In the bustling neighborhood of Cocodi in Abidjan, the Quadiot family lived a modest but tightly knit life.

Years ago, the father, a former driver, had passed away, leaving his wife, Mama Léontine, with the heavy responsibility of raising their two daughters alone: Constance, the elder at 25, and Céia, the younger at 20.

They grew up together in a small home, sharing the same bed, the same dreams, and the same hopes for a better future.

Constance, the eldest, had always protected her little sister, almost like a mother.

She helped her recite lessons, defended her at school, and sometimes gave her the last piece of bread.

But as the years passed, life took an unexpected turn.

Céia, beautiful as a goddess, had a smile that could light up the entire street.

One day, while helping her mother sell fruits at the market, an elegant woman approached her.

“Mademoiselle, you have a magnificent face.

Have you ever thought about modeling?” Céia burst out laughing, thinking it was a joke, but the woman, director of a modeling agency, handed her a card.

A few weeks later, Céia took her first steps into the fashion world.

In no time, she became the face of a major local cosmetics brand.

Her smile appeared on billboards, and her voice echoed on television.

Everyone in the neighborhood talked about her.

“That’s the little star from the corner! God never sleeps.

She’s become a star.

Look, she’s even on TV now!”

But while Céia’s name rose, Constance’s faded little by little.

Constance worked as a fabric seller in the Adjamé market.

Her days were long and stifling.

Every time a client recognized her, it was to talk about her sister.

“Aren’t you the big sister of beautiful Céia? What luck you have!” She smiled politely, but each word was a needle in her heart.

At night, when she returned home, she found Céia surrounded by friends, trying on new dresses, receiving calls from influencers or journalists.

One evening, as Céia laughed on the phone, Constance said dryly, “Don’t you think you’re becoming a bit too visible?”
“Visible? Big sister, I’m just working.

God opened a door.

I’m seizing my chance.”
“Yes, but be careful not to lose yourself in that world.”

These words seemed protective, but deep down, Constance burned with jealousy.

She felt guilty for feeling this way.

Yet the pain grew every day.

One evening, Céia arrived home with an envelope.

“Big sister, look, they paid me in advance for my next campaign.

” She opened it; crisp bills appeared.

Constance froze.

It was more than she earned in six months.

“What will you buy with all that?” she asked tensely.

“I want to help Mama fix the roof and thought about buying a phone.

Your old one doesn’t even work anymore.”

This gesture, full of love, ignited something inside Constance.

For the first time, she felt a deep humiliation.

She, the eldest, who had sacrificed for years, was now being helped by the younger sister.

That night, she stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.

Thoughts swirled: Why her? Why not me? What if this was all a dream that would collapse? What if she surpassed me forever? A tear rolled down her cheek, then another.

But this time, it was not sadness.

It was the beginning of a silent anger, a fire nothing seemed able to extinguish.

At dawn, Constance looked at her sister sleeping peacefully, a slight smile on her lips.

But in her own eyes, there was no softness, only a cold shadow, an idea she dared not name.

This success, she would not let it last.

Days passed, but tension in the house grew like a storm brewing silently.

For some time, Constance barely spoke to her sister.

She answered with short, cold, often hurtful phrases.

Céia sensed something was wrong.

But she refused to believe her own sister could resent her.

“Big sister, you’ve been distant lately.

Did I upset you?”
“No, no, I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Want to go out this weekend? I have two invitations to a brand event.”
“I’m not made for your world, Céia.”

Her harsh tone made the younger sister’s voice tremble.

She fell silent, bowing her head, hurt and confused.

Every evening, Constance observed her sister without her noticing.

She watched her put on makeup, reply to admirer messages, laugh at her phone.

Each smile of Céia bit a little more into Constance’s heart.

The neighborhood people didn’t help.

“Your little sister is really going far.

Is she the family pride now? Constance, you should be proud.

” These words, meant to flatter, sounded like a condemnation.

Constance began avoiding people, coming home late from work, eating alone.

Jealousy had settled like a disease.

One night, while tidying the room, her gaze fell on a small bottle Céia used for her beauty products.

The idea came like a terrible spark, quick and irreversible.

She knew that in the market, in the dark areas behind the mechanical stalls, some sold dangerous products, corrosive solvents.

The next day, she went there.

“I’m looking for a strong product to clean metal,” she said with a trembling voice.

The vendor looked at her without asking questions and handed her a small bottle wrapped in black plastic.

When she took it, her hands trembled.

Part of her wanted to turn back, but the darker part whispered: “It’s just a lesson.

She must come back down to earth.”

Sunday morning, the house smelled of perfume and powder.

Céia was preparing for a big TV interview.

She wore a white dress that highlighted her natural beauty.

In front of the mirror, she hummed happily, unaware of the danger lurking behind her.

Constance entered the room, calm, her face impassive, holding a cup covered with a handkerchief.

“You look really beautiful today, Céia,” she said softly but strangely.

“Thank you, big sister.

See, I’ve learned to do my own makeup.”

Constance took a step forward.

Her eyes filled with tears.

A battle raged inside her between love and hate, reason and madness.

Suddenly, anger took over.

One gesture, one second, one tragedy.

She raised her hand and poured the contents of the cup on her sister’s face.

A piercing scream echoed through the house.

“Ah! My face! My face!”

Céia collapsed, screaming in pain, her hands trembling over her burning skin.

The acrid smell of acid filled the room.

Constance dropped the cup and stepped back, horrified by what she had done.

“My God, what have I done?”

Neighbors rushed over.

Some screamed, others cried seeing the scene.

Mama Léontine ran in, discovering her youngest daughter on the floor, burned, and the eldest petrified, covered in tears.

“Constance, what have you done to your sister?”

But Constance did not answer.

She fell to her knees, shaking with sob