I was known across the internet as the ugliest daughter of Hollywood royalty, the grotesque shadow standing behind my universally adored, drop-dead gorgeous younger sister. When my parents first brought my sister home—born with a severe facial deformity—they wept over her suffering and begged me to step back from the spotlight, to hand over my modeling contracts and acting roles so they could build her up. I did. But slowly, terrifyingly, my own skin began to break out in weeping, cystic pustules. Meanwhile, my sister’s birthmarks faded. Her features sharpened into something breathtaking. She even snatched the exclusive global beauty campaign right out from under my fiancé’s nose. In the dressing room before a major gala, my makeup artist looked at the surgical mask hiding the lower half of my face and sighed. "It’s just the genetic lottery, honey. Your sister has a perfect canvas. Try not to let it eat at you." I forced a smile, my voice muffled by the fabric, trying to explain that we shared the exact same genetics. The makeup artist’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Then how on earth did your face end up rotting like that?" The words were a physical blow. I thought I just wasn't trying hard enough. I went home and subjected my skin to brutal chemical peels, aggressive anti-aging lasers, and even rigorously applied a bespoke, holistic poultice my sister had sworn by. Now, fresh off the operating table from a desperate jaw-shaving surgery, my face swathed in bloody bandages and my body trembling from the anesthesia, I looked up at the television in the recovery room. There was my sister—the girl doctors once said would never have a normal face—clutching the trophy for a massive, televised international beauty pageant, smiling with practiced, flawless grace. 1 I slumped against the sterile leather of the recovery room chair, feeling the warm, metallic seep of blood against my bandages. I pressed a trembling hand to my jawline, gasping as a sharp, electric pain shot through the fresh incisions where the surgeon had shaved down the bone. My eyes were glued to the flat-screen mounted on the wall. Blair Montgomery stood center stage, bathed in the blinding glare of the pageant's spotlights, a diamond crown nestled in her hair. She was my biological sister. When our parents finally tracked her down and brought her into the Montgomery estate two years ago, her face had been a map of twisted cartilage and deep, sprawling discoloration. The Blair on the screen today possessed a complexion like poured cream and features carved by an absolute master. The camera cut to the judges, their microphones picking up breathless whispers. "Utterly flawless. That right there is a generational beauty, given straight from God." A live feed of social media reactions scrolled rapidly across the bottom of the screen. [Oh my god who is this absolute goddess!!!] [Blair Montgomery is the IT GIRL! The real Montgomery heiress hits different!] [Where’s her sister though? Heard she botched her face trying to keep up lmaooo] I gripped the edge of my hospital gown, my knuckles bleeding of color. Two years ago, when Blair first stepped foot into our Bel-Air mansion, a dark, bruised-purple port-wine stain had consumed the entire left side of her face, dragging from her temple down to her jaw. Her nasal bridge was collapsed, her eyes spaced unnervingly far apart. I still remembered the top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon sliding the scans across his mahogany desk, his voice laced with pity. "It's a congenital bone and vascular malformation. The probability of surgical correction is next to zero." Slowly, I raised my hand, my fingertips grazing the swollen, throbbing mass of flesh beneath my bandages. I used to be the beautiful one. The golden child. By eighteen, I had locked down three international luxury campaigns. The tabloids called me the undisputed muse of young Hollywood. Then, a year ago, the nightmare started. My skin erupted. Deep, painful cysts colonized my forehead and cheeks. I flew to the top dermatologists in New York, underwent the most excruciatingly expensive laser treatments, and took every experimental pill they threw at me. Nothing worked. My face decayed a little more every day. And every day, Blair’s face healed. My phone buzzed against my thigh. A text from my mother, Evelyn. [Blair won the crown! She is the pride of this family! Stay at the clinic and rest, Camilla. Don't come out and make a scene.] I stared at the glowing pixels until they blurred, rubbing the heel of my hand against my eyes. I let my head fall back against the wall, the memories from a year ago rushing in to fill the quiet, sterile room. It was shortly after Blair had moved in. My father, Richard, had sat across from me in his study, staring at his scotch glass. "Camilla, your sister has survived a lifetime of cruelty out in the real world," he had said, his voice heavy. "That face of hers... people stare. They point." He looked up, his eyes pleading. "I’m asking you for a favor. Step out of the limelight for a bit. Hand your current PR resources and brand contacts over to her. Let her build some confidence. Once she finds her footing, I swear to you, I’ll make it up to you tenfold." My mother had been sitting on the velvet sofa, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "Your sister is so broken, Camilla. You’re the older sister. Is it really so hard to share?" I had caved. I thought bleeding myself dry was the price of a whole, happy family. The moment I stepped back, Blair consumed it all. She took my agents, my campaigns, and eventually, she even moved into the master suite that had been mine since childhood. I opened my eyes and pulled up Blair’s Instagram on my phone. Her latest post was a candid shot of her with Tristan Croft. Tristan’s arm was wrapped possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The caption read: [My Blair. The most beautiful girl in the world.] Tristan was my fiancé. A tremor started in my fingers and quickly hijacked my entire hand. I remembered the first time Tristan had met Blair. He hadn’t even bothered to shake her hand. Later, in the privacy of my car, he had shuddered. "Your sister," he had muttered, adjusting his Rolex. "Christ, she’s hard to look at." Now, he couldn't take his hands off her. Another notification slid down my screen. A text from Blair. [Cam! I won! I’m still shaking! Btw, are you still applying that botanical poultice I gave you?] [My holistic guru just gave me an upgraded formula, I’ll overnight it to you. You HAVE to keep applying it every night! Love u ~ ] I stared at the little pink heart, biting the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. The door to the recovery room clicked open. My surgeon walked in, holding a manila folder, his expression grim. He pulled off his reading glasses. "Camilla... I'm incredibly sorry," he started, his voice adopting that quiet, devastating professional tone. "The post-op tissue rejection from the jaw-contouring is much more aggressive than we modeled." He hesitated. "We are seeing signs of localized nerve necrosis in your lower face." "Meaning?" I whispered, my voice scraping like sandpaper. "Meaning, if the necrosis spreads... your face will never return to a baseline state of normalcy. The damage is permanent." I didn't move. I just sat perfectly still against the leather chair, while on the screen in my hand, my sister continued to smile. 2 Three days later, I walked into the hospital lobby to pick up my pathology reports. I kept my head down, the oversized sunglasses and medical mask hiding the fact that the skin around my jaw was peeling in angry, red flakes. I hadn't looked in a mirror since the surgery. I was just turning the corner toward the elevators when I heard a familiar voice echoing off the marble. "Hey, slow down. You’re going to twist an ankle in those heels." I froze. It was Tristan. I glanced over my shoulder. Blair was walking down the sunlit corridor, her arm threaded through Tristan’s. He had one hand hovering protectively over the small of her back, the other carrying her Chanel bag. This was the man who used to let heavy glass doors slam in my face because he was too busy checking his emails. "Are you tired, B?" Tristan murmured, leaning in close. "Want me to carry you to the car?" "Stop it, Tristan, you’re being embarrassing," Blair giggled, shoving his shoulder playfully. Then, she looked up. Her eyes locked onto me, standing like a ghost in the shadows of the alcove. The flirtatious smile vanished, instantly replaced by wide-eyed, theatrical concern. "Camilla!" She let go of Tristan and practically sprinted over, her eyes raking up and down my form. "Are you here for your follow-up? How is the healing going?" She leaned in, her gaze dropping to the visible edges of my ruined skin, her pupils dilating with something that looked sickeningly like hunger. I quickly shoved the manila folder containing my necrosis diagnosis behind my back. "...Fine." "Oh, thank god! I’ve been making myself sick worrying about you." She reached out and grabbed my free hand, squeezing it tight. Tristan strolled over, his gaze sweeping over me with barely concealed pity, before his lips pressed into a tight, strained line. "Camilla," he said, giving me a stiff nod. The elevator pinged. The steel doors slid open, revealing my parents. My mother’s face immediately soured the second she saw me. "What are you doing out of the house?" she snapped. "I told you to stay out of sight until you healed." But the moment her eyes shifted to Blair, her entire posture softened into mush. She pushed past me and grabbed Blair’s hands. "Blair, darling! Oh, look at that dress on you. You could wear a trash bag and make the cover of Vogue!" "Mom, I just came for a routine check-up," Blair said, resting her head on Evelyn’s shoulder. Tristan chimed in, practically preening. "Evelyn, Blair has a global shoot for LUMINE next month. They’re flying her to Paris. The creative director personally requested her." He offered my mother a deferential, charming smile. "It’s going to be massive for the Montgomery name." Evelyn beamed, showing all her teeth. "Well, obviously! Blair is the face of this family now. She’s our little miracle." My father stood a step behind them, nodding emphatically. "Damn right. She’s doing us proud." I stood three feet away, entirely invisible, listening to them build a world I was no longer a part of. After a long moment, Evelyn finally turned back to me, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Camilla, have those disgusting cysts cleared up yet?" A few nurses walking by turned their heads at the volume of her voice. I swallowed a thick knot of humiliation. "...No. Not yet." Evelyn’s brow furrowed, her mouth pulling down into a harsh scowl. "Do you know how much money we’ve burned on your dermatologists? Does any of it actually work? It’s like you’re not even trying—" My father sighed, adjusting his golf polo. "Tristan has that charity gala next week. He’s expecting you to be on his arm. You can’t go looking like... that." I gripped the edge of my medical file so hard the paper tore. I didn't say a word. Blair tugged gently on our mother’s sleeve. "Mom, leave her alone. She’s trying." She turned to me, tilting her head with an innocent blink. "Speaking of trying, Cam... have you been using that bespoke botanical poultice I sent you? The one from the apothecary?" I opened my mouth, the memory of that thick, foul-smelling paste rising in my throat. I had been slathering it on twice a day, exactly as she instructed. "...Yes. I use it." "But it doesn't work. If anything, the breakouts are spreading, and my skin feels like it’s burning." Blair’s eyes widened to comical proportions. She looked down at her own porcelain, flawless hands, and then back up at the raw, angry skin peeking out from my bandages. "Really? That is so weird..." she murmured. "Whenever I use it, my skin feels like silk." She tilted her head, her gaze locked onto mine. "Maybe your genetics just... reject it? I’ll ask my guru if there’s a modified batch he can make—" "Don't bother." I cut her off, taking a step backward. "I need to go." I turned on my heel and power-walked toward the lobby doors. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and embarrassed. "Look at her attitude! You try to help her, Blair, and she acts like a petulant child." Blair let out a soft, forgiving sigh. "She’s just hurting, Mom. Don't be mad at her..." Just before the heavy glass doors swung shut, I caught a glimpse of Blair in the reflection. She wasn't sighing. The corners of her mouth were curled up in a triumphant, razor-sharp smirk. 3 I walked into the ground floor of a high-end luxury department store. My doctor had prescribed a specialized neuro-repair serum to slow down the nerve death, and the only place that stocked it was the clinical beauty counter here. As I approached the cosmetic aisles, a massive, backlit billboard caught my eye. It was Blair. Printed in elegant, minimalist font in the bottom right corner were the words: [LUMINE Global Ambassador: Blair Montgomery.] That contract had been mine a year ago. I tore my eyes away, ducking my head and walking faster toward the pharmacy section. I barely made it two steps before someone screamed. "THAT’S HER!!!" A teenage girl, clutching a glossy magazine with Blair’s face on it, lunged out from behind a display counter. Before my brain could even register the movement, the girl reached out and violently ripped the mask off my face. I let out a choked gasp, throwing my hands up to cover my cheeks. The cool, air-conditioned air hit the raw surgical incisions and weeping pustules. It burned like battery acid. The girl blocked the aisle, putting her hands on her hips, and screamed at the top of her lungs. "HEY EVERYONE! Look! It’s Camilla Montgomery!" "Blair’s psychotic older sister! The one who's trying to sabotage her contracts and steal her campaigns!" All the color drained from my face. "What are you talking about—" "Don't play dumb! We know everything!" The girl spat, her eyes wild. "We know you’ve been calling the brand reps behind Blair’s back, trying to tell them you deserve the LUMINE deal! You’re so jealous you’re actually sick. It’s pathetic!" "I never did that! I’m just here to pick up a prescription!" The girl sneered, her eyes dropping to the manila folder I had instinctively tucked against my stomach. "Medicine? What kind of medicine does a botched plastic surgery freak need? What’s in the folder? Show us!" "No—" I tried to twist away, but she was faster. She yanked the pathology report right out of my hands. Her eyes scanned the bold text at the top of the page, and a malicious bark of laughter erupted from her throat. She waved the paper in the air, turning to the crowd of shoppers that had started to gather. "Oh my god, you guys, she’s actually trying to surgically copy her sister’s face! She got her jaw shaved and the surgery failed!" "She’s got facial nerve necrosis! She’s literally a rotting, stitched-together Frankenstein!!!" The crowd closed in. Phones were whipped out, camera lenses pointing at my face like the barrels of guns. I heard the rapid-fire click-click-click of shutters. "Jesus, that’s her sister? The genetic drop-off is insane..." "Trying to look like her little sister? That is profoundly unhinged." "Karma, honestly. Blair is a natural beauty, and this girl is just butchering herself." The whispers hit me like physical blows. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails broke the skin of my palms. "It’s not true! I wasn't trying to look like her! I—" The girl took a step closer, shoving her phone camera right into my face. "You’re what?" she sneered. "If my face looked like roadkill, I’d blow my brains out. Do us all a favor and drop off the grid. You’re disgusting." I curled my shoulders inward, a violent tremor wracking my body. "That is quite enough!" I was about to scream when a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. It was Evelyn. She pulled me behind her, her face dark with fury, though not at the crowd. At me. "Stop making a scene!" she hissed in my ear. "Are you trying to humiliate us? Get in the car, now!" "Mom—" "Do not call me Mom right now!" Evelyn stepped into my personal space, her voice a venomous whisper. "Look at you! Everywhere you go, you drag drama behind you like a stray dog! Your sister is finally at the peak of her career, and you’re out here getting photographed looking like a leper! Are you trying to drag her down with you?" I bit down on my trembling lip, the metallic taste of blood returning. Suddenly, Blair appeared from the crowd, looking like a distressed angel. she reached out and gently gripped my arm. "Cam, it’s okay. Ignore them." She turned to face the mob of onlookers, offering them a deeply apologetic, sorrowful look. "Please, everyone, stop taking photos. My sister... she’s struggling right now." She paused, letting a perfect tear well up in her eye. "She’s had a really hard time processing some... cosmetic procedures that didn't go as planned. Her mental health hasn't been stable. Please, just give her some grace, okay?" She pressed her palms together, bowing her head in a gesture of pure, saintly humility. Someone in the crowd murmured, "Blair has such a big heart... having a toxic sister like that must be exhausting." The fight drained out of me completely. My arms fell limp at my sides. I shook Blair’s hand off my arm, turned around, and walked away. I made it all the way to the underground parking garage before my legs gave out. I collapsed into a crouch behind a concrete pillar, pressing my face into my hands, choking on my own tears. Then, a voice echoed from the stairwell. "Yeah? Hey B, it’s done. I did exactly what you said..." I froze. "Yeah, tore the mask off, grabbed the medical records. She was literally sobbing in the middle of the store..." "Mhm, don't worry about it, B. The crowd was mostly the extras I hired off Craigslist..." "Two grand, right? Perfect. I’ll text you my Venmo." It was the girl from the department store. I knelt there in the oily darkness of the garage, holding my breath. I did exactly what you said. Extras I hired. Slowly, I lowered my hands. I wiped the tears from my ruined face, my fingers curling into tight, cold fists. 4 I pushed the heavy oak door of the house open, my face completely blank. The foyer was dark, save for the ambient light bleeding in from the street. A figure rose from the living room sofa and walked toward me. "Camilla?" Damon Royce frowned as he took in my appearance, his hands coming up to gently grasp my arms. "What happened? You look like you’re going to pass out." Damon was my husband. To the world—and to my family—he was just a nobody. A guy with no money and no pedigree who married into the Montgomery wealth because I had insisted. Nobody knew he was actually the sole heir to the Royce conglomerate, an empire that could buy and sell my father’s company ten times over. He kept his identity hidden and endured my family’s constant belittling because of a promise he made to me years ago. But right now, I didn't have the mental capacity to think about his secret billions. "It’s nothing," I lied, dropping my gaze. "Just came from the doctor. He said healing takes time." Damon studied me for a long moment, seeing right through the lie. Without a word, he pulled me flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. "Whatever it is," he murmured into my hair, "I’ve got you." I leaned my weight against him, burying my face in his shirt, and finally let out a long, shaky breath. Hours later, fresh out of the shower and lying in the dark, I stared at the ceiling. I mentally rewound the tape of the last twelve months. That bespoke botanical poultice Blair sent me. The smell was vile—like iron, rotting flowers, and old copper. Every time I put it on, it felt like my skin was in a frying pan. When I told Blair, she assured me it was "cellular purging" and that the toxins had to come out before the skin could heal. I had religiously applied it for three months. For three months, my face decayed at an accelerated rate. But the morning after I applied it, Blair would always wake up looking positively radiant. Glowing. Buzzing with energy. None of it made sense. Blair survived on a diet of vodka, sugar, and late-night Taco Bell runs. She slept three hours a night, never washed her makeup off before bed, and baked in the sun without a drop of SPF. With a lifestyle like that, her skin should have been a wrecked, inflamed mess. But she didn't have a single pore out of place. Meanwhile, I lived like a monk. No dairy, no sugar, gallons of water, sleeping by ten PM, slathering on the most expensive barrier-repair creams money could buy. And my face was literally rotting off my skull. I sat up slowly in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs. A terrifying, impossible thought clawed its way into my brain. What if her beauty wasn't hers? What if she was stealing it from me? I turned my head. Sitting on my nightstand was the fresh jar of the poultice Blair had just overnighted to me. The thick, black paste sat behind the glass, radiating that faint, sickeningly sweet, metallic smell. My phone lit up. A text from Blair. [Cam! Did the new batch arrive? You HAVE to put it on tonight! This one is ten times stronger than the last! Put on a thick layer! Sweet dreams ~] Followed by three pink heart emojis. A year ago, that text would have made me smile, grateful that my sister cared. Tonight, it made the blood in my veins run cold. I threw the blankets off, marched over to my vanity, and grabbed a heavy-duty trash bag. I swept every single glass bottle, serum, prescription cream, and chemical exfoliant off the marble into the bag. Then, I picked up the jar of the ancient poultice, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the foul, black sludge directly into the trash can. I didn't even flinch at the stench. I picked up my phone, opened Postmates, and ordered eighty dollars' worth of greasy fried chicken, loaded fries, and a massive chocolate milkshake. Damon, who had been leaning against the bedroom doorframe watching my manic purge, raised a single, dark eyebrow. "Going scorched earth, I see?" "If my face is going to rot, I might as well enjoy the ride," I mumbled around a mouthful of a crispy chicken thigh twenty minutes later. "I haven't eaten a carb in three years. This is so f*cking good." After I ate, I stayed up until 4 AM playing Call of Duty, eventually passing out and sleeping until noon. For the next seven days, I abandoned everything. I threw away my diet. I ate jalapeño poppers and drank cheap wine. I stayed out late with Damon at dive bars. I stopped washing my face. I stopped moisturizing. I stopped avoiding the sun. On the night of the seventh day, my phone began to vibrate violently. The screen flashed Blair's name. Over and over. I ignored the first three calls. On the fourth, I hit accept. "CAMILLA! What the hell have you been doing for the past week?!" Blair’s voice was frantic, breathless. I took a bite of a spicy barbecue wing, dragging out my chew before answering. "Eating ribs. Why?" "No—what about your poultice?! Mom told me she saw you throw all your skincare away! Have you lost your mind? Your face is literally falling apart and you’re just going to give up?!" Her voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch that I had never heard from her before. Hearing the absolute, naked panic in her tone, I smiled. I finally had her.
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