“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?”
My sister sneered, her diamond cuff nearly blinding me as she flipped her perfectly styled hair. “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, hiding a smile. What she didn’t know was that I designed this dress. I also owned the brand on her feet, the boutique we were standing in, and the company that had canceled her modeling contract just an hour ago.
My name is Elise Morgan, and I learned long ago that the best revenge is served in couture.
The morning of my mother’s funeral dawned gray and misty over Newport Bay, the kind of weather that made the glass walls of modern churches look like they were weeping. I stood before the mirror in my childhood bedroom—one of the few rooms Dad hadn’t renovated in his endless pursuit of contemporary living—and carefully zipped up my dress. Black crepe, minimal structure, no embellishments. To the untrained eye, it looked like something from a department store. To anyone who truly understood fashion, it was a $30,000 piece of wearable art.
But my family had never truly understood anything about what I did.
The church was already half full when I arrived in my ten-year-old Prius, parking between Blake’s leased Mercedes and Rachel’s borrowed Porsche. Through the tall windows, I could see them already holding court, accepting condolences like royalty receiving subjects. My father, Gerald Morgan, stood near the altar in his Armani suit, the one from 2018 he thought no one would notice was outdated. Blake, my older brother, kept checking his phone between handshakes, probably monitoring whatever financial disaster he was juggling at the bank this week. And Rachel, my baby sister, posed near the flowers in a Valdair cocktail dress that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
I slipped in through the side entrance, hoping to avoid the reception line, but Aunt Martha caught me immediately.
“Oh, Elise, darling,” she cooed, her eyes doing that quick up-and-down scan that wealthy relatives perfect by age forty. “How are you holding up? And how’s the little boutique?”
“It’s fine, Aunt Martha. Thank you for asking.”
“You know,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “my neighbor’s daughter just opened a shop on Etsy. She’s doing quite well with handmade jewelry. Maybe you two should connect, share tips.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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