Chapter 1
"Hey guys, today I'm going to show you what a fake socialite looks like," said Madeline Carter, my roommate.
She was holding up her phone, camera aimed at the pink Hermès Birkin bag sitting on my desk.
Thousands of people were going wild in her livestream.
[LOL, Madeline's calling out fakes again today!]
[That color is so fake, obviously a replica.]
[Disgusting. Some girls will do anything for vanity. Carrying a fake bag thinking you're upper class?]
Madeline's face wore a self-righteous smile, her voice full of excitement. "Look, everyone, this bag is supposedly Hermès's cherry blossom pink, crocodile leather.
"I asked at the boutique. This bag has a three-year waitlist and costs over thirty thousand."
She zoomed the camera in, her finger almost poking the bag. "But my classmate Charlotte here wears nothing but cheap stuff from those discount apps. How could she possibly afford this?
"So, there's only one explanation!"
Madeline raised a pair of sharp scissors high, aiming them at the bag's strap. "It's fake."
When I pushed open the dorm door, this was what I saw.
The scissors gleamed menacingly under the livestream lighting.
"What are you doing?" I asked coldly.
Madeline jumped at my voice, but when she saw it was me, she straightened up immediately, her attitude even more aggressive.
She swung the camera toward me. "Everyone, look, the star of the show is back.
"Charlotte, perfect timing. Today I'm exposing you as a fake socialite to the whole internet!"
The livestream comments exploded.
[Wow, she's actually pretty cute. Didn't expect her to be like this.]
[Cute? She's a fake! Look how calm she is. Great acting skills.]
[Fight! Fight! I can't wait!]
Our other roommate, Emily Brooks, shrank in the corner, wanting to intervene but too scared.
Lily Baker, though, stood with her arms crossed, watching as if it was entertainment. She even gave a peace sign toward Madeline's camera.
My gaze swept across their faces and finally landed on those scissors.
That wasn't any Birkin bag.
It was a custom piece that Hermès's master craftsman spent six months making for my eighteenth birthday.
The crocodile leather came from the perfect section of a single Nile crocodile. The color was specially mixed just for me, named "Cherry Blossom Eve."
It was one of a kind in the entire world.
And now it was about to be destroyed by five-dollar scissors.
"Madeline, I suggest you put those scissors down," I said, keeping my voice steady.
But to Madeline, that calmness was me being stubborn.
"What? Scared?" She sneered. Her smile grew even more smug. "Too late. I want everyone to see how pathetic you look pretending to be something you're not.
"Come on, everyone, for justice!"
She screamed, squeezed her eyes shut, and brought the scissors down hard. Rip!
The sound of top-grade crocodile leather tearing was heartbreakingly sharp.
Cheers erupted in the livestream.
[Nice!]
[Love seeing fake socialites get exposed!]
[Look at her face! Can't fake it now, huh?]
Madeline opened her eyes, saw the ugly gash on the bag, and her face showed pure satisfaction.
But it wasn't enough. She raised the scissors again, aiming at the cashmere coat hanging on my chair. "And this. Supposedly Loro Piana? Fake too!" Snip. "This scarf? Also fake!" Snip.
My clothes, my accessories—all the low-key pieces I'd chosen specifically not to stand out—were being reduced to shreds under her scissors.
The dorm was a mess.
And Madeline stood in the middle of her "trophies" like a victorious general, soaking in the praise from thousands of viewers.
Finally, she turned the camera back to me, expecting to see me broken, humiliated, desperate.
But I wasn't.
I just watched her, my expression completely blank.
That bothered her.
"Why aren't you saying anything? Crying? Begging?" she demanded. "Charlotte, give me something. Stop pretending!"
The audience started chiming in too.
[Is she in shock?]
[Pretty good composure. She's not cracking at all?]
[She's probably figuring out how to lie her way out, haha.]
I ignored all the noise.
Slowly, I pulled out my phone.
And then, right in front of everyone, I pressed three numbers—911.
Madeline's smile froze. "What are you doing? Calling the cops?"
I held the phone to my ear, my voice clear enough for the whole dorm—and the whole livestream—to hear. "Hello, officer? I'd like to report a crime.
"Someone maliciously damaged my personal property in my dorm room.
"Yes, the amount is significant." I looked at the wreckage on the floor and calmly stated a number. "Initial estimate, around 2.6 million dollars."