The Tag That Went Viral

I chewed on my salad without looking up, letting Samantha shove the camera right in my face.

Samantha grew bolder when I didn't react.

"And hey, aren't you all curious how she got that BMW 5 Series?" she purred at the camera. "She's just a regular employee—where's all that money coming from?"

"I heard…" she winked conspiratorially, "different luxury cars pick her up from work all the time."

The chat exploded.

[Oh, so she's an escort.]

[Makes sense, she's selling herself.]

[No wonder she won't cut the tags. She earns dirty money.]

Public opinion flipped instantly, from petty greed to moral outrage. Some even started digging up my home address.

My assistant, Patricia Homer, who had been holding back, finally snapped. She jumped in front of the camera.

"Stop spreading lies!" she shouted. "Carla isn't returning things for herself! She's doing it for—"

But Samantha was faster, snatching the narrative.

"For what? To save up for a bag? Or maybe to satisfy some rich guy's weird fetish? Some sugar daddies love the thrill of brand-new tags untouched."

The live chat filled with obscenities.

Patricia trembled, her face red with anger.

"You… you're slandering her! The tags were—"

Her stammering made her sound guilty, and the audience ate it up, convinced we were just performing.

I set down my fork and stood abruptly. One hand covered Patricia's mouth, dragging her out of the frame.

The viewers immediately interpreted it as a cover-up—violence to silence a witness.

Samantha clutched her chest, feigning horror.

"Oh my God! Did you see that, everyone? She even hits her own assistant—how terrifying! Does she think the law doesn't apply to her?"

I pulled Patricia into the stairwell. She sobbed, tears smearing her makeup.

"Carla, why didn't you let me speak? They're saying such awful things! The tags were clearly—"

I held up a finger to shush her.

"No one's listening now," I said. "They only believe what they want to believe. Don't worry. I've got it under control."

At that moment, my backup phone vibrated. An unknown number was calling.

I answered. A deep, hoarse voice trembled with excitement.

"Carla… someone saw it. Found it."

I gripped the phone tight.

"Are you sure? Positive. All features match."

I exhaled and hung up.

After work, a crowd of self-proclaimed justice influencers had gathered downstairs. They waved their phones as I tried to push through, wearing sunglasses and a mask.

"There she is! It's the Tag Lady!" someone shouted.

The mob surged. Flashbulbs popped, microphones nearly hit my face.

Suddenly, a coffee cup flew through the air and smacked right on my forehead.

I barely got into my car. The body was scratched, and someone had spray-painted in large letters on the hood: TRASH.

Sitting inside, I wiped the egg off with a tissue.

As soon as I got home, the company group chat pinged with an announcement.

To distance itself, Carter had posted my dismissal on the official site.

Reason: Severe damage to company image.

Additionally, I was ordered to pay 100 thousand in damages for reputational loss.

Shortly after, a new HR appointment came through: Samantha was promoted to Marketing Director.

She sat in my old office chair and posted a selfie with the caption: [Justice may be delayed, but it never fails. New beginnings, let's go!]

The comments were full of congratulations and praise.

Not long after, Samantha called me.

"Carla, I packed up your things. They're in the security office. If you can't return those clothes, I can donate them to poor mountain villages. Maybe they'll complain they're dirty, but it's better than wasting them."

Her smug tone made me smile.

"Since you're so charitable," I said, "tomorrow at eight, come to my house for a live stream. Let's see how many 'stolen goods' I really have."

Without hesitation, she agreed.

"Sure! I'll show everyone your mansion—and see exactly how you kneel and beg."