Chapter 3The Mistress Wore Stolen Couture

Disgust rippled across the surrounding desks like an electric current.

Bethany, an associate two desks down, raised her phone, the lens pointed square at my face.

"No wonder an entry-level recruit walked in dressed like royalty," Bethany sneered, adjusting her angle. "She’s not an heiress. She’s sleeping with the CEO. Raiding the wife’s closet just to rub her face in it—are you trying to stage a corporate coup from the bottom up?"

I looked directly into Bethany’s camera. "Are you sure you want to go on record saying that?"

Bethany scoffed, emboldened by the nodding heads around her. "You got caught red-handed by the man's own daughter. What are you still posturing for? If you're bold enough to sleep your way into designer clothes, be bold enough to take the heat."

I nodded slowly. "Understood. I’ll make sure that’s on record."

Alyssa didn't waste a beat. She queued up a video clip on her screen.

The footage showed security camera playback: me, swiping an access card at the gate of the Greenwich estate, parking my sedan, and walking inside, only leaving two hours later.

"That's my home," Alyssa said, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. "Neither my mom nor I were home that afternoon, but she had a keycard. If she isn't my father's hidden mistress, how on earth did she get access to our private residence?"

"Caught on tape," someone muttered nearby. "Disgusting."

A cold stillness settled in my chest.

That property in Greenwich had belonged to my mother since before I was born. I had spent my childhood chasing golden retrievers across those lawns.

In my last life, this was the point where I shattered. I had screamed until my throat bled that the house belonged to my mother, that Russell was my father. But like my mother, who hated the vanity of public relations, I had never attended corporate galas or posed for society pages. The world only knew Russell Harmon’s face. To them, I was just an unhinged impostor grasping at prestige.

Later that afternoon in my past life, Russell had sent his security team to confiscate my phone, promising he would handle the clarification personally. When the phone was returned to me, all my original recordings and metadata were gone. The only thing left circulating online was a viral clip of me hysterically lunging to snatch my phone back, framed as an unstable mistress having a violent breakdown.

Not this time.

I would never hand over an inch of ground.

I looked straight at Alyssa. "Are you entirely certain that house belongs to your family?"

She lifted her jaw. "I've lived there for years. Of course it’s my house."

"Whose name is on the deed?" I asked smoothly.

Alyssa's expression tightened slightly. "My dad handles all the legal paperwork. Why would I need to check the title?"

"And you're certain that the suit and the bag were purchased by Russell Harmon?"

"Without a doubt."

"And you are entirely certain that Suzanne Walsh is Russell Harmon’s lawful wife?"

That struck a nerve. Color flared in Alyssa's cheeks. "My parents have been together for over twenty years! Everyone in our circle knows they are husband and wife. Whether they hold a piece of paper from city hall is none of a homewrecker's business!"

I lowered my eyes, tapped my screen, and saved the audio file to three separate cloud drives.

"Perfect," I murmured. "I’ll keep that statement safe."