My sister Kendall has always believed life only matters when someone is watching. At twenty-eight, she has more than two hundred thousand followers, designer handbags, luxury trips, and carefully edited photos. I’m Allison Reed, thirty-four, and my life is considerably quieter. I work in compensation analysis in downtown Columbus, drive an old Honda, enjoy farmers’ markets, and spend weekends running along the river. I like my ordinary life, but Kendall has always treated it like a personal insult.

At Thanksgiving, she called me the most boring thirty-four-year-old in America. At Dad’s birthday, she secretly filmed me refusing another glass of wine and posted it for strangers to mock. She even photographed Dad’s health insurance paperwork for her social media, exposing private information until I made her delete it. Then, one Sunday afternoon, she arrived at my apartment with expensive coffees and a glossy blue folder. She said she had an incredible business opportunity.

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