The complete victory at the summit hit like a shot of adrenaline, letting me finally break free from my past's shadows. But for those who dwell in darkness, radiance itself is an unforgivable sin.

Chloe lost it.


After being thoroughly humiliated in public, she chose a more devious form of retaliation that suited her character perfectly—playing the victim.

Her Instagram transformed into a meticulously crafted stage. Every photo was perfectly composed and color-graded, her gaze perpetually melancholic, captions dripping with veiled accusations. She never named names, just used vague phrases like "someone I once thought was my best friend in the world" or "that love stolen by power and privilege," casting herself as the tragic heroine whose wealthy best friend had snatched her lover.

I'll give her this—she knew how to spin a story. She fabricated a narrative where Jack and I were childhood sweethearts and she was the innocent latecomer, her words dripping with grievance and self-sacrifice. This kind of bullshit plays well online. Soon, her comment section overflowed with attacks against "a certain ungrateful rich girl," and some remarkably determined internet sleuths were closing in on my real identity.


"Want me to sic the PR team on this?" Liam slid a tablet in front of me, displaying Chloe's latest sob story.

I shook my head, a cold smile playing at the corner of my mouth. "No need. When dealing with a rabid dog, you don't bite back—you pull out its teeth before it can bite."


I'd known this day would come. Jealousy was carved into her bones. Unless I thoroughly put her in her place, she'd never let go. And I'd already prepared her final, most magnificent farewell performance.

The stage for this performance would be the annual charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one week from now.

This evening gala gathered New York's most elite celebrities, business magnates, and artists. Simply scoring an invitation validated your status. Chloe had schemed extensively and, through some nouveau riche man she'd recently hooked, managed to secure an invitation. She probably thought this was her perfect chance to break into high society and publicly crucify me.

What she didn't know was that this invitation had "accidentally" reached her through my careful arrangement.

On the night of the gala, I glided down the red carpet in a Valentino backless gown, my arm linked with Liam's. My entrance commanded everyone's attention. Red is the color of victory—and blood. Tonight, blood would inevitably be shed.

Halfway through the evening, the real show began.

Chloe wore a pure white gauze dress, playing the innocent little lamb. Wine glass in hand, she "accidentally" bumped into Linda, the New York Post's most notorious gossip columnist—a woman known for her ability to destroy lives with her pen.

"Ms. Linda," Chloe's voice wasn't loud, but carried just far enough for nearby tables to hear, "I'm such an admirer... I have some stories about human nature, about betrayal, that might interest you..."

Linda's eyes lit up instantly, her predator's instinct sensing a juicy story.

Chloe's performance began. Tears streaming down her face, she recounted her fabricated tale with even more embellishments. She described how her "true love" with Jack was ruthlessly destroyed by me, her "suddenly wealthy" best friend who abused my power, driving her to desperation. She wept dramatically, drawing an ever-growing crowd.

"...She's now a high and mighty queen, but what she stole was my entire life!" Chloe concluded with a theatrical flourish.

Linda's eyes gleamed with excitement, already composing tomorrow's front-page headline about this "shocking secret of the wealthy."

Just then, a calm voice cut through the tension.

"Is she finished?"

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Liam and I walked through. I wore a composed smile, as if I weren't the protagonist of this little drama.

I gave a graceful nod to the guests. "I apologize for disrupting this lovely evening. But since Miss Chloe is so interested in our past, why not let everyone hear... the authentic version?"

The blood drained from Chloe's face.

I ignored her, pulling my phone from my clutch and connecting to the banquet hall's premium B&O sound system.

The next moment, a conversation from hell echoed clearly under the ornate ceiling.

"...You're just a nagging bitch all day. Mediocre at work, boring in life... I just made a mistake any man would make!" —Jack's self-righteous voice rang out.

"...Amy, please listen... We both had too much to drink... It's my fault, don't blame Jack..." —Chloe's fake, sniveling voice followed.

"...You're nothing without our Jack. What right do you have to act all high and mighty?" —Karen's bitter, cutting voice spat.

Finally, my own heartbroken, ice-cold voice: "Isn't what I've seen ugly enough?"

That recording—the moment I caught them in the act—which I'd preserved for a year, played word for word before New York's entire high society.

The room went dead silent.

Every gaze, sharp as daggers, turned to Chloe, whose face had gone paper-white. The guests who'd shown sympathy moments before now looked at her with nothing but contempt and disgust. Even Linda's excitement had morphed into revulsion, as if she were staring at something rotten.

Chloe trembled violently, her lips quivering, unable to form a single word.

But I wasn't finished yet.

I nodded to my assistant. She immediately handed a USB drive to the staff. On the banquet hall's giant screen appeared the "gift" I'd prepared for Chloe.

The first slide showed Chloe's credit card transactions for the past three years. One week after I bought a Chanel handbag, she purchased an identical counterfeit. When I changed my hairstyle, she immediately booked the same stylist. She even consulted a plastic surgeon about recreating the childhood scar on my wrist.

The second slide displayed a handwriting analysis report. Over the past few years, Chloe had deliberately imitated my signature style, achieving a ninety percent similarity rate.

She wasn't being my friend; she was trying to become me—a cheap, twisted knockoff.

"No... it's not... it's not like that!" Chloe finally broke. She screamed hysterically, her pure white dress now looking like a clown's costume.

But no one gave a damn about her excuses anymore. I'd stripped away all her disguises, layer by layer, exposing the ugly, twisted truth beneath.

Under the withering gazes of everyone present, Chloe—like a beaten dog—covered her face and fled the hall, screaming. Her pathetic retreat marked her complete social death in this circle and throughout New York society.

The world was finally right again.

I plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, every eye in the room following my movement.

I turned to Liam, who watched me with a smile, his eyes full of approval and a hint of admiration.

I raised my glass in a silent toast. The crystal chandelier light refracted through the golden liquid like victory fireworks ignited for me alone.