My Cousin Faked Illness to Steal My Boyfriend, He Turned the Tables Chapter 09

My Cousin Faked Illness to Steal My Boyfriend, He Turned the Tables Chapter 09

The screen split in two.

Greyson stood in his kitchen, wearing his apron.

“You say you look up to me like an older brother?” he asked.

Iris nodded. “Yes. I’ve never thought of you as anything else.”-.

“Then sneaking up on me in my girlfriend’s coat in the middle of the night, telling me she doesn’t know how

to take care of anyone-is that how a sister talks to her brother?”

The livestream lagged for a second.

The fragile mask on Iris’s face cracked.

“That… That was a misunderstanding,” she stammered.

Greyson played the video clip.

This time, it wasn’t just in a family group

chat.

It was in front of a live audience of thousands.

The comments shifted instantly.

People demanded to know why she lied.

Someone asked if the hospital bed was staged for sympathy.

Iris scrambled to shut down the stream.

“You can fake being sick, fake being weak, fake being innocent,” Greyson said right before she disconnected. “But don’t pretend everyone owes you a pass.”

The stream went dead.

The diner fell quiet for a second before a few customers broke into applause.

Standing behind the register, my eyes stung with tears.

Greyson walked over and murmured, “Surely a bonus isn’t out of the question now?”

I finally smiled.

Iris’s retaliation came fast.

This time, she aimed the blade directly at me.

A long post surfaced online, claiming that I had stolen opportunities from her in college and used family connections to get into the elite fashion restoration studio.

That was the one place I never wanted to talk about.

The studio was a sanctuary run by the city’s top old-school artisans, and their apprenticeship program was

notoriously strict.

When I passed the entrance exam, nobody in my family believed me.

Grandma claimed it was just dumb luck.

Aunt Nova said Iris would’ve made it in too if her health weren’t so poor.

Later, the moment Iris claimed she had an interest in sewing, my entire toolkit was ransacked by her.

The day I finally stepped away from the studio, my mentor Ms. Frost had only told me one thing.

“Hadley, if you don’t want your family to drag you down until you drown, you hold onto that needle and

thread.”

I hadn’t told Greyson about any of this.

After the viral post went up, protestors even showed up outside the studio door.

Ms. Frost called me into her office.

I thought she was going to blame me for bringing chaos to her doorstep.

Instead, she sat at her wooden desk, my very first restored dress piece resting right by her hand.

“How long are you going to keep hiding?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into my mess,” I muttered.

She took her shears and snipped a stray thread. “You think keeping quiet will stop people from walking all

over you?”

I looked up.

She pushed an invitation across the desk toward me. “The historic fashion showcase is the day after

tomorrow. You’re taking your own work to that stage.”

I froze. “My work?”

“The vintage gowns you restored, the intricate patterns you salvaged for this studio over the years,” she said. “Which one of those isn’t your own work?”

I gripped the invitation tightly, unable to speak for a long time.

The pieces of myself I thought I had hidden away had been remembered and protected by someone all along.

On the day of the showcase, Iris showed up.

She sat in a wheelchair, pushed by Aunt Nova, with a small entourage of people holding up phone cameras

behind them.

She picked the most visible spot in the venue.

Mom and Grandma arrived too.

The moment Grandma spotted me backstage wearing a classic dress, her brow furrowed. “Hadley, don’t start anything. What if you embarrass Iris in front of all these people and her health gives out?”

“She came in a wheelchair?” I asked.

Grandma said, “She’s been worn down by you two these past few days.”

I looked over at Iris.

Her head was lowered, her hands resting on her knees, instantly adopting a frail posture the moment a

camera panned over.

Greyson stood right beside me and spoke up. “The footrests on that wheelchair aren’t even down. Her feet are flat on the floor. Someone genuinely in pain wouldn’t brace themselves like that.”

Grandma’s face soured.

Once the showcase began, Iris was pushed onto the stage first.

She brought out the exact design submission that had been suspended, claiming she wanted to prove her innocence right then and there.

The host looked conflicted.

Several hecklers in the audience began shouting.

“Let her speak!”

“Stop bullying a sick girl!”

Iris took the microphone, her voice dropping into a soft, fragile cadence. “I know my cousin doesn’t like me. But I really did stay up so many nights working on this piece.”

She turned her gaze toward me. “If Hadley insists on claiming it’s hers, I’m willing to just give it to her. After all, I’ve never really had anything that truly belonged to me since I was a child.”

The statement painted her as the ultimate victim and framed me as greedy.

I picked up a microphone and walked out onto the stage.

“You claim it’s yours,” I said. “Then tell everyone why the woven pattern at the cuff is missing one stitch?”