Theater: NovelMaster | Language: English | NEW
Synopsis
Tags: Fake Bestie Betrayal | Stolen Porsche Flex | Counterfeit Plates Disaster | Ultimate Revenge & Payback
My best friend posted a photo of my brand-new Porsche on Instagram with the caption: "Bought it all on my own."
I liked the post and didn’t call her out.
The very next day, Highway Patrol called me: "Your vehicle was impounded for displaying counterfeit license plates. Please report to the station immediately to assist with the investigation."
I was completely stunned.
I had just driven that two-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche off the lot last month.
Down at the station, surveillance footage revealed that she had unscrewed my real plates and swapped them out for fakes—all so she could take photos for social media and make it look like the car belonged to her.
Then she ran a red light, got pulled over by the cops, and the counterfeit plates were caught on the spot.
The car was impounded. She fled the scene.
My phone buzzed with a text from her: "You’ll have to deal with the car yourself. I’m heading to Miami to clear my head. Don’t look for me."
I texted back: "Okay."
Then, I sat down and exported every single message, transaction, and receipt from our three years of friendship.
My phone vibrated.
It was a bank notification.
"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $6.50 at 7-Eleven."
I was in the middle of a corporate meeting, and my primary card was sitting right inside my purse.
I opened my wallet. The card was there.
That meant it was the authorized user card.
Who had that card?
I thought for a second. Only one person came to mind—Sienna.
I unlocked my phone and scrolled back to last month’s chat history when I mailed her the card.
"Sienna, use this card for now. It has a ten-thousand-dollar limit. Just use it for emergencies."
"Lauren, you're literally an angel! Oh my god, I’m crying, I can't thank you enough!"
"Don't worry about it. We’re best friends."
That happened last month when she called me sobbing, claiming her husband had frozen her bank accounts and she didn't even have gas money.
I had just purchased the car and didn't have a massive amount of liquid cash lying around, so I sent her an authorized user card.
Now, she was using it at 7-Eleven to buy drinks.
I brushed it off and focused on my meeting.
Halfway through, my phone buzzed again.
"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $48.00 at an upscale bistro."
"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $160.00 at a designer boutique."
"Your credit card ending in 8803 was charged $380.00 at a luxury spa."
I frowned and checked the alerts.
Transaction after transaction. From eleven in the morning to three in the afternoon, she swiped it seven times, totaling over a thousand dollars.
I sent her a message: "Sienna, did you go shopping today?"
She replied instantly: "Oh, yeah! I’m out with a few friends. Don’t worry, Lauren, I’ll pay you back as soon as I have the money."
I didn’t reply.
She sent another text: "Lauren, you’re seriously the best. All my friends are saying how lucky I am to have you. They’re so jealous."
I still didn’t reply.
Then she sent another message: "By the way, Lauren, can I borrow your Porsche for a couple of days? I want to take some photos for social media. I’m thinking of becoming an automotive influencer!"
I thought about it and typed back: "I need the car myself this week."
She sent a crying emoji: "Just a few photos! I won’t get in your way, I promise. Please, Lauren, I really want to know what it feels like to drive something like that."
I stood my ground.
It wasn't that I was stingy. Her driving was notoriously terrible. When she drove her husband’s car, she managed to scratch it three times in a single month.
She sent another text: "I guess I’ll just rent one then. It's not that expensive anyway, only like five hundred bucks a day."
Five hundred a day? Her monthly take-home salary was barely two thousand.
I sighed and dialed her number. "Don't waste money renting. You can borrow mine. Just be careful and don't scratch it."
"Lauren! I love you so much!" she screamed through the receiver.
The next morning, she arrived at my apartment to pick up the keys.
She was wearing a vibrant red dress, four-inch stilettos, and heavy makeup. She spent ten minutes snapping selfies in front of my building before coming upstairs.
I handed her the key fob and added, "The tank is full. Just bring it back with a full tank when you’re done."
"No problem!" She grabbed the keys, her eyes gleaming.
"And don't speed or run red lights. I just bought it, and the full comprehensive coverage hasn't completely kicked in yet."
"I know, Lauren! You sound just like my mom."
She spun on her heel and strutted off, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor.
Watching her walk away, an unsettling feeling crept into my chest.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.The very first message was dated March 2021.
"Hi Lauren! I’m Sienna. I’m an alum from your alma mater, just two classes behind you! I read your feature article on LinkedIn and was blown away. Do you mind if I add you on Snapchat?"
I accepted her request.
Back then, I had just been promoted to Department Manager, making me one of the youngest female executives at the firm. I occasionally shared career advice and leadership insights for the alumni network.
After adding me, she messaged me almost daily.
"Lauren, that blazer you wore today looks incredible! Where did you get it?"
"Lauren, how did you close that massive enterprise deal? You’re such a powerhouse!"
"I really hope I can be half as successful as you someday."
Back then, I thought she was just an ambitious, hard-working junior trying to find her footing. She was a bit overly enthusiastic, but she seemed harmless.
Later on, she invited me out for coffee. She told me she was working as an administrative assistant at a small firm, earning pennies, and desperately wanted to pivot.
I spent hours revamping her résumé three times over, then referred her to a friend who worked in HR. That referral landed her a corporate role, bumping her salary significantly.
She was overjoyed. She sent a bouquet of flowers to my office with a handwritten card: *To Lauren, my guardian angel.*
It genuinely touched me.
Gradually, however, things started taking a weird turn.
She started asking for money.
The first time was a hundred dollars, claiming she was short on rent.
I sent it via Venmo. She promised to pay me back next week.
Next week came and went, and she never mentioned it. I didn't press her—a hundred dollars wasn't worth causing friction.
The second time was two hundred, claiming her mother fell ill and needed urgent prescriptions.
I sent it. She said she’d return it at the end of the month.
The end of the month passed in silence.
The third time was four hundred, claiming her husband froze their joint account and she couldn't afford gas.
I sent it. She promised to pay me on payday.
The fourth time was a thousand dollars, claiming she wanted to enroll in an online digital marketing bootcamp.
When I asked what kind of bootcamp, she said social media growth strategy.
I hesitated, but sent it anyway.
She texted: "Lauren, you are the sweetest person alive. I will definitely pay you back with interest someday!"
The fifth time was two thousand dollars, claiming her husband was divorcing her and she needed to retain an attorney.
When I asked why they were divorcing, she claimed he was cheating on her.
Feeling bad for her, I transferred the money immediately.
All told, she had borrowed over six thousand dollars from me.
Not a single cent was ever repaid.
Every time I brought it up, she would say, "I promise I'll get it to you next month."
When next month arrived, she’d whine, "Can you give me just a few more days?"
When those days passed, she’d say, "Lauren, it’s not like you’re hurting for cash. Why are you breathing down my neck over this?"
Her words left me completely speechless.
Since when was having financial stability my crime?
Yet, I never fully cut ties with her.
I kept telling myself she had a rough life—an unsupportive husband, an average paycheck—and that helping her out was just the decent thing to do.
Eventually, she stopped just asking for money; she started asking for my possessions.
"Lauren, that Louis Vuitton bag is stunning! Can I borrow it for a weekend while you’re not using it?"
It was an eighteen-hundred-dollar bag.
I hesitated, but handed it over.
She kept it for a month. When it finally came back, the bottom leather was scuffed and the silk lining was stained.
When I asked what happened, she shrugged carelessly. "Oh, it just brushed against something. Just take it to the boutique for a spa cleaning."
The cleaning cost a hundred and fifty dollars.
I paid it out of my own pocket without asking her for a dime.
After that, she stopped even asking for permission.
"Lauren, you have three designer wool coats in your closet. You can't possibly wear them all! I’m just taking this one."
"Lauren, that gold pendant in your jewelry tray is gorgeous, I’m going to wear it for a few days."
"Lauren, why aren't you using that luxury skincare set? It’s just going to expire and go to waste. I’ll take it off your hands."
Piece by piece, my belongings became hers.
My husband couldn't stand watching it anymore. "Does your little college buddy think you're her personal ATM?"
I defended her back then. "It’s not that deep. She just grew up without much and likes taking small advantages. It’s not malicious."
My husband shook his head. "Just wait and see."
I didn't have to wait long.
My car was in an impound lot.
Chapters (3)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Watch & Promotions
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