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."

The next morning, the internet erupted.

Samantha had somehow bribed my cleaning lady. A secretly filmed video of my home went viral.

The footage was shaky, but it was unmistakable—my wardrobe, my clothes racks, all crammed with garments, every single one flaunting a massive price tag. It looked like a giant clothing warehouse.

The trending hashtag #CarlaDavidsonTagQueen exploded. Views passed into the hundreds of millions.

Samantha's voiceover dripped with mockery.

"Oh my God, is she planning to open a clothing store or run a wholesale return business? How many pieces does she have? Thousands? How many merchants must she have ruined?"

Even a well-known fashion brand I had never bought from jumped in for clicks, issuing a statement denouncing "malicious returns," subtly dragging me down.

Some netizens even launched a "Boycott Carla" campaign. Others Photoshopped my memorial portrait and posted it to forums.

Poor Samantha must have been up all night trying to smear me.

Patricia, my assistant, messaged me: [Carla, you're trending online. The whole internet is waiting for your disaster tomorrow night.]

I replied: [Then let them watch.]

I read the hateful comments with a calm mind. In fact, I felt a faint urge to laugh.

By 7:50 p.m., Samantha arrived at my door, flanked by two assistants wielding fill lights and cameras. She looked like she was attending a red-carpet ceremony.

"Hello, Sam-fam!" she beamed into the camera. "Today, we're going to see how much stolen loot the legendary Tag Queen really has."

Even before stepping inside, her live viewership had passed a million—everyone there to laugh at me. The comments scrolled too fast to read.

[Go in! Expose her!]

[I've got my insults ready.]

[Waiting for the rich lady to crash.]

I opened the door, bare-faced, wearing the controversial trench coat, the price tag glaring on my chest.

Samantha's eyes nearly spilled her ridicule.

"Carla, you really never change. Still won't cut the tag, even now?"

She signaled the cameraman to zoom in.

"Come on, greet everyone! Where are you planning to 'scam' next?"

I stepped aside, letting her pass. "Come in."

She and her crew filed in, heading straight for the walk-in closet.

Her gasp was exaggerated.

"Oh my God! This is incredible! Sam-Fam, if all of this is returned, the merchants will go bankrupt!"

She grabbed a random garment, showing the tag.

"Carla, you've been caught red-handed. What do you have to say for yourself? Apologize to the whole internet! Admit you're vain, greedy, and a freebie fiend!"

I couldn't help but smile. Caught red-handed? Those words were perfect.

I stepped up to the camera, staring into the black lens, as if I could see through to the millions of malicious eyes on the other side.

"I have never returned a single item," I said, every word deliberate.

"So where is this 'freebie' nonsense coming from?"

Samantha laughed like she'd heard the funniest joke in the world.

"Never returned? Then why keep all these tags? Have you been collecting them like trophies? Don't play games—everyone knows the truth!"

The chat exploded with ridicule.

[Talk about stubborn!]

[Get lost! You're disgusting.]

Samantha sneered and reached for the tag on my coat.

"Still denying it! This tag proves your greed! Today, I'm acting as justice. I'll cut it off myself!"

The camera captured every second of her exaggerated motion. Her hand was fast and precise, seizing the tag.

With a sharp tug—rip!—the tag came off.

She held it triumphantly up to the HD camera, her face glowing with victory.

"See that? Evidence!"

I spoke suddenly, "You've been insulting me for three days. Did anyone care to read what this tag actually says?"

Samantha snorted, waving the tag carelessly.

"Isn't it just the price? What, showing off that you can afford it?"

Her tone was mocking, and her gaze flicked downward—just a glance.

Her smile froze. Her face drained of color in an instant.

The tag in her hand felt like a burning iron, scorching her fingers so she could barely hold it.

"This… what is this…"