Chapter 2The Mistress Wore Stolen Couture

The atmosphere shifted instantly, suffocating and hostile.

It was exactly how it started before. Within thirty seconds, a narrative had been woven: an ambitious, shameless young woman parading around in the legal wife's wardrobe, brazenly marking her territory in the corporate corridors.

Back then, I had scrambled to defend myself, insisting that the clothes belonged to my mother, that Russell Harmon was my father. But Russell was a fixture in business journals; I was a blank slate. No one believed me.

Later, the stealthily recorded videos hit TikTok and X. I became the nation’s favorite homewrecker to tear apart. Vigilantes found my apartment, splashed crimson paint across my front door, taped mock obituary notices in the hallway, and mailed razor blades inside unmarked envelopes.

And my father? Russell had merely patted my shoulder, his expression heavy with fake sympathy.

"Just endure it for a little while, Willa," he had told me. "Now isn't the right time for a press statement. Think of the stock price."

I would never place my life in his hands again.

I didn't argue. I didn't raise my voice. I took out my phone and dialed my mother.

When she picked up, I kept my tone conversational.

"Mom."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"There’s a girl here claiming the clothes and bag I’m wearing belong to her mother. She also claims I’ve been trespassing in her family’s Greenwich house. Do you want to come down to the office and claim this daughter of yours?"

The line hung quiet for two seconds.

Then Miriam Sumner’s voice cut through the phone, steady as an anchor:

"Put me on speaker."

I pressed the button and set the phone flat on the wood grain of my desk.

Alyssa stood with her arms crossed, her eyes still glassy, though a flicker of smug triumph danced in her pupils.

My mother spoke: "What is the name of the girl claiming my belongings belong to her mother?"

Alyssa blinked, caught off guard for half a second before she lifted her chin, projecting toward the microphone. "My name is Alyssa Harmon. Ma'am, I don't know what kind of lies Willa has fed you, but what she's wearing belongs to my mom. My father is Russell Harmon, Chief Executive Officer of Sumner Enterprises."

The bullpen caught fire.

"Russell Harmon's daughter?"

"No wonder she recognized the couture."

"So Willa really is his side piece? Wearing the wife’s clothes to the office? That is sickening."

Alyssa pulled out her phone, tapping through her gallery. She thrust the screen toward the surrounding crowd.

In the photo, Suzanne Walsh stood on an expansive sun terrace overlooking manicured lawns, wearing this exact charcoal suit, the crocodile tote resting casually on the marble side table beside her.

"This was taken at my mom’s birthday dinner last year," Alyssa said, tears spilling gracefully down her cheeks. "My dad ordered that suit directly from the atelier in Paris, and he bid on that bag at Christie's himself. Why on earth is it on her body right now?"