“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?” my sister sneered, her diamond cuff nearly blinding me as she flipped her perfectly styled hair, and the contempt in her voice echoed through the quiet boutique where our mother once spent her happiest days. “I mean, I get it, times are tough for you, but couldn’t you have at least tried?”
I smoothed down my simple black dress with calm fingers while hiding a faint smile that would have stunned everyone present if they understood the truth behind it.
What she did not know was that I designed this dress with my own hands during a sleepless night months earlier, and she also had no idea that I owned the brand of heels on her feet, the boutique we were standing in, and the luxury company that had quietly canceled her modeling contract exactly one hour earlier.
My name is Victoria Harlow, and I learned long ago that the best revenge is served in couture.