Chapter 2Call Me A Gold Digger

At my workstation, I pulled a collapsible cardboard box from under the desk and methodically packed my personal belongings.

The bullpen fell dead silent, then erupted into venomous whispers. Eyes tracked every move I made.

"Look at her. Supposedly a millionaire swindler, but she’s carrying a beat-up canvas tote. Real high roller."

"God, it’s always the quiet ones who are the most depraved. Remember how everyone called her the department sweetheart? Turns out she’s a certified sociopath. Who’s going to step up and pay her bills now?"

"Step up? I wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole. Someone grab the disinfectant spray. I feel like I need a full medical screen just breathing near her desk."

I ignored the murmur of the hive, taping the bottom of the box shut.

Before I could reach the elevators, a commotion shattered the quiet hum of the lobby.

"Where is she? Get that lying bitch out here!"

"Give me back my life savings! You stole everything from me!"

Through the glass partitions, I saw a young man waving a hand-painted fabric banner in the middle of the reception area.

Splashed across the canvas in garish red acrylic were the words: "Serial Con Artist Lila Michell Stole $75,000 of My Life Savings. Demand Justice."

Braden rushed out from a nearby corridor, hands raised in a display of practiced corporate diplomacy. "Sir, please lower your voice. This is a private corporate building. Let’s take this into a conference room and work it out."

The man whipped around, his bloodshot eyes locking onto me. "That’s her! That’s Lila!"

He pointed an accusatory finger, his voice trembling with rehearsed rage. "She targeted me! She pretended to love me, spun a web of sob stories, and bled seventy-five grand out of my accounts until I had nothing left!"

I recognized him instantly.

Shane. One of Braden’s low-life drinking buddies, a failed community theater actor who specialized in playing the broken-hearted victim on cue.

In my last life, Shane had executed this exact performance in our lobby, sobbing hysterically while spewing intimate details of my personal life—my Social Security number, my childhood home address, and a curated stack of falsified wire transfers and fabricated text screenshots. The forged documents had looked so genuine, so seamless, that I had been drowned out by my own shock.

Now, the surrounding crowd looked at me with open disgust.

"Jesus, taking someone’s hard-earned life savings?"

"A professional parasite. It’s terrifying how easily women like that can ruin an honest man."

Jocelyn stormed out of the executive suite, her face flushed with fury. "Lila! Look at the disaster you brought to our doorstep! Handle your personal sewage outside this building and get out!"

I set my box down on the reception counter and took three measured steps toward Shane, studying his theatrical tears.

"You’re claiming I stole seventy-five thousand dollars from you?"

Shane clutched a thick manila folder to his chest. "I have every receipt, every timestamp! Don't you dare play innocent!"

He hurled a sheaf of printed pages into the air. They fluttered across the polished lobby floor, bearing my profile photo, fabricated direct messages, and itemized account transfers.

I looked down at the paper nearest my shoe. "What dates were these transfers made?"

Shane didn't hesitate. "Last October. Three separate wires—fifteen thousand first, then two installments of thirty grand."

"And how did we meet, Shane?"

Shane sneered, playing to the surrounding circle of onlookers. "On a dating app. You slid into my DMs. You cried about your abusive ex-husband and begged for rent money to stay alive."

A faint smile touched the corner of my lips. "Last October, I was on-site in Chicago leading the closed-door enterprise migration. I was logged into company servers sixteen hours a day, sleeping four hours a night in a hotel room booked under corporate compliance."

I tilted my head. "When exactly did I find the time to date you?"

Shane’s eyes flickered, caught off-guard, but he instantly doubled down. "Save the corporate alibi! We all know what kind of manipulative trash you are! The destination account has your legal name on it. Deny that if you can!"

I didn't argue. The routing information genuinely linked to a dormant account created under my stolen credentials. But I wasn't going to exhaust my energy peeling back their trap in an office lobby.

"I’ll let the authorities settle where that money went," I said coolly, lifting my cardboard box. "Excuse me."

I walked straight through the parted sea of bewildered faces toward the revolving doors.

Behind me, Shane’s voice echoed against the high glass ceiling: "Run all you want, you sociopath! Even if you flee the country, I’ll track you down!"

Once outside, the crisp city air filled my lungs. I pulled out my burner phone, tapped an unfamiliar number from my encrypted notes, and pressed call.

"Hey there," I said softly when the line clicked open. "Took me a while to find your private number. Do you have a few minutes to talk about Braden Holt?"