A day before my sister's wedding, my mom chopped off 20 inches of my hair for not outshining my sister. "Your sister is married to a billionaire.

At 11:30 AM, the cathedral was packed to maximum capacity.

Five hundred guests—clad in designer tuxedos, diamond necklaces, and haute couture dresses—filled the oak pews. The air smelled of expensive perfume, white orchids, and crisp champagne.

At 11:45 AM, a sleek, matte-black Maybach pulled up to the red carpet outside the main cathedral entrance.

The paparazzi cameras immediately began flashing, assuming it was a late-arriving high-society VIP or a Sterling relative.

The driver stepped out and opened the rear door.

A long, slender leg clad in a black silk trousers and a five-inch Christian Louboutin red-soled pump stepped onto the carpet.

I stepped out of the car.

The crowd of photographers went quiet for half a second, taken aback by the striking, breathtaking sight.

My copper-gold pixie cut shimmered brilliant under the morning sun. The midnight-black Alexander McQueen jumpsuit clung to my body with royal precision, the dramatic cape trailing three feet behind me as I walked. I wore no jewelry except for a pair of single-diamond studs and dark designer sunglasses.

I looked like a high-fashion executioner.

"Who is that?!" a reporter shouted from behind the barrier. "Is that a supermodel?!"

"Wait! That’s Harper Vance! The bride's sister!" another photographer yelled, flashing fifty pictures in three seconds.

I ignored them all, walking up the grand stone steps of the cathedral with calm, unshakeable confidence.

Inside the foyer, my mother was standing near the guest book, instructing the ushers. When she turned around and saw me, her breath hitched violently in her throat.

Her eyes went wide as saucers. She looked at my short, flaming red hair, at my black jumpsuit, at the sheer, undeniable elegance radiating from me.

"Harper?!" my mom gasped, her voice shrill with horror. "What... what did you do to your hair?!"

I took off my dark sunglasses, looking down at her with cold, tranquil eyes.

"Do you like it, Mom?" I asked softly. "I had it professionally styled. It turns out when you remove the butchered parts, what's left is quite striking."

My dad rushed over from the usher station, his face twisting into pure rage when he saw me wearing black.

"What the hell are you wearing?!" my dad snarled under his breath, grabbing my arm tightly. "You were told to wear the beige bridesmaid dress! You look like you're attending a funeral! And what is wrong with your head?!"

I looked down at his hand on my arm.

"Take your hand off me, Richard," I said, my voice dropping so low and sharp it felt like a knife pressing against his throat. "Or I will scream domestic battery right here in front of the Chicago Tribune reporters."

My dad instantly pulled his hand back as if he had been burned, glaring at me with lethal hatred.

"You arrogant, ungrateful bitch," my dad hissed. "You think you can ruin this day for us? Go sit in the back row behind the pillar where nobody can see you!"

I smiled—a calm, beautiful, terrifying smile.

"Oh, don't worry, Dad," I whispered, leaning in close to his ear. "I have a front-row seat."

I turned my back on my parents and walked down the central aisle toward the front right pew—the seat reserved exclusively for the bride’s immediate family.

As I walked, five hundred heads turned. Whispers rippled through the pews like wildfire:

"Is that Chloe’s sister?" "My God, she looks unbelievable..." "Look at that hair! She looks like a French movie star!" "Why is she wearing black? She looks so powerful..."