When Summer’s stepmom steals the wedding dress her late mother left for her, she refuses to let it slide.
Betrayed by the one person who should have protected her, she hatches a plan… one that will ensure Lisa gets exactly what she deserves.
After all, some things aren’t meant to be stolen.
My mom died when I was thirteen.
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
One second, she was there, laughing, telling me to tie my shoelaces, humming in the kitchen while she made blueberry pie, and the next?
She was gone.
It was sudden, cruel, and the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
But she was my best friend. And she left me something priceless.
Her wedding dress.
I still remember how she ran her fingers over the lace, her eyes soft as she placed it in my hands.
For my beautiful daughter,
this is so that a part of me will always be with you on your special day.
-Mom
I mean, I was thirteen. Marriage felt a million years away, but I treasured that dress like a relic.
I kept it zipped up in its protective bag, untouched, waiting for the day I’d finally get to wear it.
And then, my dad met her.
Lisa.
Lisa came into our lives like a whirlwind. She smiled too much and inserted herself into every conversation like she belonged with us. She made stupid comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and how “a woman can’t grow up without a mother’s touch.”
Of course, I was polite.
I tried to be happy for my dad.
He had been so lonely, and I wanted him to find love again.
Nobody would replace my mother in our lives, but we knew that she’d want us to be happy.
Except that Lisa didn’t just want to be my dad’s new wife. She wanted to erase my mom.
The moment she moved in, things changed. She started redecorating.
She started boxing up the few things of my mom’s that we left out.
Eventually, my home stopped feeling like mine.
And then came the engagement.
Dad proposed to her after just a year of them being together. I didn’t want to say too much about it because they were adults. I figured that despite my issues with Lisa, maybe he saw something in her that made him ready for marriage.
It was his life, his decision.
But when Lisa started planning the wedding, I should have known that she’d take it too far.
I just never expected this.
I came home late one evening, stepping inside to the sound of laughter coming from my dad’s bedroom.
Lisa’s voice? High and excited.
Another woman’s voice rang loud and clear.
Oh, goodness, I thought to myself.
It was Greta, Lisa’s sister.
Something felt off about the house. Like the entire energy was just… wrong.
The door was cracked open just enough for me to see inside.
And when I did, my entire world stopped.
Lisa was wearing my mom’s wedding dress.
She twirled in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace sleeves, smoothing the beading like it belonged to her.
Like it wasn’t a sacred piece of my mother’s memory.
Her sister clapped.
“Oh, my God. It’s perfect, Lisa! It’s like it was made for you, honey!
Wow!”
“What the hell are you doing?!” I exclaimed, slamming the door open.
Lisa gasped, spinning toward me.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It.
Off. Now!”
My entire body shook with rage.
She sighed, like I was a child throwing a tantrum.
“I was just trying it on. No big deal,” she said.
“No big deal?!” My voice cracked.
“That dress was for me! My mom left it for me! It’s not yours!”
Lisa’s expression shifted.
Her smile turned patronizing.
“Honey, it’s just a dress,” she said, sighing. “Besides, your dad and I are getting married. Wouldn’t it be a beautiful way to honor your mother?
Me wearing her dress to marry him? I think the symbolism is beautiful… don’t you?”
She smiled at me, her fake smile making me feel uneasy.
“That’s a lovely way of looking at it,” Greta chimed in.
I saw red. This wasn’t a symbol of anything other than disrespect.
I turned to my dad, who had just walked in, briefcase in hand.
He was my last hope.
“Dad.
Say something. This isn’t okay!”
His jaw tightened. His shoulders stiffened.
For a brief second, I saw hesitation in his eyes.
A flicker of discomfort, of guilt.
But then Lisa looped her arm through his, smiling up at him like she already knew he wouldn’t fight her on this.
And just like that, he caved.
Lisa tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
“Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”
Something inside me snapped. I knew, right then, that I had lost him.
I could have cried that night. I could have screamed, shouted, or even eaten my feelings…
But I didn’t.
Instead, I sat in my dark room, laptop open, scrolling through article after article, fingers shaking over the keyboard.
How to weaken fabric?
How to ruin lace without visible damage?
How to make a dress fall apart?
My search history looked unhinged.
But I didn’t care.
The first few articles were useless—staining techniques, how to stretch fabric.
“That’s not what I need,” I muttered to the screen. “Give me something good.”
And then, I found something promising.
Soaking fabric in water and letting it dry weakens the fibers. Repeating the process multiple times makes delicate material brittle.
My breath hitched.
It was perfect.
Not noticeable at first glance.
Not immediate. But the moment Lisa moved too much? The seams would start to split.
The fabric would tear.
I read everything I could.
Textile experiments, bridal forums, costume designers explaining fabric care. By the time the
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