Chapter 1The Good Samaritan Scandal

An old man waved his passbook at me, demanding I transfer his $3 million. The recipient? An offshore shell company—a classic scam.

"I can't do this!" I slammed his passbook down. "Sir, just wait five minutes—"

"Don’t ruin my fortune!" he snapped. I called the police and stopped the transfer.

Furious, he turned on me: "She’s after my money! Waiting for me to die!"

Tabloids twisted his words, fueling a viral hate storm. I begged my coworker Ava to defend me—instead, she testified against me: "She stuffed her underwear in his pocket!"

Branded a gold-digger, even my husband Jonny left me. Broken, I jumped from the bridge.

Then I woke up—back at my teller window, on that day again...

* * *

“Next customer, please!”

The mechanical voice sent a jolt through my entire body.

I snapped my head up. The screen above glowed with the number “023,” and standing before me was an old man with thinning, gray hair.

Mr. Davies.

The man who had orchestrated my ruin and death was now scowling at me through the bulletproof glass.

My breath caught. For a moment, my heart felt like it would hammer its way out of my chest.

This wasn’t a dream. I had been reborn.

“Miss! Are you deaf? I need to make a transaction!”

Mr. Davies tapped impatiently on the glass, his amplified voice yanking me back to reality.

I shot up from my chair, forcing a brittle smile onto my face.

“Sir, I’m so sorry, but this window is now closed. Please see one of my colleagues for assistance.”

Before he could reply, I bolted for the staff-only door behind me.

“Hey! Where are you going? Get back here!” the old man shouted after me, his voice muffled by the glass.

I didn’t look back. Under the counter, my fingers fumbled with my phone, quickly hitting the record button.

No matter what happened this time, I was getting proof.

Mr. Davies was still yelling. “What kind of service is this! I have your employee number! I’m going to file a complaint!”

I rattled off the standard bank script. “Large transfers require dual authorization. I’d advise you to contact a family member to confirm the transaction first.”

“Bullshit! You’re just trying to ruin my good luck!” he sputtered, his face turning red.

Ava poked her head out of the breakroom, a look of confusion on her face. “Chloe? What’s going on?”

I stared at her, at that face filled with feigned concern, and a wave of nausea washed over me. In my past life, that was the same mouth that had confidently told the entire country I had tried to seduce Mr. Davies.

“Stomachache,” I said curtly. “Going to the hospital.”

She hurried after me, blocking my path. “Can’t you just tough it out? There’s a customer waiting!”

“Move,” I said, shaking her hand off my arm.

“Are you crazy?” she hissed, her voice low and threatening. “You want to lose this month’s performance bonus?”

I raised my voice, making sure the entire lobby could hear. “If I drop dead at my desk from the pain, are you going to be the one to collect my body?”

The bustling bank hall fell silent. Every eye was on us.

Ava, clearly not expecting such a forceful response from the usually gentle me, was momentarily speechless.

I seized the opportunity, grabbed my bag, and headed for the exit.

“Chloe Harris! If you leave without taking official leave, you’ll be fired!” Ava threatened from behind me.

I muttered under my breath, “What’s a job when my life is on the line?”

With a shove, I pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped out into the world.

I burst into a nearby convenience store, nearly knocking over a rack of chips. I snatched the cheapest bottle of vodka I could find, ran into the restroom, twisted the cap off, and took a swig. Then I fished a compact out of my bag and violently dabbed bright red blush onto my cheeks.

Once I was sure I looked sufficiently flushed and drunk, I got into my car and gunned it toward the nearest police station.

Sure enough, I didn't make it two blocks before the flashing lights appeared in my rearview mirror.

“Ma’am, please step out of the vehicle.”

I stumbled out of the car, purposefully breathing a cloud of alcohol-scented air in the officer’s direction.

“Have you been drinking?” the officer asked, his brow furrowed.

I feigned guilt, slurring my words. “I have a canker sore… just used a little alcohol to rinse my mouth.”

He was obviously unconvinced. He steadied me as I pretended to lose my balance. “Ma’am, I need you to cooperate with a breathalyzer test.”

I dutifully blew into the device, watching with satisfaction as the numbers skyrocketed.

“Ma’am, you’re suspected of driving under the influence. We need to take you to the hospital for a blood test.”

I put up a token struggle before “reluctantly” letting them guide me into the back of the patrol car. I could have smiled from ear to ear.

In the hospital’s phlebotomy room, the nurse had just withdrawn the needle when the young officer exclaimed, “Her blood alcohol level is zero?”

I put on my best aggrieved expression. “I told you, I was just rinsing my mouth.”

The officer cleared his throat and pulled out his phone. “Standard procedure requires us to notify your next of kin.”

The call connected, and Jonny’s cold voice came through the line. “What is it now?”

“Mr. Harris, your wife is at the hospital—”

“I’m in a meeting. I don’t have time for this.” The line went dead.

The officer awkwardly put his phone away. “Well… how about I give you a ride home?”

I nodded enthusiastically, a wave of relief washing over me.

I’d dodged the bullet this time, right?

Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently. A news alert, emblazoned with a fiery “BREAKING” icon, popped onto the screen:

#BankTellerChloeHarrisDefraudsSeniorCitizenOfRetirementSavings

The smile froze on my face.