She Stole My Cursed Dress—Now Death Follows Her

"Cousin, look at you—even if deep down you're jealous and bitter, you shouldn't claim this outfit is yours."

"Everyone knows you only wear thrift-store garbage."

"Who'd believe you can afford designer?"

"If you really want nice clothes, come by my place. I've got tons of last-season stuff I can toss your way as charity."

"You just had to come to class and make a fool of yourself."

"Humiliated yourself for nothing."

"Why bother?"

Watching Rose preen, waving around a forged receipt just to steal my burial garment, my expression went flat.

"Since you want it that badly."

"Wear it."

"I don't want it anymore."

I returned to my seat, pulled out my textbook, and started studying.

The mockery swirled around me. I tuned it out.

These past few years, Uncle Vincent's business had exploded. Rose's life transformed overnight—luxury cars, household staff, designer everything. Somewhere along the way, she'd developed a princess complex.

Even with family, she looked down her nose at us. We weren't people to her. We were "low-class"—beneath her.

Mom and Dad always told me to let it go. I tried. I avoided conflict, swallowed my pride, kept the peace.

But this crossed a line.

She wanted that outfit so badly? Fine. Let her wear it.

Whatever happened next wasn't my problem. I'd warned her. She didn't listen.

"I'm in a good mood!" Rose's voice cut through the room. "Money's being handed out!"

She pulled a thick stack of cash from her backpack.

The class went silent.

Most of us came from ordinary families. A few bucks for lunch money, if that. Nobody had ever seen this much cash in one place.

Aaron's jaw dropped. "Holy crap, that's gotta be tens of thousands!"

Rose glanced at the bills, unbothered. "No idea how much. It's just my allowance."

"I'm feeling generous. Everyone gets a cut."

The room erupted.

"Rose is amazing!" voices shouted.

Even the kids who usually kept their distance from her—they shoved forward too, terrified of missing out.

"Don't push. Line up."

"Everyone gets some."

They formed a line. One by one, they approached Rose like she was royalty dispensing favors.

Each person walked away clutching hundreds. Some got over a thousand. They bowed. They thanked her with tears in their eyes.

Word spread to the neighboring class. They were practically foaming at the mouth with jealousy, wishing they could drag this "goddess of wealth" into their homeroom.

Too bad for them.

While everyone celebrated their windfall, something cold settled in my stomach. I stood up.

"You can't take her money!"

The room went quiet.

Every pair of eyes in the classroom turned on me, sharp with hostility. Hands tightened around bills like I might lunge forward and rip the cash away.

"Delia, I'd advise you to mind your own business." Jayden Perry, class president, stepped forward. Of course he'd be the one to speak up—he'd gotten the biggest cut. Nearly two thousand dollars. Enough to finally buy that game console he'd been drooling over for months. "This is pocket money Rose gave us. You say we can't take it, so we can't? Why? On what grounds?"

I didn't tell them the money was mine. I didn't explain that Rose had stolen it from my room along with my clothes. Even if I told the truth, they'd just think I'd lost my mind over cash.

What they were clutching so desperately? Spirit money. Currency for the dead.

Sure, they could spend it. But the price for using it wasn't something the living could afford.

"Believe me." I kept my voice steady. "Return the money to her. Now. You cannot use it. The consequences will be... severe."

My warning earned nothing but hatred. Their curses hit me like stones, resentment dripping from every word.

Looking at those hostile stares, I knew greed had already blinded them. Nothing I said would break through.

Dark energy—invisible to mortal eyes—was already drifting toward them in thin wisps, coiling closer.

They're done.