Chapter 1

Tags: Fake Bestie Betrayal | Stolen Porsche Flex | Counterfeit Plates Disaster | Ultimate Revenge & Payback

My best friend posted a photo of my brand-new Porsche on Instagram with the caption: "Bought it all on my own."

I liked the post and didn’t call her out.

The very next day, Highway Patrol called me: "Your vehicle was impounded for displaying counterfeit license plates. Please report to the station immediately to assist with the investigation."

I was completely stunned.

I had just driven that two-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche off the lot last month.

Down at the station, surveillance footage revealed that she had unscrewed my real plates and swapped them out for fakes—all so she could take photos for social media and make it look like the car belonged to her.

Then she ran a red light, got pulled over by the cops, and the counterfeit plates were caught on the spot.

The car was impounded. She fled the scene.

My phone buzzed with a text from her: "You’ll have to deal with the car yourself. I’m heading to Miami to clear my head. Don’t look for me."

I texted back: "Okay."

Then, I sat down and exported every single message, transaction, and receipt from our three years of friendship.

My phone vibrated.

It was a bank notification.

"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $6.50 at 7-Eleven."

I was in the middle of a corporate meeting, and my primary card was sitting right inside my purse.

I opened my wallet. The card was there.

That meant it was the authorized user card.

Who had that card?

I thought for a second. Only one person came to mind—Sienna.

I unlocked my phone and scrolled back to last month’s chat history when I mailed her the card.

"Sienna, use this card for now. It has a ten-thousand-dollar limit. Just use it for emergencies."

"Lauren, you're literally an angel! Oh my god, I’m crying, I can't thank you enough!"

"Don't worry about it. We’re best friends."

That happened last month when she called me sobbing, claiming her husband had frozen her bank accounts and she didn't even have gas money.

I had just purchased the car and didn't have a massive amount of liquid cash lying around, so I sent her an authorized user card.

Now, she was using it at 7-Eleven to buy drinks.

I brushed it off and focused on my meeting.

Halfway through, my phone buzzed again.

"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $48.00 at an upscale bistro."

"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $160.00 at a designer boutique."

"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $380.00 at a luxury spa."

I frowned and checked the alerts.

Transaction after transaction. From eleven in the morning to three in the afternoon, she swiped it seven times, totaling over a thousand dollars.

I sent her a message: "Sienna, did you go shopping today?"

She replied instantly: "Oh, yeah! I’m out with a few friends. Don’t worry, Lauren, I’ll pay you back as soon as I have the money."

I didn’t reply.

She sent another text: "Lauren, you’re seriously the best. All my friends are saying how lucky I am to have you. They’re so jealous."

I still didn’t reply.

Then she sent another message: "By the way, Lauren, can I borrow your Porsche for a couple of days? I want to take some photos for social media. I’m thinking of becoming an automotive influencer!"

I thought about it and typed back: "I need the car myself this week."

She sent a crying emoji: "Just a few photos! I won’t get in your way, I promise. Please, Lauren, I really want to know what it feels like to drive something like that."

I stood my ground.

It wasn't that I was stingy. Her driving was notoriously terrible. When she drove her husband’s car, she managed to scratch it three times in a single month.

She sent another text: "I guess I’ll just rent one then. It's not that expensive anyway, only like five hundred bucks a day."

Five hundred a day? Her monthly take-home salary was barely two thousand.

I sighed and dialed her number. "Don't waste money renting. You can borrow mine. Just be careful and don't scratch it."

"Lauren! I love you so much!" she screamed through the receiver.

The next morning, she arrived at my apartment to pick up the keys.

She was wearing a vibrant red dress, four-inch stilettos, and heavy makeup. She spent ten minutes snapping selfies in front of my building before coming upstairs.

I handed her the key fob and added, "The tank is full. Just bring it back with a full tank when you’re done."

"No problem!" She grabbed the keys, her eyes gleaming.

"And don't speed or run red lights. I just bought it, and the full comprehensive coverage hasn't completely kicked in yet."

"I know, Lauren! You sound just like my mom."

She spun on her heel and strutted off, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor.

Watching her walk away, an unsettling feeling crept into my chest.