incredulous bark that turned a few heads nearby.

“You’re joking,” she said. “You can’t fire me. I’m one of the brand’s primary faces. HÉLOISE wouldn’t survive without me.”

“Actually, it will,” Daniel said evenly. “And just for clarity… she”—he gestured toward me—“owns the company.”

Silence dropped over the small cluster of people around us.

Aunt Linda’s hand froze halfway to her mouth, a triangle of cucumber sandwich hanging there. One of our cousins choked on his coffee.

The champagne flute slipped from Victoria’s fingers and shattered against the tile floor, golden liquid splashing onto her designer heels.

Her face went white.

“You… own HÉLOISE?” she croaked, turning to me as if really seeing me for the first time in her life.

“I built it,” I corrected. “Brick by brick. While you were laughing at my ‘boring office job.’”

The room seemed to tilt around us.

Somewhere, my mother made a small, wounded sound.

Daniel, consummate professional that he was, continued.

“Your official dismissal letter was sent to your email this morning,” he told Victoria. “Effective immediately, you are released from your modeling obligations. The team has been instructed not to book you for future campaigns.”

“And the brand launch party in Milan next month?” I added. “The one you’ve been bragging about nonstop?”

I let my voice go just a touch softer.

“You’re not on the guest list anymore.”

She stared at me like I’d slapped her.

“You… can’t,” she said. “We’re sisters.”

“We are,” I agreed. “Which is why this took so long.”

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“I—You planned this,” she managed finally. “You waited until the funeral. You did this to humiliate me.”

“No,” I said. “I did this to protect my company. You humiliated yourself every day you treated my staff like they were worthless. Every time you screamed at a hair stylist. Every time you called a junior designer ‘stupid’ in front of the team. This”—I gestured around the church hall—“this is just when I stopped shielding you from the consequences.”

She looked around then and noticed that the crowd wasn’t murmuring in admiration anymore.

They were watching.

Listening.

Our mother approached, face pale, hands folded tightly around a wrinkled tissue.

“Elena,” she whispered. “What is going on?”

“I own HÉLOISE,” I said simply. “I have for years.”

“You… what?” she breathed.

Victoria looked between us, eyes wild.

“You knew?” she accused. “You knew she was doing this and you didn’t tell me?”

My mother shook her head, stunned.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I had no idea.”

Which was true.

I hadn’t told her.

In the beginning, that had been self-preservation. I wanted one thing that wasn’t judged or controlled by the Hale family council.

Later, it became quiet resentment. Why should I share my success with people who never cared about my efforts in the first place?

Now, as my mother stared at me with something like awe and regret mixed together, I felt more tired than vindicated.

Victoria took a shaky step toward me.

“You can’t do this,” she said, voice trembling. “You can’t just… erase me.”

I looked at her.

At the girl who used to hold my hand crossing the street when we were little, then dropped it as soon as someone prettier walked by.

At the woman who had turned my father’s funeral into a catwalk critique.

“You’ll still exist, Victoria,” I said. “You’ll just have to stand on your own two feet.”

Daniel cleared his throat.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I’ll see you back at the office tomorrow, Ms. Hale.” He nodded to me, then to my mother. “Again, my condolences.”

He didn’t include Victoria in that final glance.

He walked away, leaving my sister standing in the puddle of champagne and shattered glass that used to be her confidence.

I didn’t say anything else.

I turned and walked back toward my father’s casket.

He deserved my last words more than she did.

You’d think that would’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

Things like this never stop at one scene.

They ripple.

Within twenty-four hours, every magazine, blog, and industry partner received a carefully worded notice from HÉLOISE PR:

Effective immediately, HÉLOISE confirms that model Victoria Hale is no longer affiliated with the brand. We thank her for previous collaborations and wish her well in her future endeavors.

No drama. No explanation. Just a clean cut.

But the industry isn’t stupid.

They can smell blood in the water.

Brand reps who had been calling Victoria’s agent weekly suddenly went quiet. Those “future endeavors” dried up faster than champagne on a tile floor.

What most of them never understood was that her cachet hadn’t come from her last name. It hadn’t come from her being an “it girl.”

It had come from me.

We’d built a narrative around her—a Hale sister modeling for a mysterious luxury label named after an elusive French muse. It had been useful for a while. She photographed well, and the story tested well in focus groups.

But brands don’t bet on liabilities.

They bet on control.

And I had just reclaimed all of it.

I kept a tight lid on the details. I didn’t go to the press. I didn’t badmouth her in interviews. HÉLOISE remained a faceless brand in the public eye, its “founder” a silhouette and a signature, not a Hale.

Behind the scenes, though?

I made sure Victoria’s behavior finally had consequences.

Remember the junior model she’d screamed at backstage for “stealing her light”?

I promoted that girl to a small campaign.

Remember the assistant she’d called “incompetent” for bringing her oat milk instead of almond milk?

That assistant became my new right hand.

Remember the makeup artist she’d reduced to tears over “the wrong shade of nude”?

I signed him to an exclusive deal and gave him creative freedom.

You could call it petty.

I called it setting the scales.

As for the rest of my family?

They started paying, too.

Just not with money.

On the second day after the funeral, my Aunt Linda called me.

“Elena, dear,” she said in that syrupy tone she always used when she wanted something. “I had no idea you were involved with HÉLOISE. You should’ve told us! We’re so proud of you.”

I pictured the way she’d laughed at Victoria’s insult in the church, covering her mouth like she was hiding a cough.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You know,” she continued, “your cousin Madison has always dreamed of being a model. And now that we know you’re in such a position of influence, we thought perhaps—”

“No,” I said.

There was a pause.

“I… I’m sorry?” she said.

“I said no,” I repeated, keeping my tone polite but firm. “We have a casting process. Your daughter is welcome to go through it like everyone else. I won’t fast-track anyone.”

Linda sputtered.

“Well, I don’t see why you’d be so ungrateful after everything this family has done for you,” she snapped.

“What this family has done,” I said evenly, “is treat me like a placeholder until Victoria walked into a room. I’m no longer interested in playing that role.”

I hung up before she could respond.

Was it cold?

Maybe.

But I’d spent my entire life accommodating every Hale ego except my own.

I was done.

My mother came over later that afternoon.

She sat at my kitchen table, twisting her hands in her lap, eyes red from crying.

“I didn’t know,” she kept saying. “I didn’t know you’d done all of this.”

She glanced at the framed photos on my walls—campaign shots from HÉLOISE’s early days, black-and-white images of gowns and details, not faces. She’d always assumed they were shots I liked from magazines.

She’d never asked where they came from.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, hurt threaded through her voice.

“Would it have mattered?” I asked quietly.

She flinched.

“I’ve always loved you,” she said.

“I know you have,” I said. “But you never looked at me the way you looked at Victoria when she walked in wearing a new sample dress. You never called me ‘special.’ You never told people about my promotions or my designs. You told them about her billboards.”

She opened her mouth, closed it.

“It’s hard,” she said finally. “Having two daughters. One who shines so bright and one who… stays in the shadows.”

“I didn’t stay there,” I said. “You just never noticed me stepping out.”

She started to cry then, openly.

Not the composed tears from the funeral.

The messy ones.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For not seeing you.”

I believed her.

But I also knew that apology didn’t erase years of being the family afterthought.

“I’m not doing any of this to punish you,” I said. “Or to punish anyone, really. Except maybe Victoria.” I exhaled. “I’m just… finally choosing myself first.”

She nodded slowly, wiping her eyes.

“I’m proud of you,” she said.

It was the first time I fully believed her.

Victoria showed up on my doorstep on day three.

I knew she would eventually.

The knock was tentative, which was my first clue that something in her had shifted.

When I opened the door, I barely recognized her.

Her hair was pulled back in a hastily tied bun, dark roots showing through the blond. Her eyes were puffy. She wore an oversized hoodie and leggings, no heels, no perfect makeup.

“Elena,” she said, voice hoarse.

She glanced down the hallway to see if anyone was watching, then back at me.

“Can I come in?”

For a moment, all I could see were the last words she’d said to me before the church service began.

“At least don’t embarrass us today, Elena.”

But behind that memory, something else floated up. Victoria at ten, crying because a girl at school had made fun of her braces. Victoria at seventeen, begging Dad for permission to move to New York. Victoria at twenty-two, leaving me a voicemail from Milan, saying in a breathless rush, “You wouldn’t believe the dresses here.”

“We can talk out here,” I said, stepping halfway into the doorway.

She swallowed.

“Elena, please,” she said. “We’re sisters. Don’t make me… do this in the hallway.”

There was a time when I would’ve rolled over at that “we’re sisters.” When I would’ve let every slight slide because that’s what “good” younger siblings do.

I didn’t move.

“You said we’re sisters at the church,” I said. “Right after calling me a disgrace.”

She winced, shoulders collapsing.

“I—” she began, then stopped.

She sank to the hallway floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.

“I messed up,” she said.

I stayed in the doorway, arms folded.

“You didn’t care I was your sister when you humiliated me five feet from Dad’s coffin,” I said. “Why should that matter now?”

Her eyes filled.

“Because you’re the only one who can help me,” she said, without shame, without trying to soften it. “Dad’s gone. Mom’s… useless with this stuff. Aunt Linda is too busy trying to get your attention for Madison. All my jobs were tied to… you. To HÉLOISE. No one is calling me back. I lost my agent. I…” Her voice broke. “I don’t know what to do.”

It would have been so easy to slam the door.

So satisfying.

Instead, I leaned against the frame.

“You know,” I said. “You told every assistant you worked with that they were replaceable. That you could have ‘anyone’ take their job. Do you remember that?”

She nodded miserably.

“I was…” She laughed, a watery, bitter sound. “I was awful.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “You were.”

She looked up at me through the mascara smudges.

“I can change,” she said. “I swear. I’ll be nicer. I’ll… apologize to them. All of them, if you want. Just… give me one more chance. One campaign. One show. I’ll prove it.”

“Why?” I asked.

She blinked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want another chance?” I asked. “Because you regret how you treated people? Or because you miss being photographed?”

She hesitated.

“I miss both,” she said finally. “I miss feeling… important. And I miss… them. The team. Even when I was awful, I liked being part of something. I just never appreciated it.”

I believed that.

Sort of.

“Look,” I said. “I’m not going to lie to you. I didn’t fire you to teach you a lesson. I fired you because you were hurting my people. My company. This wasn’t personal, even if it feels that way.”

Her face contorted.

“It feels personal,” she said. “It feels like you’re… getting back at me. For being the ‘pretty one’ all those years. For all the times I…”

She trailed off, this time ashamed.

“For all the times you were cruel,” I finished for her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

I sighed.

“Here’s the thing, Vic,” I said. “I don’t have to make you pay for all of that. Life is already doing it. The people you stepped on have long memories. The industry is small. Your name is mud right now, and that’s not because of a press release. That’s because of you.”

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand like a kid.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Wait tables? Move back in with Mom? You know what she’s like. She’ll never stop talking about how much I’ve disappointed Dad.”

“Maybe start with an actual apology,” I said. “To Mom. To your team. To anyone whose name you remember.”

She sighed.

“I’m serious,” I said. “I’m not saying that will get you your old life back. But it might help you build something else.”

She turned her head, leaning it against the wall, eyes closed.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she said. “Everyone expecting you to be perfect. To be beautiful. To always look like you belong on a magazine cover.”

“Yes,” I said. “It must be exhausting being admired.”

Her eyes flew open.

“That’s not what I—” she started, then stopped, realizing how it sounded.

“Try being the one no one looks at,” I said. “Try building something bigger than your face and having your own mother not notice.”

She flinched.

“I didn’t… I never thought about…” she murmured.

“No,” I said. “You didn’t.”

We sat in silence for a minute.

Neighbors passed by, giving us curious glances.

Finally, I pushed off the doorframe.

“Here’s what I’m willing to do,” I said. “I’ll give you the name of a friend at a smaller agency. Somebody who represents people willing to work hard, not just pose hard. If she agrees to take you on, that’s between you and her.”

Victoria nodded quickly.

“Yes,” she said. “Anything. Thank you.”

“But,” I added, “your name will not be connected to HÉLOISE again. Not now. Maybe not ever. I won’t risk what I’ve built for the sake of your second chance.”

Her shoulders sagged, but she nodded.

“I understand,” she said.

I believed her.

At least, I believed she understood my side.

Whether she’d learn from it?

That was on her.

I scribbled the agency contact on a scrap of paper and handed it to her.

She took it like it was made of glass.

“Thank you,” she whispered again.

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Thank me when you’ve gone six months without calling anyone ‘trash’ because they messed up your lipstick.”

For the first time in a long time, she almost smiled.

“I really was a nightmare, wasn’t I?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, then added, “But nightmares end.”

I stepped back.

“Take care of yourself, Vic,” I said. “Learning humility the hard way isn’t fun, but it tends to stick.”

I closed the door gently.

This time, it wasn’t satisfying.

It was necessary.

The fallout continued quietly.

A few magazines reached out, wanting a statement. “The mysterious founder of HÉLOISE is the sister of a disgraced model” makes for tasty copy.

I declined interviews.

Our PR line remained the same: we do not comment on personnel decisions.

But inside the company, HÉLOISE shifted.

People’s shoulders relaxed.

Backstage at shows, the tension that had hung in the air like static was gone. Designers took more risks. Stylists experimented. The whole culture began to reorient itself away from diva worship and toward collaboration.

I instituted a simple policy: no one, not even someone at the top, was allowed to treat anyone else like furniture.

We started mentoring programs for junior creatives. Paid internships for students from schools that didn’t have the prestige pipeline. We donated a portion of profits to organizations that supported garment workers and sustainable practices.

If I was going to have power, I was going to use it for more than just settling old scores.

Not that there wasn’t a part of me that enjoyed the occasional ironic twist.

Like when one of our biggest competitors called to ask if HÉLOISE would be comfortable sharing why we’d cut ties with Victoria—purely for “due diligence,” of course.

“I’d recommend looking at how she’s treated crews on previous shoots,” I said. “Ask around. People talk.”

“That bad?” the woman on the other end murmured.

“They’ll tell you,” I said. “If you listen.”

A month later, I saw Victoria in a small online catalog for a mid-range athleisure brand.

She looked… good.

Not transcendent. Not like an untouchable goddess.

Just like a woman doing a job.

No smirk.

No condescension in her eyes.

Just focus.

My mother called me that night.

“I saw Vicky in that yoga ad,” she said. “She looked… different.”

“She is,” I said.

“Did you…?” my mother started, then caught herself. “Never mind. I know you didn’t. She told me you gave her a contact, then stepped back.”

I leaned against my kitchen counter.

“How did that go?” I asked.

“She cried a lot,” my mother said. “Then she started volunteering at the shelter down the street.” She paused. “Did you know that?”

“No,” I said, surprised.

“She’s been organizing clothing donations,” my mother said. “Apparently she’s good at convincing people to give up things they don’t need.”

I smiled.

“That tracks,” I said.

“She’s… softer,” my mother said. “She apologized to me. For… everything. For dismissing me. For yelling. For calling you…”

She trailed off.

“That must’ve been something,” I said.

“It was,” my mother said. “I told her it might be too late for some things. But not for being my daughter.”

My throat tightened.

“And you?” she asked. “Are you… okay?”

I looked around my apartment.

At the dress form in the corner draped with a half-finished prototype.

At the stack of sketchbooks.

At the framed photo of Dad on my bookshelf—his arm around me at my college graduation, his smile proud.

“I’m more than okay,” I said. “I’m… me. Finally. Fully.”

She exhaled.

“You know,” she said. “I used to worry about you most. Quiet children are the ones who disappear.”

“I didn’t disappear,” I said. “I was building.”

“I see that now,” she said softly. “I’m… sorry it took me so long.”

I believed her.

And for once, the apology felt… enough.

As for “making every single one of them pay”?

I didn’t need to ruin lives.

I just needed people to face themselves.

My aunts had to come to terms with the fact that their star niece wasn’t bulletproof. They stopped using her name as a punchline about “ugly duckling” younger sisters. Suddenly, having a “practical” daughter who ran an accounting practice didn’t seem so boring.

My cousins realized that the quiet girl they’d ignored at holidays could, if she chose, make or break their business’s chances of landing a HÉLOISE wholesale account.

I didn’t take advantage of that.

But they knew I could.

Sometimes, that’s punishment enough.

And Victoria… well.

Losing her job didn’t destroy her.

It just stripped away the safety ramps she’d been coasting on.

She stumbled. She fell.

She got back up.

She worked small gigs. Did catalog shoots. Shot lookbooks for brands no one wrote about in Vogue.

She showed up on time, I heard.

She learned crew members’ names.

She said “please” and “thank you.”

One day, almost a year after the funeral, she texted me a photo of her on set, wearing jeans and a simple white tee, hair pulled back, laughing at something off camera.

V: Not HÉLOISE. But I’m trying. Hope you’re well.

I stared at the photo for a long time.

She looked… happy.

Not manic happy. Not “I’m the center of the universe” happy.

Just… real.

I typed back.

E: You look good. Keep going.

She sent a heart emoji.

It was the most peace we’d had between us in years.

Sometimes I think about that day in the church.

About standing in that simple black dress—thirty thousand dollars of craftsmanship and history draped on someone everyone assumed was invisible—and letting my sister’s insult roll off my shoulders.

I could’ve defended myself right then.

I could’ve announced to the entire room that the “cheap” dress was a HÉLOISE prototype, that I’d had it made in Dad’s favorite city, that I’d chosen it because he’d always said I looked most like myself in clean lines and no frills.

I could’ve told them all that while they were fawning over Victoria’s expense-account glamour, I’d been wiring deposits and approving contracts and designing collections that fashion columnists called “a revelation.”

But I didn’t.

I waited.

I chose my moment.

And when it came, I didn’t scream.

I didn’t throw a drink.

I didn’t call her names.

I simply… let reality arrive.

Sometimes, that’s the most devastating revenge of all.

Not the dramatic blow-up.

Not the public dragging.

Just the quiet, undeniable unfolding of truth.

So was I too harsh?

Did I go too far?

Maybe some people would say so.

Others would call it justice.

All I know is this:

For the first time in my life, I stopped making myself small to make other people comfortable.

I stopped hiding my work so my sister could shine.

I stopped letting my family write my story for me.

And I haven’t looked back.

My name is Elena Hale.

I built a fashion empire in the shadows.

And the day my sister mocked my “cheap” funeral dress in front of everyone, I finally stepped into the light.

THE END