At the company team-building event, I got called out by my colleague Samantha Rowler for not removing my price tag—she accused me of being a "freebie chaser."

"Oh wow, Carla, you drive a BMW 5 Series. Are you seriously planning to return your clothes within seven days too?" she sneered.

I tucked the tag back in and ignored her snide remark.

But after the event, as soon as I got home, my phone started blowing up. My chat apps were going insane.

A friend had sent me a link: [Luxury-Car Executive Turns Out to Be a Return Addict!]

Someone had filmed me leaving the price tag on and posted it to a short-video platform.

I opened the comment section and was met with a barrage of insults.

[Can't afford to live, huh? Tag warrior.]

[Is this car a sugar-daddy gift? Those who know, know.]

[OMG, does this woman have some kind of illness? Which brand is this so I can avoid it!]

I immediately knew Samantha was behind it. I messaged her to delete the video.

Instead, the next second, she blocked me—and pinned a comment to the top of the thread: [You can know a person's face but never their heart!]

I was about to post a statement to clarify, my finger hovering over the send button, when I noticed the video's likes had already shot past ten thousand.

I laughed. If they wanted a scene, fine—let's make it bigger.

I quickly posted a new update: [The outfit is really nice. I'll wear it again next time.]

The netizens erupted. The insults doubled, the heat skyrocketed, and the post shot straight to number one trending. I just put my phone down and went to sleep.

The next morning, I was woken by my phone's relentless vibration.

Picking it up, I found my missed calls maxed out and over a hundred unread messages—all from strangers.

[Returning clothes while driving a BMW 5 Series? Are you out of your mind?]

[If I were you, I'd have smashed my head against the steering wheel by now.]

No doubt about it—my personal information had leaked.

I opened my closet. Every inch of it was lined with clothes, each sporting a giant price tag. I deliberately picked out a white blazer with its tag still hanging.

If they wanted a show, they were going to get one.

Driving to the office, I reached the garage gate where the security guard, Bruce Wesley, usually greeted me. Normally, he'd salute and raise the barrier before my car even stopped.

Today, my car was pressed against the gate, and he didn't move a muscle. I honked.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes filled with disdain. Pointing to the visitor lane beside him, he said, "Ms. Davidson, the system's down. You'll need to register over there."

I glanced at the empty employee lane, then at the phone in his hand—scrolling through the very video attacking me.

I said nothing. I reversed into the visitor lane and got out.

From behind me, Bruce spat, "What's a fancy car worth if you've got no character? Pfft."

The elevator was an even worse battlefield. The moment I stepped in, the crowd shifted, leaving a wide empty space around me. My colleagues huddled in a corner, whispering pointedly.

"Is that her? Didn't see that coming."

"She usually acts so aloof… turns out she's like that."

"Better stay away—don't want to catch bad luck."

"I wonder if her car's rented."

When the elevator doors opened, I walked into the office. No sooner had I sat down than Samantha appeared with a coffee in hand.

"Oh, Carla," she said, feigning surprise, covering her mouth loudly enough for the whole office to hear.

"You really don't sweat the small stuff, do you? And that tag—it's still showing! Do you want me to lend you some scissors? Or…"

She paused, smiling meaningfully.

"Still planning to return the outfit, I see. That's why you won't cut it off?"

A ripple of quiet laughter ran through the office.

She pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures of my back again.

"Everyone, look! Here's our thrifty Carla."

I turned slowly, coldly fixing her with my gaze.

"Done filming yet?"

Samantha shook her phone, feigning innocence.

"Come on, Carla, don't be mad. I'm just helping you with publicity. Even negative attention is attention—maybe you could become an influencer and sell things online. Just remember me when you become famous."

I stood up and walked toward Samantha.

Samantha instinctively stepped back, and a few drops of coffee splashed onto the floor.

She screamed, "What do you think you're doing? Are you going to hit me?"

"Carla, don't overreact."

"Yeah, can't bear to hear someone else calling you out on the truth?"

I paused, scanning the room.

The subordinates who normally treated me with utmost respect were now lined up on the opposite side.

"Step aside," I said.

They exchanged glances and, reluctantly, made a path.

I hadn't even settled into my chair when my phone rang. It was our partner company.

"Ms. Davidson, regarding next quarter's collaboration, we need to reconsider," the voice said, clipped and formal. "Your personal image has caused a negative impact on the brand. We don't want our products associated with someone who returns everything."

Before I could respond, the call ended.

Immediately after, the boss's secretary summoned me to the office.

I opened the door to find a tablet smashed onto the floor at my feet.

The screen was shattered, but the contents were still legible: [Trending #3 – #LuxuryCarFemaleExecMaliciousReturns#]

Carter Benedict sat behind his desk, face dark as iron.

"Carla, you've disappointed me beyond words. The company made you a director, not a clown!"

I bent down, picking up the tablet, my voice calm.

"Carter, it's not what it looks like."

"I don't care about the truth!" he slammed his fist on the desk.

"Netizens only believe what they see! The company's stock price has taken a hit—do you know how much that's cost? You have one day."

He pointed to the door.

"Can't control public opinion? Then get out!"

Stepping out, Samantha was leaning against the wall, waiting for me.

She still held her half-drunk coffee, her lips curling into a triumphant smile.

"Carla, got called out yet?" she cooed, leaning in with mock concern. "Why not just apologize? Returning clothes isn't a big crime. Admit your vanity, let people curse for a few days, and they'll forget."

Her voice dropped, eyes glinting with unmasked greed.

"Oh, and you've been sitting on that throne for far too long—it's time to make way."

I looked at her perfectly made-up face and couldn't help but laugh.

She thought I was still playing on the first level, when I was already in the stratosphere.

"Samantha," I said, adjusting my collar to reveal the glaring price tag. You better pray this fire burns even brighter."

Then I turned and walked away.

Behind me, she snorted. "Stubborn as a mule. I'll see how long you last."

At lunch, I sat at my desk, eating a salad.

The white blazer hung over the chair, tag facing the aisle.

Samantha came up with a phone on a tripod.

"Hey, Sam-fam! Good afternoon, everyone," she said, starting a live stream from behind me.

The title read: [Inside the Daily Life of a Top Exec]

The camera swung directly onto me.

"Look, it's the legendary Tag Lady herself. Mentally tough, can even eat lunch with all the hate."

The viewer count shot up instantly—from a few thousand to over a hundred thousand.

The comments poured in, a nonstop flood of insults and curses.

[Is that her? Looks so ordinary.]

[Eating salad? Go do time instead.]

[How has this person not been fired yet?]

Samantha's face flushed with excitement at the skyrocketing numbers.

For the sake of clicks, she began fabricating stories to smear me.

"You don't know," she whispered, putting on a conspiratorial tone.

"She's insanely arrogant at work. Every outfit is different, but she never pays for them.

"I even went to her house once… Her closet was full of tagged clothes. She wears them a few days, returns them, and the merchants block her accounts.

"She just opens a new account and keeps buying—she's a cancer in the industry."

I chewed on my salad without looking up, letting Samantha shove the camera right in my face.

Samantha grew bolder when I didn't react.

"And hey, aren't you all curious how she got that BMW 5 Series?" she purred at the camera. "She's just a regular employee—where's all that money coming from?"

"I heard…" she winked conspiratorially, "different luxury cars pick her up from work all the time."

The chat exploded.

[Oh, so she's an escort.]

[Makes sense, she's selling herself.]

[No wonder she won't cut the tags. She earns dirty money.]

Public opinion flipped instantly, from petty greed to moral outrage. Some even started digging up my home address.

My assistant, Patricia Homer, who had been holding back, finally snapped. She jumped in front of the camera.

"Stop spreading lies!" she shouted. "Carla isn't returning things for herself! She's doing it for—"

But Samantha was faster, snatching the narrative.

"For what? To save up for a bag? Or maybe to satisfy some rich guy's weird fetish? Some sugar daddies love the thrill of brand-new tags untouched."

The live chat filled with obscenities.

Patricia trembled, her face red with anger.

"You… you're slandering her! The tags were—"

Her stammering made her sound guilty, and the audience ate it up, convinced we were just performing.

I set down my fork and stood abruptly. One hand covered Patricia's mouth, dragging her out of the frame.

The viewers immediately interpreted it as a cover-up—violence to silence a witness.

Samantha clutched her chest, feigning horror.

"Oh my God! Did you see that, everyone? She even hits her own assistant—how terrifying! Does she think the law doesn't apply to her?"

I pulled Patricia into the stairwell. She sobbed, tears smearing her makeup.

"Carla, why didn't you let me speak? They're saying such awful things! The tags were clearly—"

I held up a finger to shush her.

"No one's listening now," I said. "They only believe what they want to believe. Don't worry. I've got it under control."

At that moment, my backup phone vibrated. An unknown number was calling.

I answered. A deep, hoarse voice trembled with excitement.

"Carla… someone saw it. Found it."

I gripped the phone tight.

"Are you sure? Positive. All features match."

I exhaled and hung up.

After work, a crowd of self-proclaimed justice influencers had gathered downstairs. They waved their phones as I tried to push through, wearing sunglasses and a mask.

"There she is! It's the Tag Lady!" someone shouted.

The mob surged. Flashbulbs popped, microphones nearly hit my face.

Suddenly, a coffee cup flew through the air and smacked right on my forehead.

I barely got into my car. The body was scratched, and someone had spray-painted in large letters on the hood: TRASH.

Sitting inside, I wiped the egg off with a tissue.

As soon as I got home, the company group chat pinged with an announcement.

To distance itself, Carter had posted my dismissal on the official site.

Reason: Severe damage to company image.

Additionally, I was ordered to pay 100 thousand in damages for reputational loss.

Shortly after, a new HR appointment came through: Samantha was promoted to Marketing Director.

She sat in my old office chair and posted a selfie with the caption: [Justice may be delayed, but it never fails. New beginnings, let's go!]

The comments were full of congratulations and praise.

Not long after, Samantha called me.

"Carla, I packed up your things. They're in the security office. If you can't return those clothes, I can donate them to poor mountain villages. Maybe they'll complain they're dirty, but it's better than wasting them."

Her smug tone made me smile.

"Since you're so charitable," I said, "tomorrow at eight, come to my house for a live stream. Let's see how many 'stolen goods' I really have."

Without hesitation, she agreed.

"Sure! I'll show everyone your mansion—and see exactly how you kneel and beg."