My sister m0cked my “cheap” funeral dress in front of an entire room of mourners, calling me an embarrassment to the Hale family.
She had no idea the dress she insulted cost thirty thousand dollars, that I owned the luxury fashion brand she modeled for, or that her termination letter had already been signed hours earlier. What happened next… was how I made every single one of them pay.
The church was heavy with grief—our father’s casket at the front, the air filled with murmured condolences—when my sister, Victoria Hale, decided it was the perfect moment to humiliate me.
“Elena, seriously?” she said loud enough to silence three pews. “Did you pull that dress out of a bargain bin? You’re embarrassing all of us.”
A flush crawled up my neck. My mother looked away. Our aunts froze. Victoria smirked, soaking in the attention. She always loved positioning herself as the superior Hale sister. To her, I was the plain one. The forgettable one. The one she had outshined since childhood.
She had no idea how wrong she was.
No one in that church knew the truth:
The “cheap” black dress she ridiculed was a thirty-thousand-dollar prototype.
Its design was unpublished, unseen, unreleased.
And I personally approved the final pattern.
Because I was the silent founder and sole owner of HÉLOISE—the luxury brand whose campaigns had turned Victoria into a minor industry darling.
For five years, she flaunted her title as one of our “faces.” She belittled junior designers, shouted at stylists, and mocked anyone she considered beneath her. She had never once imagined the girl she ridiculed the most—me—was the one who had built the entire company from the ground up.
But when she insulted me at our father’s funeral—the man who raised us with nothing but patience and kindness—something in me shifted. Something snapped cleanly, like a thread pulled too tight for too long.
Earlier that morning, before stepping into the church, I had signed a document:
Victoria’s immediate termination.
And that was only the beginning.
As the service ended and people drifted into the reception hall, Victoria strutted ahead of the crowd, accepting condolences like applause. She didn’t know every campaign she appeared in, every photo she posed for, every lookbook she bragged about… would soon be wiped from our brand’s future plans.
I waited until she had separated herself with a chamagne flute—utterly inappropriate at a funeral, but perfectly “Victoria.”
“Elena,” she said, not bothering to look at me. “Next time try not to represent the Hale family like a thrift store tragedy.”
I inhaled slowly. “Victoria, about your contract—”
“My contract?” She snorted. “Please. You know nothing about fashion. Just stay in whatever cubicle job you have.”
“My cubicle job?” I repeated with a smile.
Before she could continue, Daniel—the head of operations she had never bothered to acknowledge—approached.
“Ms. Hale,” he said, addressing me with professional respect. “Legal has confirmed your signature. Her termination becomes public at noon.”
Victoria blinked. “Termination? Whose termination?”
Daniel held her gaze. “Yours, Ms. Hale.”
She barked out a laugh. “You’re firing me? Do you know who I am? HÉLOISE needs—”
“HÉLOISE,” Daniel said evenly, “belongs to her.”
He nodded in my direction.
Victoria’s champagne glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. She turned pale, her lips barely forming the words:
“You… own HÉLOISE?”
“I built it,” I said softly. “Every stitch. Every campaign. Every job you ever bragged about.”
The room had gone silent. Relatives stared, whispers spreading like wildfire. Even my mother hovered nervously, unsure whose side she should stand on.
Victoria stepped closer, voice trembling. “You planned this. You waited to humiliate me.”
“No,” I replied. “You humiliated yourself. I just stopped shielding you.”
Her perfect world began cracking right there amidst the funeral flowers.
And I was nowhere near done.
Within 24 hours, the fashion world received a discreet but unmistakable announcement:
Victoria Hale was no longer affiliated with HÉLOISE.
Her sponsorships—secured only because of our brand name—were immediately questioned. Some partners backed out on the spot. Others didn’t even bother calling.
By day three, she appeared at my apartment door, mascara smudged, pride shattered.
“Elena… please. We’re sisters. You can’t ruin my career.”
“I didn’t ruin it,” I said. “You burned every bridge yourself. I’m just refusing to rebuild them for you.”
“I’ll change,” she whispered desperately. “Just give me another chance.”
I thought about our father.
I thought about every designer she berated, every assistant she mistreated, every family moment she poisoned.
She had been given hundreds of chances.
“You need to learn humil:ity,” I told her. “Losing your job is only the start.”
And then I closed the door.
In the weeks that followed, my extended family scrambled for positioning—cousins who mocked me now praised me, aunts who adored Victoria suddenly claimed they “always knew she was troubled.”
I didn’t seek reve:nge on them.
Their guilt was punishment enough.
Victoria eventually found small modeling jobs—local, modest, far from the glamour she once flaunted. She had become quieter. Softer. Human again.
As for me, I continued expanding HÉLOISE, investing in kind people with real talent—the opposite of everything she once represented.
Maybe one day I’ll tell the world this story.
But for now, I’ll ask you:
Did Elena go too far… or was this justice finally served?
What do you think?
