My sister mocked my « cheap » mourning dress in front of everyone, calling me a disgrace. She had no idea the dress was worth thirty thousand dollars, that I owned the fashion brand she’d modeled for, and that her termination letter had already been signed. That’s when I decided they would all face the consequences.

No one in that church knew the truth:

The “cheap” black dress she ridiculed was a $30,000 prototype.

Her design was unique, never seen before, never commercially released.

And I had personally approved the final pattern.

Because I was the silent founder and sole owner of HÉLOISE, the luxury brand whose campaigns had made Victoria a darling of the industry.

For five years, she proudly flaunted her title as the brand’s icon. She belittled junior designers, yelled at stylists, and mocked anyone she deemed inferior. She never imagined that the person she ridiculed most—me—was the one who had built the company from the ground up.

But when she insulted me at our father’s funeral—the man who had raised us with infinite patience and kindness—something inside me shifted. Something snapped, like a thread stretched too tight.

Earlier that morning, before entering the church, I had signed a document:
Victoria’s immediate dismissal.

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