Chapter1
On Valentine’s Day, my boyfriend gave me a designer handbag.
When I had it authenticated at the Prada boutique, the verdict was swift, fake.
But William Ashford swore up and down it was genuine.
He even flashed an order screenshot at me, Prada’s official flagship store, total: $3,200.
I was baffled.
So I posted the whole thing online.
One highly upvoted comment caught my eye:
“Am I the only one seeing the red flag here? Why does the screenshot only show half the order?”
“What’s on the part that’s cut off?”
I didn’t get it at first, so I asked.
WEY
“Maybe he bought two bags, one real, one fake. He gave you the fake one but used the real one’s receipt to fool you.‘
My stomach dropped.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone.
The commenter added:
“The question isn’t whether your bag is fake or not. It’s who got the other bag.”
w
That post haunted me all day.
When my coworker pointed out again that my bag looked off, I’d already taken it to the boutique for verification.
The answer had been the same, fake, and not even a good fake.
Nobody wants to get a knockoff for Valentine’s Day.
I couldn’t help it, I asked William directly.
He looked utterly wounded, like I’d just accused him of a felony.
Right away, he sent me another screenshot.
“I wanted to take you to pick it out yourself, but I’ve been swamped with overtime. So I just ordered one from the flagship store.”
The screenshot was crystal clear, latest Prada release, $3,200.
Could a fake even be sold on the official site?
I posted about it again… and got another unexpected wave of replies:
“Half an order screenshot means he’s hiding the other half.”
“If the fake came from somewhere else and the real one from the flagship store… then he bought two. The cut–off part is the fake’s
order.”
“Forget the bag, you’ve been robbed, girl.”
Comment after comment scrolled by.
It felt like a boulder had lodged in my chest.
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I was already suspicious.
And for the first time in our relationship, I wanted to see his phone.
I just needed to see the full screenshot.
Noticing how quiet I’d been, William came over and wrapped an arm around my shoulder.
“Still hung up about the bag?”
“How about I take you to the boutique this weekend, so you can pick whatever you want.”
His eyes were warm and sincere.
Then he pulled an orange keychain out of his pocket.
I recognized it instantly, it was a PixieTear Collectible Figurine I’d seen online.
“…Since when do you buy stuff like this?”
“My wife’s upset. Of course I’m gonna get her a little gift to cheer her up.”
“She’s called CryDuck, hangs on your bag, pretty cute, right?”
He said it so casually.
But I felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over me.
I’d known William for ten years.
He was a literature–loving engineering guy who’d always scoffed at pop–culture trinkets.
And now he just happened to have one in his pocket?
The commenter was probably right, someone had stolen my place in his life.
I forced a smile, pretending he’d succeeded in cheering me up.
“There’s a package downstairs I ordered. Could you grab it for me?”
I handed him my phone.
“The tracking number’s in there.”
Without a hint of suspicion, he set his own phone down on the coffee table.
My heart leapt into my throat.
I entered the passcode I knew by heart and went straight to his order history.
The moment I saw it, it felt like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Pain jolted through me so sharply I shivered.
There it was, the full screenshot, showing two bags.
One real. One fake.
The real one: $3,200.
The fake: S120 from Yorkshire Leatherworks.
The commenter had nailed it.
He gave me the fake.
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But the real one…
Who did he give that to?
Chickeri
