Chapter 2Exposing My Viral Holiday Fraud

My first instinct was to grab the tire iron from my trunk and go settle this the old-fashioned way.

But I stopped. That’s exactly what she wanted. If I showed up screaming, it would just look like a lover’s quarrel. It would validate her narrative.

I took a deep breath and opened a burner account on TikTok. I commented: “How are you so sure he’ll show up? This sounds like slander. He could literally call the cops.”

Tiffany replied almost instantly: “Sweetie, you clearly don’t know how small towns work. Let me educate you.”

She was so arrogant she didn't even realize she was talking to her target.

“His dad is a widower who lives and dies by what the neighbors think,” she wrote. “And it’s the holidays. The pressure is ten times worse. Unless his family wants to be pariahs, they’ll practically force-feed him to me. News travels faster than a wildfire here.”

Then she added: “Besides, I’m ‘rich’ now. People around here worship anyone with a dollar. My word is gospel.”

The sheer, calculated coldness of it made my stomach turn.

“I tap a few keys, tell a few stories, and a man gets delivered to my door for free. No dating apps, no effort. Maximum ROI.”

I was shaking with rage.

Tiffany sent one more message to the thread: “You want in on this, girlie? Venmo me $500 and I’ll coach you on how to land a ‘Holiday Rental’ of your own.”

Before I could reply, my father came behind me with a broom, literally shooing me toward the door. “Move! You’re bringing bad luck into this house just standing there!”

Fine. I’d go. I wanted to see this train wreck with my own eyes.

I pushed open the front door and was hit by a blast of freezing wind and sleet. My shoes were soaked through within seconds. I cursed Tiffany Snyder with every step. If it weren't for her pathetic little scheme, I’d be curled up by the fireplace with a beer and a book, not trudging through the slush.

I hit a hidden pothole, and freezing water filled my shoe. My phone buzzed.

“Breaking News: The ‘husband’ has arrived on foot! Look at that charm.”

I clicked the link. She had filmed me from her window—stumbling, soaked, and looking utterly miserable.

“He couldn’t wait to get into my bed. Look at him running to me in the cold. That’s the Snyder Magic™.”

The comments were a cesspool of admiration. “Iconic.” “Queen behavior.” “Post the bedroom pics later!”

I was vibrating with fury. It felt like she had stripped me naked in front of the whole world.

But then, I noticed something in the background of her video. One of her followers had commented: “Umm, forget the guy, is that a Porsche in the driveway??”

“Is that the new Taycan? That’s like a hundred-thousand-dollar car!”

“Tiff, how are you so loaded? Teach us your secrets!”

The car.

I stopped in the middle of the slushy road and squinted at the sleek, matte-pink vehicle parked in front of Tiffany’s house. I rubbed my eyes. I knew that car.

I snapped a photo and messaged my Head of Operations at the firm. “Is this the car you just bought? The one you were bragging about in the Slack channel?”

I’d recognize those custom neon-pink brake calipers anywhere.

A minute later, the reply came: “Yeah, that’s mine! How’d you see it? I’m back home for the break, so I put it on a luxury rental app for the week to cover the insurance. Some girl paid a premium for it.”

A rental.

I felt a slow, predatory smile spread across my face. Oh, this was going to be fun.