She Ripped My Dress, I Burned Her World

The members of the runway team always loved to secretly tear my outfits.

During daily practice, she would sneakily alter my clothes when I wasn’t around, making me a laughingstock in front of the male models.

At one runway audition, she and I stepped onto the stage together, one on the left and one on the right. Suddenly, she yanked down my zipper, leaving me half-naked in front of the audience.

She always laughed and said,

“Come on, it’s just a little joke. Don’t be so serious.”

“And besides, your figure is amazing—let everyone enjoy the view.”

Later, just as I was about to be crowned champion of the Model Championship held every three years, she tore my outfit apart during a live broadcast.

With no time to repair it, I had no choice but to go on stage. The officials claimed I had exposed myself intentionally and banned me for life.

After that, I became the target of millions of netizens’ cyberbullying, a public disgrace, until I fell into depression and ended my life.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the very moment she first “altered” my clothes. The pain in my wrist hadn’t even faded.

I suddenly sat up, as if everything had happened just yesterday.

“Emily Sanders, why are you still standing there? Hurry up and change, the runway training is about to start!”

The Runway Director’s urgent voice pulled me back to reality.

I was in the fitting room, getting ready for our daily rehearsal.

My roommate Vanessa Miller came in, excited, walking straight toward me.

In my previous life, it was at this exact moment that she said my outfit didn’t flatter me and quickly “adjusted” it. When I walked onto the stage wearing it, within a few steps, my underwear was showing.

Already on stage, I had to endure the humiliation. The men below whistled and shouted crude remarks. That incident haunted me, making me nervous every time I stepped on the runway.

But this time, before she could approach me, I shoved her hard.

“Ah! Emily, are you insane?”

Vanessa fell to the ground, her face twisting in pain.

In her moment of fury, I grabbed her hair with one hand and slapped her hard with the other.

“Ahhh!”

She struggled desperately, clawing at my arm, but I didn’t let go. Within minutes, her face was swollen like a pig’s head.

I sneered. “That’s all you’ve got? And you think you can mess with me?”

“You love playing jokes? Fine. I’ll play with you to the end.”

A group of teammates gathered, staring in shock.

I finally released her. Her hair was a mess, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

“Emily, are you crazy? Do you want to kill me?” she cried, trying to act pitiful as more people arrived.

I calmly wiped my hands with a tissue.

“Kill you? Please. I’d be afraid to dirty my hands.”

“I just want you to know—some jokes are not to be made.”

She cried even harder.

“Everyone, look at her! I was only joking, and she nearly beat me to death. She’s paranoid and doesn’t deserve to share the stage with us.”

The Runway Director stormed in, furious.

“What is going on here?!”

The moment Vanessa saw the director, she put on her best performance—tears flowing, her pitiful act almost Oscar-worthy.