On my first day at the firm, an intern stood in the middle of the open-plan floor and pointed a trembling finger at my chest. Her eyes were rimmed with red, brimming with well-rehearsed tears. “Why are you wearing my mother’s clothes?” she demanded, her voice cracking loud enough to stop every conversation in the room. “Why do you have her bag?” The bullpen erupted in an instant. “Did she raid the wife’s closet just to come here?” someone whispered, the hiss cutting through the air conditioning. “Is she trying to force his hand?” In my previous life, I had choked on my own panic, pleading and scrambling to explain that those things belonged to my mother. Nobody believed me. They took stealth videos. They doxed me. They plastered my face across social media until the mob arrived at my doorstep, their hatred a suffocating wave that drowned me before my twenty-third birthday. I died in the dark, shivering and alone. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning the lie began—the morning they branded me an executive’s kept woman. This time, my eyes stayed dry. I offered no panicked defense. I simply pulled out my phone, dialed my mother’s private line, and tapped speakerphone. “Mom,” I said into the silence of the room. “There’s a girl here claiming I’m wearing her mother’s clothes and sneaking into her family’s estate.” I paused, letting my gaze sweep over the slack-jawed faces around me. “Do you want to come down to headquarters and meet your daughter yourself?” Two beats of complete stillness followed on the line. Then, cool and immaculate, my mother’s voice filtered through the speaker: “Put me on speaker.” 1 In that past life, the internet had consumed me whole. The harassment had come in relentless swells—slurs painted on my building’s facade, death threats slipped under my door, strangers lurking on the street corners outside. Major depressive disorder settled into my bones like lead, and on my twenty-third birthday, my heart gave out under the weight of it all. My mother never survived the grief of losing me. Her health crumbled, and she passed away within months. With both of us gone, my father, Russell Harmon, smoothly ushered Suzanne Walsh—the mistress he had kept hidden for over twenty years—into the light. Suzanne’s daughter, Alyssa, shed her ordinary life overnight, transforming into the celebrated heiress of Sumner Enterprises. Even the empire my mother had built with her bare hands was carved up and swallowed by them. When I opened my eyes this morning, the slate was clean. I looked down at the bespoke charcoal wool suit hugging my shoulders, and the graphite Porosus crocodile tote resting beside my desk—a piece my mother hadn’t carried in years. In my last life, these two items were treated as undeniable proof of my shame. In this life, they would be their casket. The whispers had started the moment I stepped off the elevator on the thirty-second floor. “Isn’t that tailored by a Parisian couture house? There’s only one like it in the country.” “And that bag—it’s an auction piece. You can’t just buy that with money; you need a pedigree.” “Is she some billionaire’s kid doing a tour of the mailroom to build character?” I hadn’t even finished adjusting my desk chair when Alyssa walked over. She wore a tailored cream dress that screamed calculated innocence, deliberately projecting her voice so every corner of the room could hear. “Why are you wearing my mother’s clothes? And carrying her bag?” The room went dead silent. The clicking of mechanical keyboards ceased. Alyssa’s eyes welled with tears, her lip quivering with an actress’s precision. “That suit is one of a kind. And I’ve seen you—sneaking in and out of our house in Greenwich when you thought no one was watching. Are you really that proud of destroying another woman’s family?” 2 The atmosphere shifted instantly, suffocating and hostile. It was exactly how it started before. Within thirty seconds, a narrative had been woven: an ambitious, shameless young woman parading around in the legal wife’s wardrobe, brazenly marking her territory in the corporate corridors. Back then, I had scrambled to defend myself, insisting that the clothes belonged to my mother, that Russell Harmon was my father. But Russell was a fixture in business journals; I was a blank slate. No one believed me. Later, the stealthily recorded videos hit TikTok and X. I became the nation’s favorite homewrecker to tear apart. Vigilantes found my apartment, splashed crimson paint across my front door, taped mock obituary notices in the hallway, and mailed razor blades inside unmarked envelopes. And my father? Russell had merely patted my shoulder, his expression heavy with fake sympathy. “Just endure it for a little while, Willa,” he had told me. “Now isn’t the right time for a press statement. Think of the stock price.” I would never place my life in his hands again. I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I took out my phone and dialed my mother. When she picked up, I kept my tone conversational. “Mom.” “Yes, sweetheart?” “There’s a girl here claiming the clothes and bag I’m wearing belong to her mother. She also claims I’ve been trespassing in her family’s Greenwich house. Do you want to come down to the office and claim this daughter of yours?” The line hung quiet for two seconds. Then Miriam Sumner’s voice cut through the phone, steady as an anchor: “Put me on speaker.” I pressed the button and set the phone flat on the wood grain of my desk. Alyssa stood with her arms crossed, her eyes still glassy, though a flicker of smug triumph danced in her pupils. My mother spoke: “What is the name of the girl claiming my belongings belong to her mother?” Alyssa blinked, caught off guard for half a second before she lifted her chin, projecting toward the microphone. “My name is Alyssa Harmon. Ma’am, I don’t know what kind of lies Willa has fed you, but what she’s wearing belongs to my mom. My father is Russell Harmon, Chief Executive Officer of Sumner Enterprises.” The bullpen caught fire. “Russell Harmon’s daughter?” “No wonder she recognized the couture.” “So Willa really is his side piece? Wearing the wife’s clothes to the office? That is sickening.” Alyssa pulled out her phone, tapping through her gallery. She thrust the screen toward the surrounding crowd. In the photo, Suzanne Walsh stood on an expansive sun terrace overlooking manicured lawns, wearing this exact charcoal suit, the crocodile tote resting casually on the marble side table beside her. “This was taken at my mom’s birthday dinner last year,” Alyssa said, tears spilling gracefully down her cheeks. “My dad ordered that suit directly from the atelier in Paris, and he bid on that bag at Christie’s himself. Why on earth is it on her body right now?” 3 Disgust rippled across the surrounding desks like an electric current. Bethany, an associate two desks down, raised her phone, the lens pointed square at my face. “No wonder an entry-level recruit walked in dressed like royalty,” Bethany sneered, adjusting her angle. “She’s not an heiress. She’s sleeping with the CEO. Raiding the wife’s closet just to rub her face in it—are you trying to stage a corporate coup from the bottom up?” I looked directly into Bethany’s camera. “Are you sure you want to go on record saying that?” Bethany scoffed, emboldened by the nodding heads around her. “You got caught red-handed by the man’s own daughter. What are you still posturing for? If you’re bold enough to sleep your way into designer clothes, be bold enough to take the heat.” I nodded slowly. “Understood. I’ll make sure that’s on record.” Alyssa didn’t waste a beat. She queued up a video clip on her screen. The footage showed security camera playback: me, swiping an access card at the gate of the Greenwich estate, parking my sedan, and walking inside, only leaving two hours later. “That’s my home,” Alyssa said, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. “Neither my mom nor I were home that afternoon, but she had a keycard. If she isn’t my father’s hidden mistress, how on earth did she get access to our private residence?” “Caught on tape,” someone muttered nearby. “Disgusting.” A cold stillness settled in my chest. That property in Greenwich had belonged to my mother since before I was born. I had spent my childhood chasing golden retrievers across those lawns. In my last life, this was the point where I shattered. I had screamed until my throat bled that the house belonged to my mother, that Russell was my father. But like my mother, who hated the vanity of public relations, I had never attended corporate galas or posed for society pages. The world only knew Russell Harmon’s face. To them, I was just an unhinged impostor grasping at prestige. Later that afternoon in my past life, Russell had sent his security team to confiscate my phone, promising he would handle the clarification personally. When the phone was returned to me, all my original recordings and metadata were gone. The only thing left circulating online was a viral clip of me hysterically lunging to snatch my phone back, framed as an unstable mistress having a violent breakdown. Not this time. I would never hand over an inch of ground. I looked straight at Alyssa. “Are you entirely certain that house belongs to your family?” She lifted her jaw. “I’ve lived there for years. Of course it’s my house.” “Whose name is on the deed?” I asked smoothly. Alyssa’s expression tightened slightly. “My dad handles all the legal paperwork. Why would I need to check the title?” “And you’re certain that the suit and the bag were purchased by Russell Harmon?” “Without a doubt.” “And you are entirely certain that Suzanne Walsh is Russell Harmon’s lawful wife?” That struck a nerve. Color flared in Alyssa’s cheeks. “My parents have been together for over twenty years! Everyone in our circle knows they are husband and wife. Whether they hold a piece of paper from city hall is none of a homewrecker’s business!” I lowered my eyes, tapped my screen, and saved the audio file to three separate cloud drives. “Perfect,” I murmured. “I’ll keep that statement safe.” 4 Before Alyssa could retort, the heavy glass doors swung open. Candace, the director of Human Resources, marched into the department, flanked by two corporate security guards. Without asking a single question, she slammed an administrative leave notice onto my desk. “Willa Sumner. Due to credible allegations of inappropriate conduct with executive management and severe reputational risk to the firm, your onboarding process is suspended immediately,” Candace announced, her tone sharp and practiced. “Hand over your employee badge and your personal device, and vacate the premises.” I leaned back in my chair, meeting her gaze. “Under what authority are you demanding my personal phone?” Candace’s expression turned frigid. “As the head of Human Resources, I have the authority to investigate internal misconduct.” “Does a standard corporate inquiry grant you the right to seize an employee’s private property?” “It prevents the ongoing dissemination of defamatory misinformation.” Before I could speak, my mother’s voice rang out from the speakerphone on my desk, clear and commanding: “Candace.” Candace froze mid-sentence. Her fingers twitched against her clipboard, something in the timbre of that voice sparking an uncomfortable flicker of recognition. “Who is this?” “You’ll know in twenty minutes,” Miriam said, without a trace of agitation. “Until I arrive at the executive suite, no one touches my daughter’s phone, and no one alters her employment status.” The bullpen went quiet for a fraction of a second, followed immediately by a chorus of derisive snorts. Alyssa glared down at my phone, letting out a sharp laugh. “Don’t tell me, ma’am—are you about to claim you’re Miriam Sumner, the founder and Chairman of the Board?” From the speaker, my mother replied simply: “I am.” Laughter rippled through the office like a bad sitcom track. “She’s claiming to be the Chairman!” “First the girl claims she’s the CEO’s daughter, now her mother claims to be the reclusive founder. A whole family of grifters!” Alyssa unlocked her phone, opened Instagram Live, and flipped the camera toward my face. “You all heard it,” Alyssa spoke directly to the digital audience, her voice dripping with venom. “Not only did Willa Sumner sleep her way into designer threads, she actually hired an actress to pretend to be Chairman Sumner herself. Today, I’m exposing these frauds live for everyone to see.” I watched the viewer count surge—five hundred, two thousand, ten thousand. I didn’t reach up to block the lens. In my past life, their cameras had been the murder weapon. In this life, I needed an audience. A chime echoed as the express elevator opened. Martin, Russell’s long-serving senior executive assistant, strode briskly into the bullpen. He marched straight to my cubicle, extending an open palm. “Orders from Mr. Harmon,” Martin said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. “Surrender your phone immediately. Furthermore, security has been instructed that anyone attempting to enter the premises claiming to be Chairman Sumner is to be barred at the turnstiles.” I looked up at him, feeling the final puzzle piece click into place. Russell had known from the very beginning. He hadn’t been caught unprepared. He was the architect of my execution. 5 Martin’s words acted like a gavel striking wood. Any lingering doubt in the room evaporated. “Did you hear that? Mr. Harmon gave the order himself.” “Why would the real Chairman be barred from her own corporate headquarters?” The comment section on Alyssa’s livestream was moving so fast the text blurred. Screenshots of my face were already spreading across Threads and X under trending hashtags: “CorporateHomewrecker” and “CEOScandal”. Within minutes, the engagement was vertical. Martin kept his hand outstretched. “Ms. Sumner, please cooperate.” I locked my fingers firmly around my phone. “Since when does an HR inquiry require the CEO’s personal assistant to physically seize an employee’s phone? Is Mr. Harmon protecting the firm, Martin—or is he protecting himself?” Martin’s jaw tightened. “Whatever connection you imagine you have with Mr. Harmon will be investigated thoroughly. But your current behavior has caused immense distress to Mr. Harmon’s family.” I turned my head toward Alyssa. “She counts as his family? Then what am I?” Martin’s voice dropped an octave, turning icy. “Ms. Sumner, I suggest you stop this delusion.” Alyssa pounced on his words like a hawk. “Did you hear that? Even my dad’s right-hand man has never seen her before! And she’s still hinting she’s his daughter. It’s genuinely sickening.” Bethany sneered into her own recording device. “Daughter? She’s just a mistress who got greedy and wants to replace the real heiress.” I offered no rebuttal. I simply took a sweeping photo of the room, cataloging every face, every sneer, every raised phone. In my past life, when the dust finally settled, these same people quietly deleted their accounts, changed their handles, and offered breezy excuses about how they were merely ‘misled by Alyssa.’ But nothing about their faces right now was a misunderstanding. It was pure, unadulterated cruelty. Seeing that I wouldn’t surrender my device, Candace signaled the two security guards behind her. “Escort her off the floor.” I took half a step back, my posture straight. “If any of you lay a hand on me, I am dialing emergency services. This office is under surveillance, and there are over fifteen thousand people watching that livestream right now. Feel free to touch me and see what the legal ramifications are.” The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Candace flared up. “You think having an audience gives you leverage to twist reality? Alyssa has photos, surveillance footage, and the CEO’s chief of staff right here. What do you have?” I answered quietly, “I have a mother who will be here in five minutes.” Alyssa scoffed. “You hear her? She’s still talking about that fake Chairman. Let her come up. I want the entire internet to watch her admit why she helped her daughter play pretend.” 6 The stream hit one hundred thousand concurrent viewers. The chat was a barrage of demands: “Arrest them,” “Show her face,” “Fire her.” Fake stories were already sprouting in the comments—people claiming they knew me in college, that I had a history of sleeping with older executives, that I traded favors for internships. Someone even circulated a grainy photo of Russell walking into a luxury hotel lobby during last year’s shareholder summit; my mother’s private driver and I were standing fifteen yards behind him near the valet. With everyone else cropped out, it looked like an illicit weekend getaway. Candace’s phone began buzzing frantically. She glanced at the caller ID and hurried toward the floor-to-ceiling windows to take it. The office had grown so quiet that despite her lowered voice, the frantic tone on the other end bled through the receiver. It was Russell. “Where is her mother right now?” he barked, his usual polish entirely gone. Candace whispered, “She should be downstairs any minute.” “Cut the keycard access to the lobby turnstiles immediately,” Russell ordered. “Under no circumstances is Miriam Sumner allowed to take the private elevator up. And get Willa’s phone. If she refuses to hand it over, tell security she’s suspected of corporate espionage and call the police.” Candace gasped quietly, her eyes darting back toward me. I held my phone high, the microphone capturing every syllable of his panic. Russell was still speaking: “Tell Willa she needs to issue an internal apology. Have her say her driver mistakenly took the suit and bag from Suzanne’s closet. If she admits fault and keeps quiet, I’ll make sure she keeps her job.” The line went dead. The bullpen felt like a tomb. Alyssa was the first to scramble for an explanation. “So what if my dad knows her mother? They’ve probably been stalking him for years. That’s why he’s angry!” Candace hurried to salvage the narrative. “Mr. Harmon asking her to confess to taking the items only proves they belong to Alyssa’s mother.” Watching them spin their webs, I couldn’t help a dry, humorless smile. “If Mr. Harmon truly believes I committed grand larceny, why hasn’t he called the police himself? Why was his first reaction to demand my phone, lock down the lobby elevators, and coerce me into signing a false confession?” Nobody answered. Then the landline on Candace’s desk chimed. The receptionist’s voice came through, high-pitched and strained: “Candace? There is a woman at the main entrance claiming to be Miriam Sumner. She’s accompanied by the firm’s chief legal counsel, the head of the audit committee, and a team of state notaries.” Candace stared at Martin, the color draining from her cheeks. Martin clenched his teeth. “Hold them at the gates.” Alyssa grabbed her phone, her eyes wild with excitement as she dashed toward the elevator bank. “Come on! Let’s go down and see what this fake founder actually looks like!”
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