The Tag That Went Viral

The next morning, I was woken by my phone's relentless vibration.

Picking it up, I found my missed calls maxed out and over a hundred unread messages—all from strangers.

[Returning clothes while driving a BMW 5 Series? Are you out of your mind?]

[If I were you, I'd have smashed my head against the steering wheel by now.]

No doubt about it—my personal information had leaked.

I opened my closet. Every inch of it was lined with clothes, each sporting a giant price tag. I deliberately picked out a white blazer with its tag still hanging.

If they wanted a show, they were going to get one.

Driving to the office, I reached the garage gate where the security guard, Bruce Wesley, usually greeted me. Normally, he'd salute and raise the barrier before my car even stopped.

Today, my car was pressed against the gate, and he didn't move a muscle. I honked.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes filled with disdain. Pointing to the visitor lane beside him, he said, "Ms. Davidson, the system's down. You'll need to register over there."

I glanced at the empty employee lane, then at the phone in his hand—scrolling through the very video attacking me.

I said nothing. I reversed into the visitor lane and got out.

From behind me, Bruce spat, "What's a fancy car worth if you've got no character? Pfft."

The elevator was an even worse battlefield. The moment I stepped in, the crowd shifted, leaving a wide empty space around me. My colleagues huddled in a corner, whispering pointedly.

"Is that her? Didn't see that coming."

"She usually acts so aloof… turns out she's like that."

"Better stay away—don't want to catch bad luck."

"I wonder if her car's rented."

When the elevator doors opened, I walked into the office. No sooner had I sat down than Samantha appeared with a coffee in hand.

"Oh, Carla," she said, feigning surprise, covering her mouth loudly enough for the whole office to hear.

"You really don't sweat the small stuff, do you? And that tag—it's still showing! Do you want me to lend you some scissors? Or…"

She paused, smiling meaningfully.

"Still planning to return the outfit, I see. That's why you won't cut it off?"

A ripple of quiet laughter ran through the office.

She pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures of my back again.

"Everyone, look! Here's our thrifty Carla."

I turned slowly, coldly fixing her with my gaze.

"Done filming yet?"

Samantha shook her phone, feigning innocence.

"Come on, Carla, don't be mad. I'm just helping you with publicity. Even negative attention is attention—maybe you could become an influencer and sell things online. Just remember me when you become famous."