Chapter 2
However, replies kept pouring in on my comment, nonstop.
[Hey, clout-chaser, why aren't you answering? Ran out of proof?]
[Spreading rumors can get you sued, you know. Saying Rebecca's place is yours—isn't that just making stuff up?]
[You see someone else's house and just claim it's yours? Seriously, have you no shame?]
People started sliding into my DMs, and the stuff they said was even more savage.
Enraged, I decided to make a side-by-side comparison.
I found a photo she posted of the view from her floor-to-ceiling windows and matched it with one I took of my own.
[Here's her view, and here's mine. Both show Newton City's landmark building—only people living in Skyview Community get this angle.]
[I can post my property deed as proof. Bet you can't.]
[Don't even start with the 'maybe it's a neighbor' excuse. I know everyone in my building, and nobody's got the same setup as me.]
Truth was, I had no idea how my neighbors decorated their places.
I was just bluffing, betting Rebecca didn't know either and would slip up if she got nervous.
Rebecca still hadn't replied. Finally, even some of her fans started to doubt her.
[I know Skyview Community—my aunt lives there. They all come fully furnished, and hardly anyone ever tears it up to redo the whole place.]
[I looked up the neighborhood. Turns out the developer delivers all the units with a modern luxury vibe.]
[Would Rebecca's brother really go through all the trouble to redo the whole place before handing it over? Didn't she always complain her brother's super lazy?]
I dug up an old photo of my property deed and covered up the personal details.
Just as I was about to hit send, a message popped up: [You can't post comments due to the user's privacy settings.]
As expected, she blocked me. I let out a bitter laugh.
Once I cooled off, I remembered something.
Except for my parents, no one should know the code to our front door.
After a moment's thought, I called my mom to ask what was up.
"Oh, you haven't been back in years, right? Last week, I hired a deep cleaning service and gave them a temporary passcode to get in. Maybe that's when they took those photos," she said.
So that was it. The cleaner was just trying to flex with my apartment.
*****
Rebecca had blocked me. Her profile vanished from my search results, leaving no way to contact her or view her posts.
A faint regret lingered—I couldn't confront her about posing as the penthouse owner while secretly working as my cleaner—but mostly, I felt relieved.
At least no stranger had truly taken over my home.
The apartment was a gift from my parents. I'd poured myself into its design, overseeing every detail from the hardwood floors to the crown molding.
Each piece of furniture was chosen with care, reflecting my taste alone.
My parents lived in a villa a few cities over and rarely visited.
After I was assigned to an overseas project three years ago, the place had sat empty.
Exhaustion weighed on me as the high-speed train pulled into Newton City station at nine in the evening.
The journey—first a long flight, then the train ride—had drained me completely. I hailed a cab and directed the driver to my building.
Stepping out into the crisp night air, I looked up at the familiar facade. Outside my door, a weathered wreath I'd hung years ago still decorated the wood, its once-vibrant ribbon now faded but intact.
A wave of nostalgia washed over me. Three years... it had been so long.
With a tired smile, I keyed in the passcode.
"Passcode incorrect." A cold, electronic voice shattered the quiet hallway.
I frowned, then carefully entered the numbers again, pressing each key with deliberate slowness.
"Passcode incorrect."
That was impossible. I never forgot that code.
Did I press it too quickly? Maybe my tired fingers slipped.
As I raised my hand to try a third time, the lock clicked from the inside. The door swung open.