Chapter 6

"Wrong with me?" I smiled for the first time. But the smile didn't reach my eyes. It was colder than the floor under my bare feet.

I ignored her screaming and walked straight into her bedroom. I yanked open her closet.

The smell hit me first — an unfamiliar expensive perfume. And then the things hanging inside: several pieces of luxury clothing I had never seen before, still carrying the soft gleam of new fabric.

I reached in and pulled one out. A silk jumpsuit, still with the tags on.

She's touching my things?!

Ethan bought me that last week. It was over two thousand dollars. I was going to wear it for our date tomorrow.

I didn't register her shrieking. I walked back out to the living room holding the slippery, beautiful fabric.

"Vivian, your monthly take-home after rent barely covers groceries. How exactly are you buying any of this?"

I threw the jumpsuit at her. The tag swung out, the price printed clearly: $2,880.

"That alone would take you half a year to save for."

She stumbled catching it, clutching it to her chest like a lifeline.

"I — it's a knockoff! I found a deal. It's a replica, it was super cheap!" Her eyes darted everywhere but at me, her voice losing air with every word.

She can't know. She absolutely cannot know.

If she figures out Ethan paid for it and makes a scene with his family, his mother will destroy me.

"Is that right?" I nodded, keeping my expression deliberately neutral, as if I'd swallowed her terrible lie whole.

Then I unlocked my phone and opened my banking app right in front of her.

"Funny timing — I've been wanting to treat myself too. Why don't you pass me that hookup of yours?"

"Actually, I just remembered — when we first moved in, we opened a shared account for splitting utilities and household expenses. It's registered under your name, but the monthly statements have been going to my email this whole time."

My finger scrolled slowly down the screen. My eyes stayed on her face, cutting across it inch by inch.

"Let me just pull up this month's statement..."

Vivian stopped breathing. She stared at my phone like it was a live grenade.

The screen cast its pale light across my face. The statement was long, every large transaction recorded in precise, unforgiving detail.

Not one of them was from any so-called deal-finder.

But there was a charge of $2,880 at a luxury retailer. And a charge of $1,200 at the Park Hyatt — one of the most expensive hotels in the city.

The timestamp: last Friday night.

The night my Chanel dress disappeared.

I enlarged the hotel charge so it filled the screen, centered it, and took a screenshot.

The small click of the shutter cut through the room like a blade.

"The Park Hyatt Presidential Suite." I looked at her. "Does your deal-finder include a room for the night?"

Vivian's lips were shaking so badly she couldn't form a single word.