My older sister, Dove, could never stand my existence. To her, I was leading a life I didn’t deserve. At twenty-nine, she was divorced, jobless, and living back at home with my parents after dropping out of college for a rich boyfriend who eventually saw her true colors. My relationship with her was never great; it was a tapestry woven with threads of her jealousy and my insecurity.

Growing up, Dove was the “pretty and smart one,” and she knew it. My parents praised her, sided with her, and left me feeling incompetent. People raved about her looks while I was just… there. The digs were constant and cruel. “Nobody likes you,” she’d whisper, the words leaving scars that lasted for decades. My parents, blinded by her academic achievements, overlooked her behavior. Telling them was pointless. So, I distanced myself.

Her cruelty escalated. Once, her friends destroyed a school project in my room, and I almost failed. I was going to tell our mother, but Dove blackmailed me, threatening to share embarrassing photos of me with my classmates. At fourteen, I was terrified into silence. Another time, after I complained to my father about her, she used my phone to send awkward pictures to my friends. When she “accidentally” spilled coffee on my prom dress, she played the victim, crying so convincingly that even my dad, who sometimes called her out, was fooled. I learned to stop confiding in anyone at home.

I later realized she was a narcissist, and her hatred had nothing to do with me. She cheated on every guy she dated and was a shameless gold-digger. Her ex-husband, Jeremy, is still a friend of mine, and the stories he’s told confirmed everything. He said she married him only for his money, had no emotional connection, and refused to even discuss having children, a fact she conveniently hid until after the wedding. Her life was a revolving door of clubbing, partying, and using people. After her inevitable divorce, she moved back home, playing the part of a traumatized victim while her Instagram stories told a different tale of weekly dates and hookups.

My life took a different path. I worked hard, got into my dream college, and landed my dream job. During a visit home, my dad, finally seeing the contrast between us, expressed his pride in me and his disappointment in her. “You should have pursued education like your sister,” he told Dove, “not messed up your life and leeched off us.”

The comment sent Dove into a rage. Later that night, she came into my room, her eyes filled with venom. “You can never be like me, no matter how much money you make,” she sneered, pointing out my “belly fat and chubby cheeks.” The teenage me would have been heartbroken. The adult me just laughed. “I really don’t want to be like you,” I said calmly.

The next day, I found two of my dresses in my suitcase, badly torn, clearly cut with scissors. This time, when I showed my parents, something shifted. My dad, his face like thunder, warned Dove that he would no longer provide for her or tolerate her narcissism. Her hatred for me, already a wildfire, became an inferno.

Things started getting better for me after that. At an office conference, I met Atlas—the love of my life. He was smart, kind, and handsome, and we connected instantly. He was close with his family and introduced me to them within a few months. I, however, delayed introducing him to mine. The reason was singular: Dove. I had a nagging, persistent fear that she would try to destroy the best thing that had ever happened to me. She was used to getting the best of everything; seeing my life sailing so much smoother than hers would be more than her narcissistic ego could handle.

But I couldn’t delay forever. After a year and a half, I told my dad about Atlas. He was thrilled and invited us for dinner. I was excited, but also sick with stress. I explained the family dynamics to Atlas in detail, especially concerning Dove. “Don’t worry,” he said, his calm voice a balm on my anxiety. “I can handle it.”

A few days later, my phone rang. It was Dove. It was surprising because she had never willingly called me before. She was asking about Atlas, her voice dripping with a sickly sweet curiosity. She wanted details. I knew my mother must have told her about him. Her sudden attempt to get cozy with me was a massive red flag.

With a deep sense of dread, I finally brought Atlas home. The moment we walked through the door, it began. Dove, who had undergone a complete transformation—dying her blonde hair black, wearing a new dress, with nails and hair perfectly done—practically launched herself at him, bypassing me completely for a hug that was far too long and familiar.

At the dinner table, she rushed to sit beside him. When I asked her to move, she shot me an annoyed look. Throughout the meal, she forced her way into every conversation, desperately trying to find common ground. If Atlas mentioned he liked something, she would gush, “Oh my god, me too! We’re so compatible!” before winking at me as if it were all a joke. It was excruciatingly obvious. Atlas, clearly uncomfortable, skillfully steered the conversation back to my parents.

Later, while I was taking a shower, Dove made her move to get his number, asking him to call her phone because she “couldn’t find it.” She then launched into a sob story about her divorce, trying to gain his sympathy. The fun part? My mom joined in, bitching about Jeremy.

When Atlas suggested he and I go for a walk, my sister stood up and said, “Sure!” Atlas gave her a surprised look. “Actually,” he said kindly but firmly, “I wanted to have some alone time with your sister.” Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she retreated to her room. It was a small victory, but I knew the war was far from over.

After that visit, Dove’s campaign to manipulate Atlas began in earnest. He’s a cat lover, so she started bombarding his inbox with cute cat videos, despite never having shown any affection for animals in her life. She even got a cat for herself just to have more material to send him.

For the first few weeks, Atlas would show me her messages—desperate greetings, feigned concern about his work. But after a while, he stopped mentioning them, and I assumed she had given up. We had better things to do than discuss my sister’s pathetic attempts to gain his attention.

Then, one evening, I was scrolling through social media and saw that Dove was now friends with Atlas. She was liking and commenting on every single one of his posts with those cute, silly heart icons. She had even gone back years, commenting on photos and videos from before he even knew me. A cold feeling washed over me. On a whim, I checked his phone.

The texts were still there, unread, but they were frequent and weird. And then I saw the call logs. Missed calls from her, including one received around 3:00 a.m. Anxiety clawed at my throat.

I confronted him, trying to keep my voice steady. “Why didn’t you tell me she’s still texting you? And calling you at 3 a.m.?”

Atlas looked nervous. “I was just ignoring them,” he explained, sitting me down. “I thought it was better not to bring her up and upset you.” He told me she had called late one night, claiming to be upset and needing someone to talk to about her “trauma.” He had told her it was inappropriate and that she should talk to her parents or me, then hung up.

“Hiding this isn’t okay, Atlas,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “It makes me feel like I can’t trust you.” I’ve read hundreds of stories where the husband falls for these tricks, and I refused to be a fool.

He assured me he would never fall for her games. “I love you,” he said, holding my hands. “You have nothing to worry about.” I made him promise that the next time she called, he would hand the phone to me.

The call came a week later, in the middle of the night. He woke me up and passed me the phone. I answered. Silence. Then, when she heard my voice, she stammered, “Oh, it was a mistake,” and hung up. The next day, I tried calling her, but she didn’t answer. So, I texted her from Atlas’s phone: “This is [Narrator]. Do not call or text this number at odd hours unless it is a genuine emergency. If you need something, you can call me.”

After that, she stopped. For a while.

Last month, on a trip to the coast, Atlas proposed. He got down on one knee with a beautiful ring, and I couldn’t stop crying with joy. I sent a picture to my dad, who I knew would show my mom and, inevitably, Dove. The stalking started again, almost immediately.

As soon as Atlas told me she was sending him stupid videos again, I called her. I unleashed all my suppressed anger, yelling at her to get a life and stop her pathetic tactics. She was mostly silent. But as soon as I hung up, my mother called, furious.

“How could you insult your sister like that?” she yelled. “Your cruelty gave her a panic attack! Can’t you be considerate of her depression?”

It was laughable. Dove had never been depressed a day in her life over her divorce. “Mom,” I said, my voice ice-cold, “if you and Dad continue to turn a blind eye to her behavior, I will cut you both out of my life. I am done being a puppet in her game.”

My mom called back later, apologizing. My threat had worked. She promised Dove would stay away. And for a while, she did.

Then came the wedding day. We were at the venue, busy getting ready. My heart was soaring. Then I got a call from Atlas’s best friend. “You need to come to Atlas’s room,” he said, his voice urgent. “With your parents. It’s serious.”

My heart pounded in my chest as I rushed over with my parents. We found Atlas on the bed, shirtless, slipping in and out of consciousness. His groomsmen were crowded around, their faces grim. His best friend explained what happened. Dove had come to the room with a drink for Atlas. He refused, but she insisted. He took one sip and knew something was wrong. Excusing himself to the washroom, he called his friend, explained everything, and asked him to come over.

By the time his friend arrived, using his own key card, he found Atlas stumbling out of the washroom, already dizzy. Quick-thinking, he switched on his phone’s camera as he entered the room. He heard Atlas shouting at Dove to leave him alone. She was on the bed, on top of him, trying to undress him.

The disgusting act was all caught on camera. When she saw Atlas’s friend, she quickly covered herself, pretending they were just making out. She smirked at him and said, “Don’t tell anyone,” not realizing her crime had been recorded.

It was an unbelievably embarrassing moment for my parents. They called Dove to the room. She arrived with smudged lipstick, a triumphant look on her face. “I know you’re mad,” she began, launching into a prepared lie, “but it was mutual. Atlas loves me. He convinced me to have one last hookup before the wedding.”

My mother slapped her, hard, across the face. “We know everything, you horrible girl,” she hissed. “And it’s all on camera.”

The color drained from Dove’s face. My parents had her kicked out of the venue immediately. She had wanted everyone to know she was with Atlas so I would call off the wedding. A doctor confirmed Atlas’s drink had been spiked. His parents were so agitated they wanted to hunt Dove down, and my parents had to profusely apologize to calm them.

The wedding was delayed for a few hours until Atlas recovered. When my dad finally walked me down the aisle, I was happier than I’d ever been. Atlas added an extra line to his vows, promising to protect our relationship from anyone who wished us ill.

After our honeymoon, my parents visited us. They assured us that Dove was out of our lives for good. My dad had kicked her out of the house and told her she was on her own. I’m still not over the incident, but I know one thing for sure. If Atlas’s friend hadn’t recorded that video, a part of me might have believed her lies. But we survived her storm, and now, she has nothing left.