During the morning rush hour, the CEO’s wife slammed a black silk camisole onto the receptionist’s desk and shrieked: “Which one of you tramps wears a size small?!” “Whoever the mistress is, step forward right now!” The first-floor lobby was packed. The receptionist was too terrified to move, coworkers were already holding up their phones to record, and clients paused in their tracks to watch the drama unfold. Standing in the crowd, I opened my eyes and heard my best friend, Mia, lean in close to my ear. Her voice was trembling, yet perfectly pitched for everyone around us to hear: “Chloe, don’t you usually wear a size small?” In my past life, it was this exact sentence that condemned me as the boss’s mistress. The wife slapped me. The boss forced me to confess. My “best friend” hypocritically cried while begging for mercy on my behalf. When the video hit the internet, I lost my job and my apartment. My mother had a heart attack from the stress and ended up in the ICU. Ultimately, I died alone in a cheap, rented room. And Mia? She stepped on my corpse to become the “loyal best friend.” She gained a hundred thousand followers and was promoted to the executive suite by the CEO, Richard Vance. Crying into the camera, she promised her audience she would live a good life in my memory. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the exact same public trial. I smiled. I, a 5’7″, 130-pound woman, slowly looked up and down at my 5’3″, 100-pound “best friend,” Mia. 1 I didn’t respond to her. She bit her lip, her voice softening even more. “…Chloe? Could there be some kind of misunderstanding with this shirt?” The moment the words left her mouth, every pair of eyes in the lobby snapped toward me. Eleanor Vance, the CEO’s wife, looked over too. Her gaze swept from my face, down to my loose oversized cardigan, and then back to Mia. “You’re saying she wears a size small?” Mia acted like she was terrified, quickly waving her hands. “Mrs. Vance, I didn’t mean it like that! I just… Chloe and I are roommates, so I know her pretty well. She’s really thin, and when she buys clothes she usually…” She stopped abruptly and covered her mouth, acting like she had just realized she said too much. But the damage was already done. Eleanor stepped toward me in her Louboutins, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She picked up the camisole and shoved it directly in my face. “Your name is Chloe Sterling?” I nodded calmly. “Yes.” “Is this shirt yours?” I glanced at it. Black lace. The price tag was cut off. The neckline had a deliberate smudge of foundation on it. Before I could even speak, Mia anxiously grabbed my arm. “Chloe, hurry up and explain yourself to Mrs. Vance!” Her fingertips were ice-cold, but her grip was surprisingly tight. Like she was afraid I’d run away. I pulled my arm free and looked at Eleanor. “Mrs. Vance, since you came here with evidence, don’t just ask about a single piece of clothing.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?” “If you’re going to accuse me of being the mistress, you need to present a complete chain of evidence.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried perfectly in the quiet lobby. “Where did the shirt come from? Who tipped you off? What was the time, the location, and who was I supposedly with?” “There are a lot of people here today, and everyone is recording.” “If you’re going to put me on trial, do it properly.” Mia’s expression shifted imperceptibly. Eleanor stared at me, the burning fury in her eyes pausing for a fraction of a second. She probably hadn’t expected me to not cry, nor immediately deny everything in a panic. She sneered. “Fine.” “I’ll make sure you understand exactly why you’re going down today.” Eleanor raised her hand, aiming to throw the camisole right into my face. I sidestepped to avoid it. The woman standing behind Eleanor immediately barked: “You dare dodge?! You’ve got a lot of nerve for a home-wrecker!” She lunged forward, raising her hand to slap me across the face. I caught her wrist mid-air. Eleanor froze. The entire lobby went dead silent. I didn’t squeeze hard; I just held her arm firmly in place. “Mrs. Vance, don’t be hasty.” “If you really want to catch the mistress, don’t let someone else use you as their weapon.” Her eyes darkened. “Who’s using me as a weapon?” I let go of the woman’s wrist. “Whoever sent you the anonymous tip, that’s who you should be interrogating.” Eleanor pulled a piece of paper from her Birkin bag and threw it at my feet. “Hotel billing records. Last Friday night at 8:20 PM, Richard booked a suite at the St. Regis.” “This camisole was found in the laundry bag of that exact suite.” “That same day, his car’s GPS showed he drove to the apartment complex you live in.” She held up her phone. “And someone texted me, saying the mistress is a female employee who wears a size small, lives in the Oakwood Apartments, and her last name is Sterling.” “Chloe, I don’t care how you try to spin this. Either you confess right now, or I release all this evidence online and make sure you’re blacklisted from this industry forever.” I didn’t answer immediately. I just looked down at the printed paper on the floor. “Oakwood Apartments, Building 3, 18th floor. Two young women live in that unit.” I looked up. “The tipster knew the apartment complex, the building number, and even the exact clothing size. Yet, they only dared to say ‘last name Sterling.’ They didn’t provide a full name, and they didn’t provide the exact apartment number.” “Don’t you find that suspicious?” The whispering in the lobby paused. The male coworker who had been cursing me out the loudest just seconds ago frowned, as if finally realizing something was off. Mia’s face turned pale. She quickly interjected: “Chloe, stop trying to confuse everyone! The tipster was probably just afraid of getting into trouble, so they kept it vague.” I looked at her. “And how do you know the tipster was afraid of getting into trouble?” Mia’s lips trembled. “I… I just guessed.” I smiled. Eleanor’s eyes grew darker. “Release it.” Mia froze. “What?” “Release all the evidence.” I took a step back, standing dead center in the lobby, ensuring every single camera was pointed directly at me. “Stop squeezing the toothpaste out bit by bit.” “Since you claim I am Richard Vance’s mistress, bring out every single piece of evidence that supposedly proves it. All at once.” Panic flashed in Mia’s eyes, but she quickly masked it. She probably thought I was just bluffing. Taking a deep breath, she suddenly pulled her phone out of her purse. “Mrs. Vance.” She looked as though she had finally made a deeply painful decision. “I didn’t want to say anything, but since things have escalated this far, I can’t just stand by and let everyone be lied to.” She opened a video on her phone. “I have security footage.” Mia handed her phone to Eleanor. The man standing behind Eleanor immediately took it and connected it to the massive presentation screen behind the reception desk. The moment the screen lit up, the lobby fell silent again. It was security footage from the elevator lobby of Building 3 at Oakwood Apartments. The timestamp read: Last Friday, 9:06 PM. In the video, Richard Vance, wearing a face mask, stepped out of the elevator. He walked straight down the hallway toward the unit Mia and I shared. Less than thirty seconds later, a woman with long hair, wearing a beige trench coat, walked into the frame. Her head was lowered. She had a slender build, and her side profile looked vaguely like mine. Watching the footage, a cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. Eleanor stared at the screen, her breathing growing heavier. “Is there more?” Mia, acting as if it pained her deeply to continue, let her tears fall faster. “There are also text messages.” She swiped to several screenshots. The profile picture was of me. The contact name was saved as “Chloe.” The messages were explicit and intimate. “Richard, I’m wearing the black one you like tonight.” “Will your wife find out?” “I miss you.” Below that was a screenshot of a Venmo transfer for $5,200. The recipient’s full name was blurred out, leaving only a faint “*loe.” The crowd instantly erupted. “Oh my god, they even have the text messages.” “How is she going to talk her way out of this one?” “She was so calm just a second ago. She’s a total psychopath.” “Imagine being a mistress and daring people to pull out the receipts. Hilarious.” Mia looked at me through her tears. “Chloe, why would you do this? You knew Mr. Vance was a married man.” I looked at her. “Who gave you these chat logs?” Mia bit her lip. “Someone sent them anonymously to Mrs. Vance. I was just… I just helped confirm them.” “Confirm what?” “Confirm that the profile picture is you, the address is yours, and the clothing size matches you.” Just then, the elevator doors dinged open. Richard Vance stepped out. He was wearing a dark grey Tom Ford suit, his hair immaculately styled. Seeing the massive screen in the lobby and Eleanor standing there, his expression noticeably shifted. But he quickly recovered, putting on the facade of a dignified, respectable CEO. “Eleanor, haven’t you caused enough of a scene?” Eleanor turned around, her eyes red. “Richard. You finally decided to show your face?” Richard frowned. “This is a place of business. Not a place for your tantrums.” Eleanor threw the black camisole directly at his chest. “Then tell me, who does this belong to?!” Richard didn’t even look at the shirt. His gaze bypassed Eleanor and landed squarely on me. That look. I knew it all too well. It was the exact same look he gave me in my past life. A warning. A threat. An implication. It said: You better play along. Sure enough, a second later, he sighed deeply. “Chloe.” He said my name, his tone heavy with manufactured disappointment. “Things have already reached this point. Stop trying to make excuses.” The lobby fell dead silent. Mia lowered her head, barely able to suppress the victorious smirk on her lips. Richard continued: “It’s not terrible for young people to make mistakes. What’s terrible is refusing to take responsibility for them.” “If you confess right now, I will consider the hard work you’ve put into this company and do my best to minimize the fallout for you.” He lowered his voice slightly, but just enough so only I could hear. “Isn’t your mother still in the hospital?” “Chloe, don’t escalate this to the point where everyone gets hurt.” My fingertips went ice cold. The fury in Eleanor’s eyes completely ignited. “Did you hear that?! Even he admitted it!” I looked right at her, enunciating every single word: “I will confess to whatever you want.” “But first, why don’t you verify what size I actually wear?” Eleanor laughed coldly, gesturing to the two massive bodyguards behind her. “Fine. What are you waiting for? Strip off her clothes.” Everyone froze. I was genuinely shocked. Even if I proved I wasn’t the mistress, if I was stripped naked in the middle of the lobby, how could I ever show my face in this city again? The two bodyguards pinned me down. I couldn’t move an inch. Everyone was eagerly waiting for my humiliation. The corners of Mia’s mouth twitched upward in a barely noticeable smirk. Just as she thought she had won, I spoke up. “You don’t need to touch me. I’ll do it myself.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes and eventually signaled them to let me go. After all, she only wanted to catch the mistress; she didn’t want to catch an assault charge. Mia’s expression finally faltered. She instinctively blurted out, “Chloe, stop making a scene…” “Me? Making a scene?” I turned to look at her. “From the very beginning until now, you’ve mentioned that I wear a size small at least three times.” “What, do you know my body better than I do?” Mia’s eyes darted around in a momentary panic. “We’ve been roommates for so long, of course I…” “Then look closely.” I unzipped my oversized cardigan. A collective gasp echoed through the lobby. People excitedly raised their phones higher. Underneath, I was wearing a basic, slightly loose white t-shirt. I grabbed the collar and flipped the inner tag out, holding it directly in front of Eleanor and the sea of cameras. On the black-and-white tag, a bold, capital “L” was printed clear as day. Just to be absolutely certain, I even reached back and pulled out the tag of my bra. Also a large “L.” Eleanor’s pupils contracted violently. I grabbed the black camisole off the receptionist’s desk and flipped the hem over to find the wash tag. “S.” I held the two tags up side-by-side. “Mrs. Vance. The shirt in your hand is a size Small.” “The shirt on my body is a size Large.” “I haven’t worn a size Small since I was a freshman in college.” The lobby was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even Richard’s face froze for a fraction of a second. The female coworker who had been aggressively recording and calling me a “shameless tramp” silently lowered her phone a few inches. I looked at Mia. Her knuckles were bone-white as she clutched the strap of her purse. I smiled. “Mia. You just swore to everyone that I normally wear a size small.” “But the shirt I’m wearing right now is a large.” “So why don’t you tell everyone…” “Who exactly does that camisole belong to?” Every ounce of color drained from Mia’s face. But she was quick on her feet. Her eyes filled with tears, and she immediately shook her head. “Chloe, how could you ask me that? Clothing sizes change! When you were skinnier, you definitely wore a size small!” “Besides, the shirt isn’t what matters. What matters is that you and Mr. Vance went to a hotel together!” She grabbed Eleanor’s arm, her voice desperate: “Mrs. Vance, don’t let her manipulate you! The hotel records are real, the text messages are real, and Mr. Vance himself just said she made a mistake!” Richard’s face looked incredibly grim, but he went along with her narrative, his voice turning severe: “Chloe. Stop playing word games.” I nodded. “Fine. Let’s talk about the hotel.” I looked at Mia. “You’re claiming that last Friday night, I went to the St. Regis with Richard Vance, correct?” Mia gritted her teeth. “That’s exactly what the evidence says.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my Amtrak app. “Last Friday at 2:17 PM, I took the Amtrak from Penn Station to Boston.” “I arrived that evening at 7:35 PM.” I held up the digital ticket receipt. “The next morning at 9:00 AM, I attended a client pitch in Boston.” “Here is the approved corporate travel request, here is the train ticket, and here is my hotel check-in record.” I swiped through the screenshots, holding the phone up for everyone to see. “Guest Name: Chloe Sterling.” “Location: The Langham, Boston.” “Check-in Time: Last Friday night, 8:03 PM.” “So please, someone tell me… how did I magically teleport back to New York by 8:20 PM to check into a suite with Richard Vance?” Whispers erupted across the lobby. “Boston is like a four-hour train ride from here, right?” “The timeline is literally impossible.” “Did we actually falsely accuse her?” The male coworker who had cursed at me earlier quietly pocketed his phone and shrank toward the back of the crowd. Mia was panicking. “You can buy a ticket, and you can fake a hotel record! Who knows if you planned this as an alibi beforehand?!” I turned and looked toward the back of the crowd. “Sarah.” The woman I called out stiffened. “That night, we shared a double room.” I stared at her. “Do you remember?” Every single eye in the room shifted to Sarah. Sarah turned pale, clutching her corporate ID badge, hesitating to speak. Richard glared at her coldly. “Sarah. Be very careful about what you say.” Sarah flinched. I didn’t rush her. A few seconds later, as if she had finally made up her mind, she took a step forward. “I remember.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was crystal clear. “Last Friday, Chloe did go on a business trip to Boston with me. We arrived at the hotel around 8:00 PM, checked in, and ordered room service together.” “At 10:30 PM, I even asked her to help me edit a PowerPoint presentation.” “She was sitting right next to me the entire night.” Eleanor immediately whipped her head toward Richard. His jaw was locked tight. Mia scrambled to intervene: “Sarah, are you sure you aren’t remembering wrong?! The marketing team goes on so many business trips…” Sarah shook her head. “I’m not remembering wrong.” “Because there was a massive thunderstorm in Boston that night. Our shoes got completely soaked. I even posted about it on Instagram.” She pulled out her phone and opened her Instagram feed. In the photo, I was sitting at a hotel desk, my hair half-wet, typing on a glowing laptop screen. Location tag: The Langham, Boston. Timestamp: Last Friday, 10:48 PM. The crowd of onlookers went completely, utterly silent. The young receptionist looked at the screen, then back at me, her face turning bright red. She probably remembered that she had been laughing along with the crowd just minutes ago. I looked at Mia. “The hotel accusation? Destroyed.” Mia gritted her teeth, her tear-stained face twisting. Suddenly, like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline, her head snapped up. “Then how do you explain Mr. Vance going to your apartment?!” She pointed frantically at the security footage paused on the presentation screen. “The Oakwood Apartments security footage isn’t fake, is it?!” “He literally walked into the apartment you and I share!” Eleanor instantly ordered the security guards to replay the apartment footage. On the screen, Richard Vance stepped out of the elevator. Shortly after, the woman with long hair wearing a beige trench coat walked past, her head lowered. Mia seemed to regain her confidence. “Chloe, you can say the hotel timeline doesn’t match, but what about this?!” “You’re the one on the lease for that apartment! That beige trench coat is yours! If the person in that video isn’t you, who is it?!” “And the morning after that night, Mr. Vance even ordered breakfast delivery to our neighborhood.” As she spoke, her voice cracked, sounding genuinely heartbroken. “I really didn’t want to speak against you, but you can’t keep lying like this.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Mia. You really should have moved to LA to become an actress.” Her face went white. I pulled out another stack of documents. “Since we’re talking about the days following last Friday, let’s look at the timeline.” “You claim Richard went to my apartment that night and stayed with me until the morning.” “But after my business trip ended on Friday, I took a train straight back to my hometown in upstate New York.” Eleanor frowned. “Your hometown?” “My mother suffered a massive heart attack.” I opened my hospital patient portal app. “Saturday morning, 1:16 AM. My mother was admitted to the emergency room at County General.” “I took an 11:00 AM train from Boston, and arrived at the hospital by 4:00 PM.” “Here are the diagnostic reports, the billing receipts, and the visitor log.” I handed the screen directly to Eleanor. “From Saturday afternoon until Monday morning, I was sitting by her hospital bed.” “I also have the security footage from the inpatient ward hallway.” Eleanor stared intently at the hospital security footage. “Then who was inside the shared apartment?” I didn’t answer. Every single person’s gaze in the lobby slowly shifted toward Mia. Mia’s voice spiked in panic. “Why are you all looking at me?! I wasn’t home those few days either! I was staying at my cousin’s house!” I asked: “Which cousin?” She stammered. “My… my mom’s side. You don’t know her.” “Address?” “Why should I have to tell you that?!” “Then how are you going to prove you weren’t there?” The moment I said that, her expression completely shattered. In my past life, everyone backed me into a corner, screaming at me to prove my innocence. Now, it was finally her turn. I pointed at the presentation screen. “Could you zoom in on the security footage, please?” The receptionist hesitated, glancing nervously at Eleanor. Eleanor’s voice was like ice. “Zoom in.” The frame zoomed in tightly. Although the woman with long hair had her head down… When her right hand reached out to stop the elevator doors from closing, a red string bracelet was clearly visible on her wrist. Hanging from the red string was a tiny, distinct gold bead. I turned to look at Mia. Almost entirely out of instinct, she tried to yank her right hand up into her sleeve. But it was too late. The coworker standing right next to her gasped. “Mia… don’t you always wear a red string bracelet exactly like that?” Mia panicked and shook her head frantically. “Lots of people wear red string bracelets! That doesn’t prove anything!” “Of course it doesn’t prove anything on its own.” I nodded in agreement. “That’s why I said earlier… we need to look at the evidence that actually matters.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “What evidence?” I looked at Richard, and then at Mia. “The money.” “When a man cheats, his mouth can lie, security footage can be cropped, and chat logs can be photoshopped.” “But the money he spends will always leave a paper trail.” Richard’s face instantly darkened to a thunderous scowl. “Chloe Sterling. This is a private family matter. It is not your place to dictate how this is handled.” I laughed. “When you were trying to force me to confess to ruining your marriage two minutes ago, you certainly didn’t call it a private family matter.” Eleanor turned to look at her husband. The fury in her eyes had suddenly changed. It was no longer just anger; it was the humiliating, chilling realization that she had been played for an absolute fool. She gripped the printed hotel records in her hand so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Audit the accounts.” Richard’s voice boomed across the lobby: “Eleanor!”
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