Karma in Couture: The Fake Bag Trap

My trust-fund roommate handed me a fake designer bag.

Without missing a beat, I swapped it for the authentic one owned by the wealthiest girl on campus.

Because I had already lived this nightmare once.

In my past life, she bound herself to a system.

[ Bill-Splitting System ]

As long as I kept that cheap knockoff by my side, every single charge she racked up was split fifty-fifty between us.

She played the elite socialite, flying around the world and swiping her card on insane shopping sprees. Meanwhile, I sat in the library pulling all-nighters, that fake bag slung over my chair. I watched my parents' hard-earned savings get drained from my bank account, transaction by transaction.

The debt skyrocketed. The loan sharks she owed came for me.

They broke my bones, beat the life out of me, and dumped my body into the river like a bag of trash.

Now I was back. She loved forcing people to go halfsies on her luxury life, right? But bleeding a broke college student dry lacked ambition.

Let's see how she handles splitting the check with an actual billionaire's daughter.

Chapter 1

I gripped the handle of the counterfeit designer bag. The fake leather dug into my palm until my knuckles turned stark white.

I had just turned eighteen. Kensington and Brielle were the only ones who remembered my birthday.

No. They only remembered it as the day the trap was set.

Kensington hooked her arm through mine, playing the perfect bestie. "Oh my god, Cleo, happy birthday! This bag looks incredible on you. Promise me you'll wear it every single day, okay?"

Brielle chimed in, making sure her voice echoed down the entire dorm hallway. "Wow, Kensington, you spoil Cleo way too much!" She stared at the bag with exaggerated envy. "That thing costs tens of thousands!"

I squeezed the strap. Memories from my past life crashed over me. A freezing chill paralyzed my spine. I had carried this exact bag.

While Kensington flew to Milan, to Paris, swiping her card on global luxury sprees, I had sat shivering in the campus library. I had watched her shopping receipts drain my bank account, dollar by dollar.

My parents' life savings. My scholarship money. All of it siphoned away by that cursed system.

[ Bill-Splitting System ]

She lived like royalty. I starved. Then came the crushing debt from the loan sharks.

Then came the brutal beatings, and the freezing river water filling my lungs.

Acid clawed up my throat. I gasped for air, my chest caving in under an invisible weight. Cold sweat slicked my back. My knees knocked together.

The girl standing in front of me wasn't my roommate anymore.

She was a smiling executioner.

I forced the bile down. My voice came out terrifyingly flat. "Thanks."

That was it. No falling to my knees. No tears of gratitude.

Brielle's smile cracked. Her eyes narrowed. "What is your problem, Cleo?" She stepped closer, jabbing a finger in my direction.

"Kensington gets you a gift like this, and that's all you have to say? Are you for real? Do you have any idea how much she dropped on this? You ungrateful bitch."

Kensington raised a hand, playing the peacemaker. "Stop, Brielle. Cleo is probably just in shock." She patted my shoulder.

"As long as she loves it and wears it, I'm happy." Her mouth formed a sweet curve, but the muscles around her eyes tightened in undeniable, victorious glee.

The smug lift of her chin told me everything. She was dead certain the broke scholarship student would worship this knockoff.

She looked at me like I was already locked inside her little cage, waiting to be bled dry.

I dropped my gaze, pretending to admire the hardware. I needed a second to hide the tremor in my hands and the murder in my eyes.

My phone screen lit up against my palm. A news alert popped onto the lock screen.

[ Florence, daughter of the state's wealthiest tech billionaire, to attend the university's charity art gala this weekend as a VIP guest. ]

My pulse hammered against my eardrums. Florence. The heiress.

In the attached paparazzi photo, she wore a couture gown. Slung over her shoulder was a bag. A six-figure, limited-edition piece. The ultimate flex of untouchable privilege.

It was the exact same brand. The exact same model. The authentic version of the cheap fake I was currently holding.

A reckless, borderline psychotic plan clicked into place.

I inhaled a sharp, ragged breath.

Chapter 2

Bleeding a broke scholarship student dry was child's play. Let's see how she handled splitting the check with the actual daughter of a billionaire.

I tipped my head up, curving my lips into a faint, paper-thin smile. Kensington beamed back, soaking up what she thought was my pathetic gratitude. My fingernails dug half-moons into my palms.

Not this time.

The next day, I walked back into the dorm room with the knockoff slung over my shoulder. Kensington and Brielle were doing their makeup, whispering huddled together. They traded a smug, loaded glance the second I walked in.

I ignored them, making a beeline straight for Dakota's desk. Dakota was a total clout-chaser. She constantly drooled over Kensington's designer stash, desperate to claw her way into their little inner circle. I dropped the bag directly onto her desk.

"Dakota."

She looked up, her eyes immediately lighting up with nosy interest.

"You like this, right?" I kept my voice deadpan. "Borrow it for the day."

Dakota's eyes went wide. She reached out immediately. Her face flushed with thrill, her lips twitching up into a grin like she was about to sling authentic luxury over her shoulder. Her fingertips barely brushed the strap.

Kensington's smile vanished. The muscles in her jaw locked tight. She shot up from her vanity chair, snatching the bag right off the desk.

"Back off." She pointed a manicured finger at Dakota. "I bought this specifically for Cleo. You don't get to just touch it."

She hugged the bag to her chest, her voice dropping into a freezing warning.

Her freak-out confirmed everything. The system wasn't bound to me. It was bound to the physical bag itself.

Kensington's breathing was shallow. The knuckles gripping the faux leather were bone-white. She was terrified Dakota would wear it, trigger the system, and blow her sick little secret wide open.

Brielle jumped right in, dripping with condescension. "Exactly. You think just anyone deserves to wear high-end luxury? Cleo, you better guard this thing with your life."

Kensington clutched the bag, shooting me a sharp, venomous glare that screamed don't test me. My pulse skipped a hard beat, but I kept my face blank and dropped my gaze to the floor.

The rules of her twisted game were crystal clear now. I had to fast-track my plan. The clock was ticking.

I needed to swap this cheap knockoff with Florence's authentic piece at the charity art gala this weekend. I logged into the campus portal and immediately snagged an open server shift for the exclusive VIP dinner.

That afternoon, my phone rang. It was Kensington.

"Cleo, didn't you sign up to volunteer at the gala?" She let out a little laugh, heavy with performative pity.

"I pulled some strings for you. Got you assigned as a VIP lounge attendant. It's super easy work, and you get to rub elbows with the actual elite."

I bit the inside of my cheek. She wasn't doing me a favor. She was handing me the ultimate assist.

She wanted me stationed exactly where I'd feel pressured to wear her designer gift to fit in. She needed the bag on my shoulder by the weekend so she could start swiping her card and let me foot the bill.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing a thick, choked-up layer of gratitude into my voice. "Kensington you're amazing."

I gripped the phone tighter. "I'm definitely wearing the bag you gave me. I won't embarrass you."

I played the desperate, thankful charity case so perfectly, I almost believed it myself.

Chapter 3

A mocking laugh slipped out as Kensington hung up the phone.

"Stupid bitch," she muttered.

I glanced down at my screen. A message notification had just popped up on my lock screen. Kensington texting Brielle.

[ Wait until her meal plan gets drained next week. The broke bitch won't even be able to afford tissues to cry into. ]

My nails dug brutally into my palms. The hatred lodged in my throat, choking off my air. A freezing numbness shot down my legs. She was still dreaming of dragging me back to hell.

Kensington pushed the door open. She walked straight over and tapped the faux leather of the bag.

"Wear it Saturday. I'll be checking." A freezing, lethal edge lined her voice.

I gave a tiny nod, forcing a pathetic tremble into my voice. "Okay."

I watched her strut away. The corner of my mouth twitched up into a dead, freezing smirk.

Saturday. The charity gala.

I showed up to the venue with the knockoff slung over my shoulder. Kensington and Brielle were already there. They lurked in the corner, their eyes locking onto me like vipers tracking a rat.

Spotting the bag on my shoulder, they traded a satisfied look. They were already picturing my ruin.

I had prepped for this. I had emptied my checking account, leaving exactly twenty dollars in cash shoved deep in my pocket. Apple Pay, Cash App, Venmowiped to zero.

I even froze my credit so no loans could be pulled. Kensington's first little test was going to crash and burn.

She couldn't wait. She immediately tapped her phone, ordering an insanely expensive high tea delivery straight to the VIP lounge. Testing the waters. Waiting for the system to split the bill.

But the system gave her nothing. My accounts sat at a hard zero.

Kensington's smug smile faltered. A harsh crease dug between her brows. She rolled her eyes hard, her thumbs flying across her screen under the table as she texted Brielle.

[ Why isn't the broke bitch spending anything? ]

Brielle caught the hint. She did a fake-casual stroll past my station, raising her voice for the room to hear.

"Cleo, aren't you going to grab a drink? You've been on your feet all morning. Go hit the vending machine before you pass out."

Trying to bait a transaction. Even for a three-dollar water. My pulse spiked into my throat.

But I had my counter-play ready. I pressed a hand to my chest and gave a slow shake of my head. "I'm not thirsty."

I let my voice drop, faking a pathetic, nervous stutter. "Plus, I left my phone in the dorm. Didn't want to get distracted while volunteering."

Brielle choked on her next word, shooting me a furious glare.

Kensington lost it. "I literally saw you leave with your phone!" She stormed over, yanking out her phone and jabbing her screen to send me a hundred bucks on Venmo right in front of my face.

"Take this hundred. Go buy everyone Starbucks. Stop stalling and just treat it as your tip!"

She shoved her glowing screen practically into my nose, looking down at me like I was trash.

It was a hard ultimatum. She was forcing my hand to trigger a transaction.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I slowly pulled my phone out of my pocket. The screen was dead black.

"Kensington, I'm so sorry," I mumbled, putting on a helpless, embarrassed face. "My battery died. I can't accept the transfer."

I turned to the server standing next to me, dropping my voice into a quiet, desperate plea. "Hey, could I borrow twenty in cash? I need to get everyone drinks. I'll pay you back later."

I used that physical twenty-dollar bill to buy the water. A completely untraceable transaction. Zero accounts touched.

Kensington got zero notifications. No split bill.

Her face darkened into pure thunder. She stared me down, suspicion burning a hole right through her narrowed eyes. She knew something was off.

A twisted, jagged thrill ripped through my chest.

I carried the tray of drinks straight into the VIP lounge. Florence stood by the window, deep in conversation, radiating absolute, untouchable power.

And right there. Resting on the plush velvet sofa next to her. The authentic, six-figure version of my exact bag.

This was it.

I set the waters down on the coffee table, pretending to organize the event pamphlets. My peripheral vision locked onto the couture leather. I had to nail this in one shot. It was my only way out alive.

Hovering outside the lounge doors, Kensington peeked through the glass. Watching me fail to spend a single dime through her system, her expression morphed into pure, ugly rage.

Chapter 4

Kensington snapped. Starved of her split-bill notifications, she stormed straight into the VIP lounge, her face an ugly shade of ash.

She strutted over to my station, plastering on a sickeningly sweet smile. "Cleo, you must be exhausted."

She didn't even wait for a response. Her stiletto slipped. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she hurled her entire glass of blood-red wine directly at my chest.

"Oh my god! I am so clumsy!" She slapped a hand over her mouth, but a vicious, undeniable thrill danced in her eyes.

"Look at you, you're a total mess. Go hit the boutique next door and swipe your card for a fresh dress."

"Seriously, don't humiliate us looking like a street rat! I'll cover the bill! Just go!"

The play was painfully obvious. She wanted to force a transactioneven just a few grandto forcefully trigger her parasitic system.

The cold liquid soaked straight to my skin. I let my knees buckle, tumbling backward onto the plush sofa. My body crashed downlanding mere inches away from Florence's couture bag.

My pulse roared in my ears. I went wide-eyed, letting out a pathetic gasp as I stared down at my ruined uniform. The entire room went dead silent. All eyes snapped to me.

Now.

I dragged my trembling fingertips across the velvet. I shoved my cheap knockoff deep into the blind spot between the sofa cushions. Then, my fingers curled around the authentic, six-figure leather strap.

I held my breath until my lungs burned. I scrambled to my feet, the real bag crushed against my side, playing the panicked victim.

"O-okay, Kensington," I stuttered out, forcing moisture into my eyes until I looked on the verge of sobbing. "I'll go change right now. I'll be right back."

Kensington and Brielle traded a triumphant, razor-sharp look. A sickening sneer twisted their lips. They thought I was finally marching off to the slaughterhouse.

I gripped the authentic bag, but I didn't step a single foot near the boutiques. I locked myself in a bathroom stall. I yanked off the stained uniform and pulled a clean, cheap T-shirt I had stashed in my pocket over my head. Sixty seconds later, I slipped out the venue's back exit, a ghost.

Just before the heavy fire doors clicked shut behind me, Florence's voice drifted down the corridor. She was wrapping up her networking. Through the gap in the door, I watched her assistant hand her the swapped bag.

Florence hooked the cheap knockoff over her shoulder without a second glance. She tossed a casual, untouchable order to her team.

"That multi-million dollar Cartier diamond piece from the Sotheby's auction earlier? Go settle the final balance. I'm wearing it to the afterparty tonight."

A sharp thrill ripped through my chest, squeezing my heart into a tight knot