Chapter 1

When I came across that video, I was curled up on the couch in the oceanfront villa my grandpa had given me, eating chips.

On my phone screen, a girl in a slip dress stood in front of a white Maserati, laughing so hard her shoulders shook.

"My dad got me my first Maserati! He said a girl should be raised in luxury, and he's giving me this oceanfront villa too!"

Holding up her phone, she turned in a circle, and the camera panned across the crystal chandelier in the villa's living room.

I recognized that chandelier. I picked it out myself last month.

The chip slipped from my fingers onto the couch.

The video had gone ridiculously viral—470,000 likes, over 60,000 comments, and a comment section packed with people saying they were jealous and showering her with compliments.

"Girl, you're so lucky to have a dad like that!"

"Now this is what a real rich girl looks like. I'm obsessed!"

"Do you need a little sister? Because I'm available!"

I was about to scroll past. Plenty of people flaunted their wealth online, and you never knew what was real and what was staged. Most of the time, it was just something to laugh at and move on.

But right before I could scroll away, the license plate on that Maserati flashed on screen.

I froze.

That wasn't an ordinary license plate number. It was my custom birthday number: Su B-0917M.

September 17 was my birthday, and the M was the initial of my name, Meng Zheng.

I had just picked up that new car last month, and I spent about 1,000 dollars just to get that plate number.

I sprang up from the couch, rewound the video, paused it, and zoomed in.

There was no doubt about it. It was my car.

Even the tiny scrape on the front right rim was there. I got that on the third day after buying it when I clipped the curb while parking.

I’d nearly cried over that scrape.

The girl in the video kept chattering away, but I barely heard a word after that. My attention was completely drawn to the floor-to-ceiling window behind her.

Outside was the bay, and the shape of the mountain across from it was way too familiar.

Every morning, the first thing I do after waking up is pull open the curtains and look at that mountain.

This was the oceanfront villa my grandpa gave me three years ago, in the most expensive part of Clearwater Bay.

The deed had my name on it.

I stared at the girl in the video with that radiant smile, only one question running through my mind: who was she?

And how did she get into my house?

I replayed the video several times, going over every detail.

The glove compartment on the passenger side wasn't fully shut, and half a pack of tissues was sticking out.

They were the Pure Breeze Tissues I'd bought last week, and they were still only half used.

There was a little ceramic cat on the center console, one I had shaped by hand in Clayton.

Even the fluffy keychain hanging off the car keys was the same one. My best friend Sophie Clay gave it to me for my birthday.

My fingers trembled slightly, but I still typed a comment as fast as I could.

"Is this car really yours?"

Even as I hit send, I was still thinking it might just be a coincidence. Maybe she'd rented my villa to shoot a video; that wasn't exactly uncommon in influencer circles.

The second I posted it, my phone buzzed.

The video owner replied almost instantly.

"If it's not mine, is it yours? Get lost, broke girl."

Then she sent three more photos.

In the first one, a girl in bright pink silk pajamas was half lying on my bed with a glass of red wine in her hand.

That pajama set was imported silk. I saw it at the mall last month and bought it on the spot for over 1,700 dollars.

The second photo was taken in my favorite collection room, with a whole wall of display cases full of limited-edition figurines I'd collected since I was a kid.

She was sitting in my gaming chair with her legs crossed, holding my Limited Edition Melody Figurine.

The third photo showed my vanity. My Blue Secret skincare set had been messed up completely, and the lid on the face cream wasn't even screwed back on.

My hands were shaking from how bad it hurt to look at.

Before I could even react, she sent more messages.

"I checked your profile. With that shabby look, you're not even fit to shine my family's shoes."

I'd only ever posted one selfie on my profile. I took it on the balcony last week, wearing a plain white T-shirt with my hair tied up in a messy bun.

The sunset looked nice, so I snapped it on a whim.

The comments immediately went wild.