Chapter 3

My email caused quite a stir within the company.

HR intervened, calling Mandy and me in for separate interviews.

However, the outcome remained a stalemate—Mandy insisted my receipts were forged, while I had no direct footage proving she had "intentionally smashed the box."

Without hard evidence, HR could only urge us to "handle this calmly and keep it from affecting work."

Mandy was clearly dissatisfied with this outcome.

She wanted me utterly ruined, not some toothless internal mediation.

So, she expanded the battlefield from the company to the entire social media sphere.

That afternoon, my phone began vibrating uncontrollably.

Endless notifications and mentions flooded my screen.

My stomach sank. I didn't open Ins immediately—I knew it would be ugly. Instead, I clicked into a group chat with mutual friends and instantly saw the screenshots of Mandy's latest post.

She had posted a lengthy Ins thread accompanied by nine photos.

The first was the damaged bag. She had chosen an unflattering angle that blurred the logo, making the material look genuinely cheap.

The second was a candid photo of me, taken covertly while I was getting water in the breakroom. The dim lighting made me look shady and sullen.

The next few photos were maliciously cropped and spliced screenshots of our chat history.

She had deleted every single polite text where she had begged me to buy the bag for her, leaving only the parts where I quoted the price and reminded her to pay, painting me as a greedy, aggressive hustler.

The final slides were screenshots of a conversation with a supposed "professional authenticator," who claimed with absolute certainty that "the stitching is sloppy, the hardware plating is uneven, and it's a classic high-end replica."

Her caption was dripping with melodrama and outrage:

"I never thought I’d be stabbed in the back by a coworker I trusted the most!"

"I treated her like a sister, and she sold me a fake bag!"

"When I confronted her, she didn't just deny it—she threatened me!"

"How can someone be so evil? Girls, you really have to watch who you let into your circle!"

Beneath the post, there were already hundreds of likes and dozens of comments.

Her clique led the charge, cheerleading in the replies:

"Sending hugs, babe. Don't waste your energy on trash like her!"

"You really never know a person. People like this need to be exposed!"

"@Kylie, care to explain yourself?"

Even some coworkers from our company had left cryptic emojis below.

In an instant, I became the "counterfeit scammer" and "manipulative villain" of Ins.

My handle was tagged relentlessly across group chats, turning into a public trial.

Strangers sent DMs calling me shameless, while others urged me to hurry up and apologize to end it.

Looking at the vile words flooding my screen, my fingertips turned cold.

I hadn't realized someone could be so purely malicious just to tear someone else down.

She didn't just want to ruin my reputation; she wanted to destroy my social circle and leave me completely isolated.

I forced myself to calm down.

Anger solved nothing; it would only make me stumble right into her trap.

I didn't reply in any chat, nor did I post any Ins stories to defend myself.

I knew that right now, anything I said would be dismissed as "making excuses."

What I needed was an irrefutable, lethal piece of evidence.

I locked my phone and set to work on three things.

First, I took screenshots of Mandy’s Ins post and every single comment, archiving them.

Second, I clicked on the profile of the so-called "professional authenticator." It was a brand-new burner account with zero posts. I tried sending a message request, but as expected, it was blocked.

Third, I pulled up the entire unedited chat history between Mandy and me.

From the very beginning, when she begged me to pick it up, to the live boutique videos I sent her, and finally her excitement when I handed her the bag.

I screen-recorded everything from start to finish.

With that done, I felt a bit more grounded.

Yet, it still wasn't enough for a total comeback.

Mandy held an "authentication" card. Even if it was fake, to uninformed bystanders, it carried more weight than my paper receipts.

I needed an official, indisputable verification.

I grabbed the bag Mandy had left behind with me and turned it completely inside out.

Outer pocket: nothing. Side pocket: nothing. The main compartment was entirely empty.

My heart sank—did she take it?

Just as I was about to give up, my fingertips brushed against a seam deep inside the interior lining.

There was an inconspicuous slit, blending almost seamlessly into the leather.

I reached in carefully, my fingers touching a firm card.

Pulling it out, I saw a small authenticity card, perfectly intact.

On it was a unique serial number.

My heart began to race.

I immediately logged onto the brand's official website and navigated to their customer care portal.

This brand offered a remarkably thorough service: a global warranty, complete with an online pre-check for authenticity.

As long as you entered the bag's serial number along with the buyer's details registered at the time of purchase, you could pull up the bag’s entire archive.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the serial number, my passport name, and the purchase date into the system without missing a single character.

The moment I clicked "Submit," my palms were drenched in sweat.

The page loaded, and a crisp line of text appeared on the screen:

"This product is an authentic Celine item. The serial number is valid, and purchase records match the registered information."

Seeing this, I let out a long, shuddering breath.

But this still wasn't enough.

I noticed an option at the bottom of the page—Apply for an Official Certificate of Authenticity.

However, that required shipping the item to a designated evaluation center.

It would take too long. By the time the certificate arrived, the damage would be permanent.

I had to find a faster, more dramatic method.

My eyes fell on the 1-800 toll-free customer service number in the website’s footer.

A bold plan slowly took shape in my mind.

Mandy, you wanted a social media war. You wanted to socially execute me.

Then I will give you the grandest, most public stage possible.

So you can nail yourself to the wall with your own hands.

The next morning, I received a notification from HR—2:00 PM, main conference room, a formal mediation meeting.

I knew right then that the call I spent all night preparing for was about to be put to use.