Chapter 2

That afternoon, my phone blew up with notifications.

First came her Instagram post.

"Bought it all on my own. No explanations needed."

Attached was a carousel of nine photos.

The first shot was a selfie from the driver's seat, oversized designer sunglasses hiding half her face, her red lips slightly parted.

The second was a close-up of the Porsche key resting casually on her bare thigh.

The third was a full-body shot standing in front of the hood, the wind catching the hem of her red dress.

The rest were glamour shots of the car from every flattering angle, ending with a crisp shot of the Porsche crest on the steering wheel.

The comment section was completely unhinged.

"Holy crap, Sienna! You bought a Porsche?!"

"Babe, what are you doing for work?! Teach me your ways!"

"This is insane! Did you pay in full?"

She replied with a collective comment: "Staying humble, guys! It wasn't that much, just around two hundred grand."

Looking at that post made my stomach churn.

Still, I told myself to let it go.

I knew how obsessed she was with saving face.

In the three years I had known her, she had never once posted anything acknowledging that someone else was doing better than her.

When I was promoted to Director, she posted a vague quote about how "women have to work ten times harder than men just to be seen in corporate America." Anyone with eyes knew she was throwing shade.

I didn't comment, nor did I leave a like.

Then her texts started pouring in.

"Lauren, I want to do a night shoot! Can I keep the car for one more day? Just one more day, please!"

I wanted to say no, but she had already deleted her old post and put up a fresh story: "Prepping for a late-night photoshoot! Stay tuned!"

She had already taken my agreement for granted.

I left it on read.

A minute later, she sent a video. In the clip, she was driving my car with one hand on the wheel while holding her phone with the other, blaring loud trap music in the background.

She was visibly speeding, blowing past every vehicle on the road.

"Lauren, look at my driving skills! Pretty smooth, right?"

I zoomed in on the dashboard—eighty-seven miles per hour in a fifty-five zone.

My heart leaped into my throat. I called her immediately.

"Sienna, you’re speeding."

"Relax, I know this road like the back of my hand. There are no speed traps here."

"Pull over right now. I’m coming to pick it up."

"Come on, Lauren, don't ruin this! I just need one last shot. Give me an hour, just one hour!"

"Pull over."

"Fine, fine, I’m pulling over! Stop getting so mad!"

She hung up.

I sent her a location-sharing request on Find My. She rejected it.

I called her three more times. She sent every call straight to voicemail.

Twenty minutes later, she posted another photo—the car parked along the curb, her leaning against the driver’s door under a streetlamp, captioned: "The moon looks stunning tonight, and so does the ride."

Just as I was about to dial her again, an incoming call popped up.

An unfamiliar number.

"Hello, is this Lauren Vance?"

"Yes, speaking."

"This is Officer Miller from the State Highway Patrol. Your vehicle has been impounded on suspicion of displaying fraudulent license plates. We need you to report to the station immediately to assist with our investigation."

I froze. "What fraudulent plates? My car has legitimate plates! I registered it last month!"

"You can review the specifics once you arrive. Your vehicle is currently held in our impound lot, and we have the keys."

I hung up, completely bewildered.

I hailed a cab and rushed straight to the highway patrol station.

When I got there, a veteran officer in his forties led me into an office and pulled up surveillance footage on his monitor.

In the video, Sienna pulled over to the shoulder, crouched in front of the car, and used a screwdriver to take off my license plates.

After removing them, she pulled a set of brand-new plates out of her tote bag and bolted them on.

Her movements were smooth and practiced. She had clearly planned this in advance.

"Our patrol unit flagged those fake plates," the officer explained. "She blew through a red light while sporting them, so our officers pulled her over."

"When we ran the tags, they came back registered to a decommissioned clunker. She claimed the car belonged to a friend and insisted she had no idea the plates were fake. But traffic cameras captured her swapping them with her own hands."

My hands were shaking with pure rage. I forced my voice down.

"Where is she now?"

"While we were preparing the paperwork, she claimed she was having chest pains and needed an ambulance. The moment our officers looked away, she slipped out, flagged a cab, and disappeared. We tried calling her, but she claims she's already out of state."

I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. The sheer audacity was unbelievable. "Out of state? She was literally just here!"

The officer gave a tired shrug. "According to her, she’s already on the turnpike. We’ll issue a formal summons. In the meantime, your vehicle remains impounded until the investigation wraps up. We also need to trace the origin of those forged plates."

I walked out of the station into the chilly night air and called Sienna.

First call: ignored.

Second call: ignored.

Third call: she picked up.

"Lauren, you’re just going to have to handle the car yourself. I’m already on my way to the airport. I’m flying to Miami to get some peace of mind. Don’t contact me for the next few days."

I lowered my voice, barely containing the fury inside me. "Sienna, you ran a red light, slapped counterfeit plates on my car, got it impounded, and now you expect me to handle it?"

She sounded completely indifferent. "It’s not like I did it on purpose! I bought those vanity plates online because I wanted the photos to look aesthetic! How was I supposed to know the cops would make a big deal out of it?"

I took a deep, ragged breath, fighting to keep my composure. "Did you ask me before putting fake plates on my car? That is *my* vehicle!"

"If I had asked, you would’ve said no! Lauren, why do you have to be so uptight? The car isn’t totaled, it’s just in an impound lot! They’ll release it in a couple of days."

"Where are you?" I demanded coldly.

"I already told you, on my way to the airport! I’m going to Miami. My friends already booked the villa, it would be rude to cancel."

"Sienna, if you don't turn around right now and deal with this, we are done."

"Don’t threaten me, Lauren. I know you’ve been nice to me, but that doesn't mean you own me! What’s wrong with me taking a short vacation? We’ll deal with the car when I get back. Gotta go, I’m walking through TSA."

She hung up.

I called right back. Straight to voicemail.

I stood outside the station beneath the flickering yellow glow of the streetlamp, my shadow stretching long and dark across the pavement.

My phone buzzed again with another bank alert.

She had charged over a thousand dollars on my card today.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled up our entire chat history.

Three years of friendship. Over ten thousand messages.

I started from the very beginning, scrolling through every single line.