By the time Zoe realized something was wrong with her sweater, it was already too late.

The bell for third period had just rung at Westbrook High, and the main hallway in their southern California school felt like a catwalk designed by someone with a grudge—harsh fluorescent lights, scuffed linoleum, and a hundred bored teenagers watching everything.

Zoe walked straight down the middle, chin lifted, pretending the lockers were backstage curtains and the ugly buzz of the lights was applause. She did this every morning. It was how she survived Westbrook, a public school thirty minutes outside Los Angeles where popularity was measured in followers, outfits, and whether your parents had ever been on a red carpet.

Today, she’d dressed carefully: thrifted cream sweater with hand-painted flowers along the hem, a pleated navy skirt she’d taken in on her mom’s old sewing machine, and a belt made from a vintage scarf. Total cost: about twelve dollars and three hours of sleep.

People stared. They always did. Usually she told herself it was because they’d never seen anything this creative outside Instagram.

Today, the staring felt different. It came with snickers. With phones raised a little too high.

Someone laughed behind her. It was mean and sharp, the kind of laugh that cut.

“What is that?” a boy snorted. “Did a dog have an accident on her back?”

Heat crawled up Zoe’s neck. She stopped walking, heart pounding, and twisted to look over her shoulder.

Her stomach dropped.

Right in the center of her cream sweater, a huge, uneven smear of dark brown fabric had been glued on, stiff and wrinkled, the edges crusty where the glue had dried. From a distance, it did look like… exactly what the boy said.

The hallway roared with laughter.

Phones were definitely out now. Someone was filming in vertical, narrating. “Yo, Westbrook, look at this. It’s giving… restroom floor.”

Zoe’s brain fuzzed. How had she not felt it? She’d put the sweater on carefully, checked herself in the cracked mirror in their tiny apartment. It had looked perfect. Now it looked like trash.

She heard a familiar giggle float over the noise.

Skyler.

Of course.

Skyler Reed was leaning against a locker with her standard entourage — Ingrid and Tasha on either side like glossy backup dancers. Her long honey-blonde hair was curled into perfect waves, her skin smoothed to influencer perfection. She was wearing an ice-blue dress that looked like it had walked off a runway straight onto her body.

She was also holding a glue stick.

“Oops,” Skyler said, covering her mouth as if she’d just witnessed an unfortunate accident instead of orchestrated it. “Looks like someone had a little wardrobe malfunction.”

Ingrid practically doubled over. “Oh my gosh, Sky, you really put the ‘mess’ in ‘message’ on that outfit.”

Tasha snorted. “What do you expect? That’s what little Miss Wannabe Fashionista gets. Honestly, though,” she added loudly, eyeing Zoe’s skirt, “if you like cheap polyester, her fit was kinda cute.”

“How generous of you,” Skyler murmured, barely hiding her smirk. “But we all know who’s actually best dressed.”

All three of them looked down at Skyler’s dress at the same time, like it was a fourth member of their group.

Zoe’s throat closed. Words clawed at her, hot and useless. She clutched the strap of her backpack so tightly her knuckles whitened, then turned and fled to the nearest bathroom, heart thudding in her ears.

The laughter followed her all the way down the hall.

Inside the girls’ bathroom, the cheap fluorescent lights hummed, and the mirror above the sinks was streaked with water spots. Zoe dropped her backpack onto the counter and twisted, trying to see over her shoulder.

Up close, the glued-on patch looked even worse: like someone had ripped the arm off a thrift-store teddy bear and slapped it on her back out of spite. The glue had seeped through the knit and stuck to her undershirt.

Her eyes burned.

She’d spent three nights painting those flowers. Her mom—who used to sew custom gowns for small-time pageants back in Texas before they moved to California—would have adored this sweater.

Would have. Past tense.

Zoe swallowed hard.

A stall opened behind her. A girl with earbuds in came out, glanced at Zoe’s reflection, and then at the mess on her back. Her eyes flickered with something like sympathy.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Zoe lied. Her voice came out strangled. “I’m fine.”

The girl hesitated, then shrugged and left, the door swinging shut behind her.

Zoe gripped the sink. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a phantom hand tapping her shoulder.

She pulled it out. Notifications exploded across the lock screen.

skye_reed just posted a new reel.

And right under it, another alert:

@westbrooksavage tagged you in a story.

Her stomach twisted. She opened Instagram and tapped the third notification with numb fingers.

Skyler’s story filled the screen, already thousands of views deep. It was a boomerang of Zoe walking down the hallway, the glued-on “stain” bouncing with every step. Skyler had tagged it: @zoe.stitches and added a caption.

If you’re going to be a fashion girlie, at least learn how to wash your clothes 💀

Zoe’s chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

“Delete it,” she whispered, even though she knew Skyler never would.

Her own profile hovered just a tap away, with its tiny follower count and a handful of low-budget fashion videos filmed in bad lighting.

The last one she’d posted the night before popped into her head.

“Hey guys, it’s Zoe Styles,” she’d said to the camera in their cramped living room, standing in front of the couch they’d found on Facebook Marketplace, “and today I’m going to show you how to style an entire outfit using only clothes you already have at home. Fashion isn’t about how much money you spend—it’s about how creative you can get.”

She’d been proud of that video. It had taken her forever to edit on her glitchy phone. She’d lost followers when she posted it. Apparently, no one wanted a “cheap” fashion influencer.

And now, the school had just turned her into a joke.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text.

Dad: Sorry you’re not feeling your best today, baby. Just know I’m here for whatever you need. Love you so much.

Her vision blurred.

She imagined her dad on his break from his double shift at the diner in downtown L.A., hair going gray at the temples, apron stained from sixteen hours of coffee refills and cheeseburgers. He’d traded Texas sunshine for a tiny Los Angeles apartment so she could go to a high school close to Hollywood, because she’d said that’s where fashion dreams were born.

He’d believed her.

She couldn’t fall apart over a glob of glue and a mean story.

She put her phone away, splashed water on her face, and scrubbed the worst of the glue off her sweater with a wad of rough paper towels. It smeared but didn’t budge. Whatever. It would have to do. She tugged her hair down to cover as much as she could and walked out.

The day didn’t get much better.

In Earth Science, when she slipped into her seat late, the teacher barely glanced up from her notes.

“So,” Ms. Collins said, chalk squeaking against the whiteboard, “can anyone tell me why the sun appears to rise in the east and set in the west?”

Zoe stared at her desk, willing her face to cool.

Skyler’s hand shot up. “Because the earth rotates from west to east,” she answered, flashing that practiced, pageant-ready smile.

“Exactly,” Ms. Collins said. “Now, if only your laundry could rotate in a washing machine.”

Her tone was light, but her eyes flicked toward Zoe’s sweater, and a couple kids laughed.

Zoe’s spine froze.

Skyler hid a smirk behind her textbook.

“And since we’re talking about rotations,” Ms. Collins added, “some of you might want to focus on your grades instead of your outfits. They seem to be spinning down the drain.”

Zoe wanted to disappear.

“Since everyone has jokes today,” Ms. Collins said, clapping her hands once, “come up and grab a worksheet. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

Zoe stood when everyone else did, moved to the front, and reached for the stack a full second too late. Skyler brushed past her harder than necessary, “accidentally” bumping her shoulder. A whisper of fabric, a breath of expensive perfume.

On her way back to her desk, Zoe felt a tug at her jeans. She looked down.

A scrap of brown tape hung from her back pocket, stuck there by a manicured hand.

“I just wanted to make sure your jeans matched your sweater,” a voice murmured by her ear.

The laughter was quieter this time, meaner.

Zoe’s cheeks burned. She peeled the tape off and sat down without a word.

She survived the rest of the school day on fumes and autopilot. When the final bell rang, she practically sprinted off campus, anxious to get home before her dad left for his second shift.

Their apartment sat in a tired building above a laundromat in east L.A., mash of traffic noise and fried-food smell drifting through the thin walls. The lock stuck, as always; she had to shoulder it twice before it gave.

“Is that you, Zo?” her dad called from the tiny kitchen.

“Yeah,” she said, tossing her backpack toward the couch and trying to smooth her hair with trembling fingers. “Sorry, I’m late. I had to—”

She stopped.

Her dad stood at the stove, stirring a pot of red sauce. The whole place smelled like garlic and basil. A pot of spaghetti bubbled next to it.

“You’re making pasta?” she asked, surprised.

“Spaghetti night,” he said, flashing his tired smile. “Your favorite. Figured a little carb loading would help my little designer fuel those big dreams.”

“Dad, that’s like… four doubles this week,” she said, frowning. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Don’t worry about me. That’s my job.” He checked his watch. “Unfortunately, my other job is catching the 4:10 bus downtown, so I’m going to have to eat on the way.”

He grabbed his faded Dodgers cap from the hook and headed for the door.

“Hey,” Zoe said quickly. “Wait.”

He paused. “Yeah?”

She opened her mouth to tell him about what Skyler had done, about the glue and the video and Ms. Collins’s little dig. The words pooled on her tongue, heavy and sour.

He looked so tired.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just… thanks for the spaghetti.”

His face softened. “Anytime, baby. Text me if you need anything. And remember—”

“I know,” she said, finishing for him. “Happiness comes from authenticity, not approval.”

He grinned. “That’s right. That one’s your mom, not me. I stole it fair and square. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the door closed behind him, the apartment sagged into quiet.

Zoe ate over the sink, scrolling through Instagram with one hand, forcing herself to like posts from designers she admired instead of hate-stalking Skyler’s story. The algorithm didn’t care about her feelings. It only cared about engagement.

A video from one of her favorite creators popped up: a girl in New York making a ball gown out of thrift-store curtains. The caption read: Fashion is what you buy. Style is what you do with it.

Zoe’s fingers twitched. She opened the TikTok app on reflex, then stopped.

Her last video had tanked. Three hateful comments and one pity like from her cousin. Skyler’s fan base had flooded it with clown emojis.

Her cursor hovered over the plus sign.

She exhaled.

“Hey guys,” she said quietly to the empty apartment. “It’s Zoe. Today I’m going to show you…”

The words died.

She put the phone down.

Across town, under a whole different kind of spotlight, Skyler sat on a white leather couch in her Beverly Hills living room, ring lights casting a glow so soft it erased every pore.

“Hi, guys,” she said brightly into the front-facing camera, head tilted at a perfect angle. “It’s Sky. Today, I want to remind you that fashion isn’t about how much money you spend—it’s about elevating your look with the right pieces. I’m going to show you how I style my latest Revolve haul.”

She stepped back and posed, the camera capturing every shimmer of her designer dress.

“Better,” a voice drawled offscreen. “But you still look stiff. Posture, darling.”

Skyler’s mother’s reflection appeared in the mirror behind the phone. Sloane Reed swept into frame like she’d been born inside a magazine spread—tall, thin, with sharp cheekbones and perfectly highlighted hair. Once, back in the 2000s, she’d graced covers of fashion magazines and walked a few mid-level red carpets. She’d never let anyone in the house forget it.

“If you don’t look the part,” Sloane said, tapping Skyler’s chin up with one manicured finger, “no one will take you seriously. Not that you can look the part with that thing on your face.”

Her gaze flicked to the small dark beauty mark beside Skyler’s left cheekbone.

Skyler’s fingers instinctively touched it. As a child, she’d thought it made her look like the actresses her dad watched in old black-and-white movies. Her mother had called it “that spot” like it was a stain.

“It’s a shame your father didn’t let us remove it when you were younger,” Sloane sighed. “He always was sentimental.”

Skyler’s jaw clenched. Her father lived in another state now, calling on weekends, his voice full of apologies and hope. He’d always said the beauty mark made her look like a star.

“You must be perfect,” Sloane continued, turning away to adjust a vase on the coffee table. “And the first step to being perfect is looking perfect. As long as you’re my daughter, you must maintain your appearance.”

“Yes, Mother,” Skyler said.

“And speaking of shame…” Sloane picked up a folded paper from the table and snapped it open. “Care to explain this?”

Skyler’s stomach dropped. It was her report card.

One class—Earth Science—had a bold red F next to it.

“If you don’t pass a class, you’re grounded for a month,” Sloane said crisply. “No parties. No events. No red carpets. Do you understand?”

“But the Fashion Forward Awards are next month,” Skyler protested. “My stylist already pulled looks. The step-and-repeat—”

“Then pass the class,” Sloane said. “Or you can watch the show from this couch like everyone else in middle America.”

Skyler bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

Later that week, the two girls’ worlds collided again in the worst way.

It happened in homeroom, right after the morning announcements. The classroom buzzed with low chatter until the teacher cleared his throat.

“Settle down,” he said. “Phones away. We’re going to look at something together.”

He tapped the keyboard, and the projector flickered on.

Zoe’s stomach dropped.

Her own face appeared, blown up on the whiteboard — frozen mid-sentence, eyes bright, lips curved in a smile.

“Hi guys, it’s Zoe Styles here,” her recorded voice said, echoing around the room. “Today I’m going to show you a few ways to style your next fit that will level up your look for under fifteen dollars.”

The room erupted.

Some kids laughed. Others pulled out their phones to record the recording. A few murmured, “That’s messed up.”

Zoe’s head swam. She’d only posted that video to TikTok two days ago. She’d gotten a grand total of fourteen likes and three comments before she’d turned off notifications. Now it was playing in homeroom like a comedy clip.

“Who did this?” the teacher demanded, frowning at the screen. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh my gosh,” someone said in an exaggerated voice. Zoe recognized it instantly. Skyler. “Who would do such a thing?”

Zoe could feel Skyler’s eyes burning a hole in the side of her head.

Her cheeks flamed. Her hands curled into fists under the desk.

Drawings are for little kids, she thought bitterly, borrowing a line she’d overheard someone throw at Jaden in art last week. Fashion was supposed to be her escape. Now they’d weaponized it.

After class, in the courtyard, she passed Jaden sitting at a picnic table with a sketchbook open. His hand moved quickly across the page, pencil flying, shading a dress silhouette that swirled like smoke. His dark curls fell into his eyes.

“Yo, J,” one of his teammates called, snatching the sketchbook before he could react. “What is this?”

The boys crowded around. “Dude, are you still drawing these corny cartoons?” one laughed. “Man, give that to some kid in art club.”

Jaden lunged and grabbed the book back, face flooding with color. “Relax. It’s nothing.”

Zoe caught a glimpse of the drawing before he snapped it shut. It wasn’t “nothing.” It was good.

“Break’s over!” the basketball coach barked from across the yard. “Let’s go!”

Jaden shot Zoe an apologetic half-smile and jogged off.

Break was over for Zoe, too. Literally.

“Bathrooms are out of order again,” the assistant principal snapped as she passed by. “If you need cleaning supplies, they’re in the closet.”

It was always like this in a school that felt held together with duct tape and hope.

Things only got messier.

One afternoon, Zoe clocked in at the small family restaurant where she worked weekends. It was a cozy place in a strip mall just off a busy Los Angeles intersection. The owner, Mrs. Patel, handed her an apron.

“Right on time,” she said. “Table eleven was just seated.”

“Can someone else take them?” Zoe blurted, stomach sinking.

Mrs. Patel frowned. “Is there a problem?”

Zoe swallowed. “No. I’ll get their drinks.”

She grabbed her notepad and forced herself to walk out to table eleven.

Skyler sat there with her friends, dressed like they were at a premiere instead of a midrange diner. Skyler’s expression flickered from surprise to thinly veiled amusement.

“Wow,” Ingrid said loudly. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your little camera.”

“Or your glue,” Tasha muttered.

Skyler leaned back. “Hey, Zoe,” she said in a sweet voice. “We’ll take six chocolate milkshakes.”

“Make mine mint chocolate,” Ingrid said. “You know, since someone keeps saying I’ve gained weight. Maybe I should call that doctor.”

Skyler’s eyes flashed. “I was just trying to help you,” she said sharply, then forced a smile. “Mint chocolate and four regulars. Got it?”

Zoe wrote it down with trembling hands.

By the time she got home that night, her feet ached, and her head pounded. She found her dad asleep on the couch, TV still on, a rerun of some awards show flickering on the screen.

On the red carpet, a woman that looked unsettlingly like Sloane Reed mugged for the cameras, gown glittering.

“Who are you wearing?” a reporter asked.

“Zoe Styles,” the woman said brightly into the mic.

Zoe smiled despite everything. She shut the TV off and draped a blanket over her dad.

One block away, in a much glossier part of town, Skyler stood in her bedroom, staring at herself in the floor-length mirror. Her mother paced behind her, lips pressed thin.

“That dress really doesn’t do much for your figure,” Sloane said. “You’ve gained weight, Skyler. I know a doctor who can prescribe something. Everyone in West Hollywood is taking it. It’ll pull you right together.”

“Aren’t I a little young for that?” Skyler asked quietly.

“You’re never too young to be perfect,” Sloane said. “And for goodness’ sake, cover up that spot on your face in your stories. It’ll ruin the photos.”

Skyler’s phone buzzed on the vanity. A text from her boyfriend, Bryce.

Sorry you’re not feeling your best today, baby. Just know I’m here for whatever you need. Love you so much.

Her heart softened.

Sloane saw the smile and snorted. “Honestly, if you spent as much time on your homework as you did on your phone, you wouldn’t be failing classes.”

“I’m not—”

“And what is this outfit?” Sloane demanded, gesturing to Skyler’s oversized hoodie and leggings. “Between this, your grades, and the fact that you’ve put on weight, you are disappointing me in every way. If you fail again, you’re grounded. No events. No red carpet.”

Skyler’s shoulders sagged.

Later, when the school announced a major group project in science worth a third of their grade, the universe seemed to twist.

“All right, class,” Ms. Collins said, clapping her hands. “It’s time for my favorite thing—a group project.”

Groans echoed around the room.

“This one’s a big deal,” she went on. “I’m assigning groups. Don’t argue.”

Names rattled through the air.

“Zoe and Skyler,” Ms. Collins said.

A hush fell like a dropped curtain.

Skyler turned slowly in her seat, eyes narrowing. Zoe stared down at her notebook.

Ingrid bumped Skyler’s arm. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Just so you know,” Skyler said under her breath as soon as class ended, blocking Zoe’s path, “I’m not working with you.”

“I hate this as much as you do,” Zoe said, keeping her voice level, even though her heart pounded. “But we need this grade.”

“You need this grade,” Skyler said. “My mom will just hire a tutor if I fail. Enjoy your F.”

She flounced away.

That afternoon, Zoe sat at the kitchen table, textbooks spread out, trying not to cry on the periodic table. Her dad walked in, loosened his tie, and saw her expression.

“You look stressed, kiddo,” he said gently.

“It’s this project,” she said. “I got thrown together with Skyler. She’s been… awful. And now she says she doesn’t want to work on it. I don’t know if I should just do it for both of us or let her fail.”

Her dad sat down across from her. “You know what I always say in situations like this?”

She sighed. “What would Mom do.”

He smiled, sadness flickering through his eyes. “Exactly.”

Her mom would have said: Just because someone throws rocks at you doesn’t mean you throw rocks back. You build with them.

Zoe sighed and opened her notebook.

The next day, Ms. Collins asked a question that made Zoe’s stomach sink.

“Where’s your project?” she demanded, arms folded.

Skyler doodled in the margin of her notebook. “I don’t have it.”

“You understand this is due at the end of the semester,” Ms. Collins said. “If you don’t turn it in, you fail.”

“I’ve got it,” Zoe said, standing up.

Every head turned.

She walked to the front and placed the neatly bound report and hand-drawn diagrams on Ms. Collins’s desk.

“We worked on it together,” she said. “I was just running late.”

Ms. Collins flipped through the pages, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “This is… very impressive,” she said. “Excellent work.”

Skyler stared.

Later, in the hallway, when the crowds thinned, she caught up with Zoe.

“Why’d you do that?” she demanded.

Zoe looked at her. Really looked at her. At the dark circles under her eyes under the makeup, the tightness in her shoulders, the way she flinched when her phone buzzed.

“I heard the way your mom talks to you,” Zoe said quietly. “You don’t deserve that. My mom told me something once: happiness comes from authenticity, not approval. Even if it’s your own mother’s approval.”

Skyler swallowed hard. Something trembled in her jaw.

“You didn’t have to save me,” she said.

“I didn’t,” Zoe said. “I just… didn’t want to see you get crushed for something that isn’t your fault.”

She started to walk away.

“Wait,” Skyler said. “Since you’re the reason I even get to go… would you maybe want to design my dress for the Fashion Forward red carpet?”

Zoe stopped. “What?”

“There’s going to be a ton of press,” Skyler said quickly. “Photographers, bloggers. I can tag you in everything. It would be… good exposure for your line, if you, you know, want to have one someday.”

Zoe’s head spun.

“You want to wear something I made?” she asked.

“You’ve got talent,” Skyler muttered. “It’d be dumb not to use it. So… you in?”

Zoe thought of the hallway laughter, the glued sweater, the restaurant humiliation.

She also thought of the way Skyler’s eyes had filled with something like panic when her mother threatened to keep her off the carpet.

“Yeah,” Zoe said slowly. “I’m in.”

The week before the awards show, their lives turned into a montage.

Afternoons at Zoe’s apartment, fabric and sketches spread all over the floor. Skyler perched on the arm of the couch, scrolling through Pinterest and old Vogue covers.

“What about this neckline?” she asked, holding up a photo of a silver gown.

“That’s going to slip right off you if you breathe,” Zoe said. “Turn a little.”

She studied Skyler’s frame with professional eyes, measuring tape around her neck.

“You don’t think I’ve… gained weight?” Skyler blurted.

Zoe made a face. “Are you serious? You look like a normal human girl who eats food. You’re fine.”

“My mom keeps saying—”

“Your mom is wrong,” Zoe said flatly. “Also, I’m not designing a dress for your mother.”

Skyler laughed, surprised. It sounded rusty.

They settled on a look: deep emerald green, structured bodice, flared skirt that moved like water. Zoe stayed up until 2 a.m. three nights in a row, sewing on her mom’s old machine, hands aching, heart full.

In the evenings, when Skyler wasn’t there, Zoe worked on something else: a line sheet. Three more dress designs. A simple logo. A name.

Zoe Styles.

“It’s a little on the nose,” she told her dad sheepishly.

He grinned. “People will remember it.”

Meanwhile, in a corner of the noisy gym, Jaden flipped through his sketchbook between drills. One of the coaches caught a glimpse and whistled.

“Tenon, this is really good,” he said, accidentally mispronouncing his name. “You should keep drawing.”

“Only if you keep it between us,” Jaden muttered, cheeks flushing.

The night before the awards, everything hit at once.

Skyler burst into Zoe’s apartment, eyes wild.

“What’s wrong?” Zoe asked, dropping a spool of thread.

“Bryce,” Skyler said, voice shaking. “He just told me… I can’t walk the carpet with you.”

Zoe blinked. “What?”

“He said it’s not a good look,” she said, anger and hurt tangling. “He literally used those words. ‘Not a good look.’”

Footsteps thudded outside the door. A second later, Bryce himself stepped in without knocking, baseball jacket slung over one shoulder.

“Sky, what are you doing here?” he demanded, jaw tight. “We need to talk.”

Zoe bristled. “You need to knock.”

He ignored her. “You can’t be hanging out with…” He gestured at the apartment, at the fabric on the table, at Zoe in her thread-covered leggings. “…this. It’s not good for your image.”

“Says who?” Skyler asked, voice shaking.

“Says me,” he said. “As long as you’re my girlfriend, you can’t let some little thrift-store project drag your rep down.”

Zoe flinched.

There it was. The same sentence she’d heard echoing from Sloane’s mouth: As long as you’re my daughter…

Skyler’s face went very still.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Well, if that’s how you feel…”

Bryce smirked, like he’d won.

“…then I guess we’re done,” she finished.

The smirk vanished.

“Wait, what?”

“You don’t get to decide who I’m seen with,” Skyler said. “Or what I wear. Or what spot stays on my face.”

She touched her beauty mark.

“Sky—”

“Get out,” she said.

He stared at her, then at Zoe, then scoffed. “Whatever. Enjoy your little art project.”

He slammed the door.

Silence hummed in his wake.

Skyler’s shoulders shook once. Then she let out a breathy laugh.

“Wow,” she said. “That felt… good.”

Zoe grinned. “Proud of you.”

The next day arrived like a dream.

The Fashion Forward Awards took place in downtown L.A., spotlights stabbing at the sky, red carpet rolled out in front of a hotel that cost more per night than their rent.

In the cramped dressing room, Sloane stood with her arms folded as Zoe zipped Skyler into the emerald dress.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Sloane said when Skyler emerged. “Where is the gown from Saks?”

“This is my gown,” Skyler said. “Zoe designed it.”

Sloane sniffed. “It doesn’t do much for your figure. And if you think you’re stepping onto that carpet with that thing still on your face—”

She held up a gloved fingertip toward Skyler’s beauty mark.

“—you’re delusional,” Sloane finished. “I made an appointment. The dermatologist can remove it. We’ve got an opening next week.”

Skyler went quiet.

“So what’s it going to be?” Sloane asked. “Red carpet and a clean face? Or staying home with that… spot?”

Behind her, Zoe’s dad hovered by the doorway, having taken an extra shift off so he could be there. He watched with wide eyes, completely out of his depth in his only blazer.

Zoe caught Skyler’s gaze in the mirror.

Happiness comes from authenticity, not approval.

The words echoed.

Skyler took a deep breath.

“Stop,” she said.

Sloane blinked. “What did you say?”

“I said stop,” Skyler repeated, voice trembling but steady. “I am not removing my beauty mark. I like it. It’s part of me.”

“You will do as I say—”

“No,” Skyler cut in. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to look how you want. I’m done.”

Sloane stared at her like she’d slapped her.

“Then you can kiss the red carpet goodbye,” Sloane hissed.

Skyler held her mother’s gaze.

“Watch me,” she said.

And she walked out.

On the carpet, the lights were blinding, cameras clicking like thousands of tiny bugs. Publicists shouted, “Look this way!” and “Can we get one more?” from behind velvet ropes. Los Angeles had never looked more like a movie.

Skyler stepped onto the red carpet in Zoe’s dress, beauty mark uncovered, back straight. Reporters surged forward.

“Skyler! Who are you wearing?” one called.

Skyler smiled, genuine and bright. “I’m wearing Zoe Styles,” she said, gesturing for Zoe to join her.

Zoe froze. For a heartbeat, she was back in the hallway at Westbrook, glued sweater on her back, phones pointed at her like spotlights.

Her dad nudged her forward. “Go,” he whispered.

She stepped onto the carpet.

The ground didn’t crack. No one laughed. Cameras flashed.

“You look incredible,” one fashion blogger breathed. “Tell us about this dress. The lines are so fresh.”

“It started as an arts and crafts project,” Zoe said, dazed and a little breathless. “We just… made it with love.”

The blogger grinned. “Well, love looks good on both of you.”

As the night went on, Skyler and Zoe posed for photos, gave short interviews, and laughed together like they’d always been friends. Every time someone asked about the beauty mark, Skyler said the same thing:

“It’s my favorite part of my face.”

At one point, a familiar voice called out, breathless.

“Skyler! Zoe!”

They turned.

Jaden stood at the edge of the carpet in a borrowed suit, looking awkward but happy. Behind him, a young designer waved shyly.

“My new line’s doing really well,” Zoe told Skyler quietly. “I sold three custom pieces to a boutique last week. Saved up a little.”

“So?” Skyler asked.

“So…” Zoe smiled. “Come with me.”

She covered Skyler’s eyes with her hands, laughing as cameras followed them to the curb.

“Where are you going?” a paparazzo called.

“You’ll see,” Zoe said.

She led Skyler and her dad around the corner to the side street, where the noise dimmed and the cool night air smelled like exhaust and possibility.

“Okay,” Zoe said. “One more step. Now you can look.”

Skyler dropped her hands.

Parked at the curb was a used, slightly dented compact car. It was nothing a Beverly Hills kid would brag about. But the paint gleamed. A big red bow sat on the hood.

Her dad stared. “Zo,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

“My new line’s doing really well,” she said, choking up. “So… happy early Father’s Day. You can stop taking the bus.”

His eyes filled with tears. “Your mom would be so proud of you,” he said hoarsely.

Zoe swallowed. “Do you… like it?”

He pulled her into a hug so tight she could barely breathe. “I love it. And I love you.”

Skyler watched them, eyes bright, hand resting lightly over her beauty mark.

She thought of her own mother, probably still in the dressing room, scrolling through pictures and critiquing strangers on TV. Maybe she’d never get her approval.

She glanced over at Zoe, at Jaden, who was waving nervously from the sidewalk. At Bryce in the distance, watching with a face full of regret.

“You okay?” Zoe asked.

Skyler nodded.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “For the first time in a long time, I actually feel like… myself.”

A reporter who’d followed them around the corner raised her camera. “Can I get one more shot?” she asked. “Right there. Perfect.”

Skyler turned toward the lens.

No filters. No mother’s voice in her ear. Just a girl in a dress made with love, standing next to the people who saw her, beauty mark and all.

The flash went off.

Somewhere in the chaos of likes and comments and stories that followed, a clip of Zoe’s old video began to recirculate. The same one Skyler had once mocked in homeroom.

“Hey guys,” Zoe said onscreen. “It’s Zoe Styles here, and today I’m going to show you a few ways to style your next fit that will level up your look for under fifteen dollars.”

This time, the caption someone added was different.

You don’t need money to look like yourself. You just need courage. 💚