When I weighed 180 pounds, I fell for Ethan. Sarah weighed 98 pounds. His eyes lit up when he looked at her. When he looked at me, there was only polite avoidance. I started running, lifting weights, dieting. When I hit 130, he said, “Not bad.” When I hit 110, he said, “Sarah looks good even without losing weight.” I didn’t stop. A talent scout discovered me. I signed with an agency. Milan, Paris, New York. I walked my way onto the supermodel rankings. Sarah told Ethan she was the one who introduced me to that scout. Ethan sent me a message: “You really have Sarah to thank for that. Without her, you wouldn’t be where you are today.” Last month, a major brand approached me for an endorsement deal. One million dollars. Sarah texted me: “Could you let me have this one? I’m just starting out.” Ethan also tried to persuade me: “It’s just one commercial. It wouldn’t hurt to help her.” I looked at the number on the contract. My agent pressed me: “Are you signing or not?” I answered without hesitation: “Sign.”
“Congratulations.” Holly tucked the signed contract into her briefcase, smiling so wide the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smoothed out. “One million, exclusive annual contract. You’re worth it.” I didn’t respond. My phone screen was still lit. Ethan’s message hung in the notification bar—“It’s just one commercial. It wouldn’t hurt to help her.” Sarah’s voice messages were stacked above it. Three of them. The last one was seventeen seconds long. I didn’t play them. I long-pressed the conversation. Deleted. Blocked. Then I opened Ethan’s chat. Same operation. Two people. Two seconds. Holly’s hand froze mid-air, coffee cup in hand. “You just—” “Cleaning up my contacts.” She didn’t ask further questions. She made a call: “Yes, contract confirmed. Million-dollar endorsement deal, North American exclusive—” The door pushed open. Jessica from the company’s PR department walked in holding a printout, her expression twisted. “Wanda, you need to see this first.” I took it. A media press release template. The headline read—“Brand Announces Spokesperson Wanda Sullivan, Grateful for Family Support Throughout Her Journey.” The third paragraph stated boldly: “According to sources, Wanda Sullivan’s supermodel career wouldn’t have been possible without Sarah’s strong support. Sarah not only introduced Wanda to a renowned talent scout in her early stages but also accompanied Wanda through every critical milestone.” I stared at those lines for three seconds. “Who wrote this?” Jessica swallowed. “Someone from Sarah’s team contacted our PR department last month. Said it was an agreed-upon press release framework between both parties.” “She said you approved it.” Holly leaned over to look. Her expression changed. “Last month?” Holly’s voice rose half an octave. “She contacted our PR department—who authorized this?” “She dealt directly with a new intern on the team. They went back and forth through three versions.” Jessica scrolled through her phone records. “She even sent over her own bio and headshots, saying the press release needed to include her information for future resource coordination.” I put the press release back on the table. Last month. Last month, Sarah sent me voice messages, her voice all soft and sweet, saying “Wanda, could you let me have this one?” But the press release had started coordination last month. In other words, she never planned to wait for me to give it up. She was just going through the motions. “Has the brand seen this draft?” Jessica nodded. “Sarah copied the brand’s marketing department directly. The brand was pretty happy about it. Said the sisters-supporting-each-other angle was a good hook, very marketable for promotion.” My phone vibrated. Unknown number. I hesitated, then answered. “Wanda, it’s me.” Sarah’s voice. She’d called from a different number. Her tone was steady. None of that pitiful, clingy quality from the voice messages. “You blocked me.” “Yeah.” “Did you sign?” “Yes.” Silence for a moment on the other end. Then she laughed. Softly, like she was talking about something trivial. “Then you’ve seen about the press release too.” I didn’t say anything. “Wanda, the brand already approved that draft. It goes out Monday. If you insist on pulling it, the brand will think you can’t even manage your own team.” “Whether this endorsement deal stays intact or not, you should think about that.” Her pace was slow. So slow that every word felt carefully weighed. “Ethan’s right. You really should thank me. Without the narrative I built for you, why would the brand choose you? Some 180-pound girl who ran off the weight?” “A supermodel’s resume needs to look good. You understand that better than anyone.” Holly heard the voice on speakerphone. Her face turned pale. She opened her mouth to speak. I pressed down on her hand. “Are you done?” “Wanda, I’m helping you.” “Helping me? By fabricating events that never happened?” “I’m helping you package—” “Pull the press release. Before Monday. Otherwise my lawyer will contact you.” I hung up. Holly stared at me. Silent for a long while. “Wanda, what she said… about introducing you to the scout, is that true?” I put my phone in my bag. “Holly, the scout who discovered me is named Liam. He found me by the half-marathon route outside Central Park. I weighed 160 pounds then.” “Sarah was vacationing in Miami that day.” Holly took a deep breath. “Then why would she—” “Because that’s how she’s always been.” I picked up my bag and headed out. “She doesn’t need to do anything. She just has to say ‘I helped,’ and everyone believes it.” Holly followed me out. “What about the brand? The press release already got approved.” “I said it. Pull it.” “What if the brand thinks you’re difficult—” “Holly.” I stopped at the elevator. “When I weighed 180 pounds and people avoided me, I survived. When I was 130 and people said ‘not bad,’ I survived that too.” “I won’t let a fake press release define me.” The elevator doors opened. Holly’s voice came from behind me, very soft. “Okay. I’ll negotiate with the brand.”
“You and Sarah have a pretty good relationship, right?” The stylist clipped a hairpin into my hair while making casual conversation. I didn’t respond. “She came here for styling last time and mentioned you. Said you got your break because she helped introduce you to a scout. You two have such a great sisterly bond.” The hairpin pinched slightly when it went into my hair. “When did she come in?” “Last week. Said she wanted to do a set of headshots to try her hand at modeling too.” “She also told us you promised to mentor her.” I looked at my face in the mirror. From 180 pounds to now. My features hadn’t changed. But my facial structure was carved out knife by knife. Through three years of running, two years of weight training. Not because someone mentored me. My phone lit up. A message from my mother. “Sarah cried all night. Why can’t you just give in to her? You’ve competed with her since you were kids. Now that you’re successful, you look down on her even more.” I didn’t reply. The second message came right after. “Ethan even called asking why you blocked him? He’s always looked after you two. What kind of attitude is this?” The third was a voice message. I played it. My mother’s tearful voice: “Your father says if you don’t apologize to Sarah and Ethan, don’t come home for the holidays.” Holly pushed the door open. “Ready? The MODE interview is about to start.” I turned off my phone. MODE. One of the top fashion publications. Getting featured in their profile interviews—many supermodels run for ten years without that opportunity. The interview was in the lounge area next to the photo studio. The reporter was a girl wearing thin-framed glasses. Very polite. “Wanda, first, congratulations on landing the million-dollar North American endorsement.” “Thank you.” “During our preliminary research, we discovered a very interesting angle.” She opened her notebook. “Sarah runs a social media account with over a hundred thousand followers. On it, she’s documented your complete journey from 180 pounds to supermodel.” “She says she introduced you to the scout who discovered you, and that she stayed by your side during your most difficult times.” My fingers tensed on my knee. She had an account documenting me. Over a hundred thousand followers. I knew nothing about it. “So I wanted to ask—” The reporter looked up, her smile professional and earnest. “How do you view the role Sarah has played in your career?” Holly took a light breath beside me. “Could you let me see that account?” The reporter looked surprised but handed over her phone. The account name was “Supermodel Wanda Sullivan’s Sarah.” The profile picture was Sarah’s selfie. The first post was from three years ago. A photo of my back while running. Caption: “Wanda started running today! It was my suggestion~ Hope she can stick with it.” That angle was shot from my family’s balcony looking down. Back then, Sarah was living at home. I ran on the rubber track downstairs. She photographed me from the balcony. Never told me. Second post. A photo of me lifting weights at the gym. The angle was shot through the reflection in the equipment area mirror. Caption: “Wanda’s on the equipment! I found a personal trainer to help design her training plan. It hurts to watch, but it’s worth it for her health!” I never hired a personal trainer. I learned those training movements one by one from YouTube videos. I pulled a muscle three times, injured my shoulder twice. Third post. A photo of me walking out of a building with my head down after a failed audition. Caption: “Wanda didn’t pass her audition today. My heart aches for her. I went to comfort her and bought her favorite hot chocolate. I’ll definitely help Wanda find better opportunities.” I never saw her that day. That day I walked four kilometers home by myself. Because I couldn’t afford a cab. The comments were unanimous in their praise: “Sarah is so warm!” “Wanda’s success is all thanks to you!” “Wanda should be grateful to you forever.” I scrolled down a few more posts. One was a weight loss brand collaboration. The promotional image used my training photos. Caption—“Wanda’s transformation is my greatest pride. Recommending this product to those of you working hard to improve yourselves.” She was using my body to take on advertising deals. I handed the phone back to the reporter. “This content—I’m seeing it for the first time today.” The reporter froze. “Sarah never introduced anyone. The scout who discovered me is named Liam Black. He met me outside the finish line of a half-marathon.” “I don’t know who took those photos. I didn’t know she was using my training content for advertising deals.” The reporter’s pen stopped. Holly quickly interjected: “This topic is too personal. We can—” “No need to skip it.” I looked at the reporter. “You can verify everything. How you write it is your freedom.” “I’ll only say one thing. Every step from 180 pounds to here was mine alone.” The interview ended. Holly looked at me in the hallway. “Are you sure about what you said? If the reporter writes it, you and Sarah will be completely torn apart.” “Holly, the facade broke long ago. It’s just that before, the one getting torn apart was always me.” My phone vibrated again. Someone sent me screenshots in rapid succession. An update to Ethan’s social media. He’d reposted the latest update from Sarah’s account— “Wanda landed the million-dollar deal! Even though I just started out and gave the opportunity to Wanda, seeing her succeed makes me the happiest. Always supporting you, Wanda.” Ethan’s repost caption was just one line. “Kind people always lose out. Sarah, you deserve better.” Holly looked at the screenshots, her voice dropping. “Ethan’s repost… does he really not know, or is he pretending not to know?” I flipped my phone face-down on the seat. “Holly, when I weighed 180 pounds, he never looked at me properly even once. Do you think he’d bother checking whether a story is true?”
“Did you hear? About Wanda Sullivan’s endorsement—Sarah’s the one who really has the skills.” The backstage changing area wasn’t soundproof. I was changing behind a curtain. Two female models were chatting outside. “That Sarah? I follow her. Her followers are growing so fast.” “Yeah. She quietly paved the way for Sarah, and then Sarah turned around and stabbed her in the back.” “Some people are just like that. Get famous and forget where they came from.” When I pulled back the curtain, they saw me. Their expressions stiffened slightly. But only slightly. They didn’t think they’d said anything wrong. Because everyone believed it. Holly was waiting for me in the car. “The brand scheduled a creative concept meeting for 3 PM.” “Okay.” “But there’s something you need to know first.” Holly hesitated. “The brand marketing department said… Sarah will also be there.” I turned to look at her. “She proactively contacted the brand’s marketing director and pitched a campaign direction called ‘Sisterly Transformation.’ The brand thinks the topic has strong potential and wants you to listen in together.” “I’m not going.” “I also want you to refuse. But the brand’s wording was very firm—if you don’t come, they’ll reevaluate the partnership direction.” My phone vibrated. Unknown number sent a text. “Wanda, see you this afternoon. Ethan’s coming too. He connected with the brand’s investment department. Might be one big family soon. —Sarah” 3 PM. Brand headquarters. I pushed open the conference room door. Sarah sat on the right side of the long table. Cream-colored knit dress. Hair down. Makeup so light it looked almost bare. Her 98-pound body curled in the chair like a piece of porcelain ready to shatter at any touch. Ethan sat beside her. When he saw me, his expression looked uncomfortable. But he still nodded politely. That kind of politeness I knew too well. Not the politeness of seeing a person. The politeness of avoiding something. The brand’s marketing director, Chris Lewis, stood up. “Wanda, please sit.” I sat directly across from Sarah. “We’ve asked both of you here today to discuss a new creative direction.” Chris opened the PowerPoint. A set of concept images appeared on screen. The frame split in two. Left side: a blurry 180-pound silhouette from behind. Right side: the profile of a slender girl reaching out her hand. The slogan at the bottom read—“She walks ahead, I push from behind.” “Sarah proposed a ‘Sisters Moving Forward Together’ narrative framework—with you as the primary spokesperson, and Sarah appearing as the behind-the-scenes guide. Telling the story of how she helped you complete your transformation.” “Very strong potential for social media promotion.” Sarah kept her head down, her voice soft and steady. “Wanda, I’m not trying to take your position. I just want people to see how hard it was for you.” “And that I’ve always been there.” Ethan chimed in: “Right. Sarah has no ulterior motives. She just feels for Wanda.” I looked at the concept images on the PowerPoint. That blurry 180-pound silhouette on the left was taken from the first post on Sarah’s account. Shot secretly from the balcony. “Wanda, what do you think of this direction?” Chris looked at me. The conference room was very quiet. Sarah looked up at me. Eyes slightly red, lower lip gently bitten. Ethan also looked at me. His gaze heavy, carrying a kind of gentle pressure. That kind of “you should be understanding,” “you shouldn’t make Sarah look bad” silent coercion. I’d lived under that kind of gaze for over ten years. Lived from 180 pounds to now. “Director Lewis. I don’t agree with this creative direction.” Sarah’s expression froze for an instant. Ethan frowned. “The endorsement contract is with me. The decision on creative direction lies with me and the brand. Not with a third party.” Chris looked troubled. “But from a promotional perspective—” “I’ll say it again. I don’t agree. If the brand insists on this direction, I can terminate the contract.” The air solidified. Sarah’s tears fell. Fell at just the right moment. “Wanda, do you really hate me that much? I just wanted to help you.” Ethan stood up. “Wanda, can you not be so extreme? It’s just a creative direction. Sarah’s doing this for your own good.” “Why are you always like this? When people are good to you, you always think the worst.” I picked up my bag. “Director Lewis. Give me an answer within three days. Original plan, or termination.” As I reached the door, Sarah’s voice came from behind. No longer that soft, pitiful tone from before. Very light. But every word crystal clear. “Wanda, you’re forgetting—without my story, you’re nothing.”
“The brand responded.” Holly’s voice came through the phone. I’d just wrapped from a cover shoot. Still hadn’t finished changing. “What did they say?” “Partnership temporarily on hold.” My hand on the clothing rack stopped. “What’s the reason?” “The brand VP said… they received some supplementary background materials about you. They’re internally reassessing the risk.” “What materials?” Holly paused for a few seconds. Like she was searching for the right words. “Ethan sent an email to the brand investment department’s senior management.” “In the email, he said you’ve had long-term emotional entanglement with him. That you’ve had multiple emotional breakdowns out of jealousy toward Sarah.” “He suggested the brand—carefully evaluate the spokesperson’s psychological stability before signing.” My head buzzed. “He also attached screenshots of messages you sent him when you were a teenager.” Sixteen years old. 180 pounds. Heart and eyes full of nothing but Ethan. I’d sent him message after message. Careful, humble. Like begging for a response that would never come. Those messages I’d almost forgotten myself. He kept them all. Not because they were precious. Because they were useful. Useful right now. “Holly…” “I know. I’m angry too. But the brand doesn’t care whether you were sixteen or twenty-six. All they see is an emotionally unstable label.” My phone vibrated again. My mother forwarded a Twitter link. Sarah’s new post: “I just wanted to help Wanda, but she blocked me and also blocked our best friend since childhood.” With three screenshots attached. First: the screen showing I’d blocked her. Second: the screen showing I’d blocked Ethan. Third: the latest post on the “Supermodel Wanda Sullivan’s Sarah” account—“I’ve been hurt, but I still wish Wanda well.” The comments exploded again. “Wanda Sullivan is way too much, right? Sarah spent three years documenting her growth journey and didn’t get a single word of thanks?” “I went through Sarah’s account. Photos, videos, complete timeline. How could this be fake?” “Some people float away when they get famous. Forget who their stepping stone was.” My mother’s message came again: “Look at what people are saying about you online! Don’t you know how much Sarah’s done for you? Your father’s blood pressure shot up again from anger. Hurry up and apologize to Sarah. You still have other work. She has nothing.” I stared at the screen. That exhaustion I’d felt since sixteen surged up again. No matter how hard I worked, I wasn’t seen. Lost weight to 130. “Not bad.” Lost to 110. “Sarah looks good even without losing weight.” Made it onto the supermodel rankings. “Without Sarah, you wouldn’t be here today.” Landed a million-dollar deal. “What’s wrong with giving it to Sarah?” Signed the contract. Ruined by message screenshots from ten years ago. Holly called again. “Wanda, there’s one more thing.” “Tell me.” “The MODE interview came out. The reporter ultimately… didn’t use your version.” “What do you mean?” “The article headline is—‘Supermodel Wanda Sullivan: Sarah Is My Greatest Benefactor.’” “They said, based on Sarah’s three years of social media documentation, complete timeline, photos and videos all there, the editorial board judged that version more credible.” I didn’t speak. Three years. She spent three years weaving this story. And I spent three years dragging my 180-pound self onto the runway. When she was crafting her story, I was running. When she was secretly photographing me, I was at the gym. When she was writing captions, I was eating plain grilled chicken breast alone. But the story won. Not the sweat. “Wanda. The brand investment department met with Sarah separately.” Holly’s voice was very low. “They’re considering signing Sarah as a secondary line spokesperson. And… terminating your primary contract.” I closed my eyes. My phone rang again. Not my mother. Not Sarah. Not Ethan. A completely unfamiliar number. “Wanda? This is Zoe, the brand’s creative director.” “I’d like to meet with you.” “About this partnership, I think… some people have gotten things wrong.”
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