Face-Slapping14 min read
The Fake Heiress and the Blind-Box Coup
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"Breaking: Rumor says the CEO's daughter is interning in our department in plain clothes!!!" a message popped into our department chat.
I stared at my screen and felt my pulse hitch. "What did you just say?"
"Calm down," Veronika wrote, measured and small. "I'm just keeping a low profile to prove my skills. Everyone, please focus on work."
"Low profile?" Khloe Gomes typed with five exclamation points. "Veronika, spill. How long are you planning to be undercover, Princess?"
"Wait—Veronika is the CEO's daughter?" someone else blurted.
I watched the messages multiply. "Guys, she carries a bag no one here can afford," one person said. "Her bag isn't our kind of commuter tote."
I looked at Veronika's bag on her desk. It was new and neat, but it looked exactly like one of the eco-samples my family gets from collaborations—tasteless brand-free canvas our housekeepers use. If anyone else had one, I had a closet full of them.
I laughed once, soft. This rumor had to be a mistake. My family ran this company. There could not be another CEO daughter here.
Veronika replied almost immediately. "Since I'm trying to be low-profile, let's stop talking about it. Do your work, everyone."
I blinked. That answer—so calm, so carefully hidden—actually made the gossip worse.
"Princess, help me get the He Xian Gu figurine!" pleaded one colleague with a handful of crying-face emojis.
"I want the whole Eight Immortals set!" Khloe wrote. "Snow Princess, I'll carry your bag forever."
"Snow Princess?" I scrolled back. They'd started calling her names like "Princess," "Great Lady," "Snow Girl." I didn't say anything.
"Do you really get the blind-boxs early?" I typed back, thinking she would correct them.
Khloe scoffed. "Katelyn, are you mocking the CEO's daughter? You're from a small town. You wouldn't understand the privileges of being born somewhere like Rome."
I looked at my own tote bag and then at the group. I refused to believe Veronika was anything other than what she seemed: a quiet, pretty intern.
"I was asked to help organize these files by the director," Veronika said to the room, folding her hands like someone trying to look sincere.
Khloe grabbed the stack and smacked it down on my desk. "Katelyn, help Snow finish this." Her voice was sharp, a command.
"Do your own work," I snapped, and handed the files back.
Khloe flung them at me with more force. "Veronika is the CEO's daughter. Don't you want to impress her? Helpher."
"I'm not your errand girl," I said, standing up. "Do it yourself."
Khloe pushed harder. "She's the company's heiress. You think you can challenge that? Dream on."
I shoved the papers back into her hands once more, muttered "You're insane," and walked out. I had a lunch date with my boyfriend and didn't want to argue. Besides, everyone would keep fawning anyway.
Outside, at the Cantonese restaurant downstairs, he didn't even notice when I sat. Gabriel Bryan, who had once seemed so detached and steady, rose with a polite smile and pulled a chair for Veronika when she and her entourage walked in like a small parade.
"Thanks, senior," Veronika purred.
Gabriel came back to me and whispered, "She is the CEO's daughter."
I folded my arms. "So?"
"The whole building knows," he said. "It helps both of us if I treat her well."
"Helps us? How?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Connections, Katelyn. Think about promotions—"
That explained the sudden charm. He stood up, leaving me midsentence, and moved across the room to peel shrimp for Veronika, smiling like it meant something.
"Gabriel—" I called, sharp.
Veronika cooed, "Thank you, senior. Katelyn seems upset. Don't let her bother you."
He didn't come back. I watched, perplexed, as he leaned in closer to Veronika. She smiled, like a flower unfolding. I felt the laugh leave my chest.
After lunch, Gabriel called. I thought he'd apologize. He didn't. "Can I borrow 100,000?" he asked.
One hundred thousand. I was still shocked, but not because he wanted money. "Borrow from Veronika," I said. "She's the CEO's daughter."
He sounded wounded. "Do you think I'd want to flatter her? I only want this so we can both benefit."
"Benefit?" I hung up.
That evening, a mutual friend texted me a picture. Gabriel, standing in a boutique, clutching a limited edition evening dress. The caption said he'd bought it for his girlfriend—me. He had spent eighty-eight thousand. I blinked until the image blurred.
Then, on Mid-Autumn Festival night, Veronika wore that exact dress. On my feed, Gabriel's present became someone else's dress.
"You bought that for her?" I showed him the photo the next day.
He looked ashamed. "I thought I'd return the favor. She invited me to a movie."
"You used my money," I said flatly. "You borrowed 100k from me, told me your mother needed it."
He stammered about "needing to impress." I felt something inside me break, but it was a small thing because I had seen his colors before. I turned away.
"Let's break up," he said, angry and sudden.
"Fine," I said. "And return my money."
He slammed a ledger closed and threw it at me. He'd kept a detailed account of every cent I had ever spent on him, subtracting our small debts down to 1,250. He wanted to return that, take credit for my gifts, and keep the rest.
"Return the 100,000," I said. "And the things I gave you."
He scoffed. "Those were fake. I threw them away during the movie night."
"Then give me receipts and write me a debt note," I said.
He wrote it, slapping a crude fingerprint seal on it, then looked up and said, "I can get you that money. Veronika's family will cover it."
"Don't involve my family," I told him. "And don't ever call me again."
That afternoon, Veronika really did receive a windfall of status. The Eight Immortals blind-box theme came early to our office, and she posted a photo in the group chat. Everyone treated her like royalty. She was moved into a private office, with top-tier equipment and gifts stacking on her desk.
There were people who still snickered at her—me among them—but Veronika's rise was fast. Those who flattered her got favors. Those who didn't were ignored.
For me, the cold seat next to the restroom grew colder. The hardest projects came to me. Yet I kept my eyes open.
"Rumors of a leak," one person whispered in the tea room. "How did she get the blind-box image?"
"Ask Roadman," someone else said.
Roadman—Dell Roberts, vice director—was supposed to be above this. But he had a habit of carrying secrets like potatoes.
I had a plan. I wanted to catch anyone who would harm the company. I wanted to prove my worth by actually saving the company, not by being carried by bloodline.
My third brother, Cole Perry, had been shuffled into the department as family support. He's loud, twenty-something, big-hearted, and good at scaring bullies. I told him my plan. "I'll help you sweep the rats out," he said, cheerful. He was everything I wanted: fierce and loyal.
One afternoon, a set of concert tickets surfaced in our office. Khloe grabbed them and ran to Veronika, squealing. "Isn't this Dawson Hunter's show?" she cried, breathless.
Dawson Hunter was our second brother, a pop star. Khloe swooned like a child. Veronika, with the calculated calm of someone used to taking, claimed the tickets.
"I found them," Khloe said, hugging them like a treasure.
"You found mine?" Veronika replied smoothly.
I smiled and said, "Actually, they're mine."
Silence. Then Khloe laughed. "You're joking."
"No," I said.
Suddenly Cole stormed the room like a man with a banner. He set up a projector and pulled the surveillance from the hallway camera. On the wall, we watched footage of the ticket falling from my pocket and Khloe picking it up. The office filled with murmurs. Khloe's face drained. Some people looked embarrassed at being caught.
Veronika paled.
"Prove it's yours," she said slickly.
I walked up and reached for the tickets. The room was quiet. Veronika started, then smiled and said, "Fine. Just a misunderstanding."
Then she offered to take the whole team to Dawson's concert so everyone would calm down. People cheered; the problem dissolved under the glitter of free tickets and a promise.
But later Gabriel came banging out of nowhere, clutching roses and looking like he'd been eaten by jealousy. "I want to sit with Veronika," he whispered to me, indignant. "She's the CEO's daughter."
I shrugged. "Then go sit with her."
That night, our company's car convoy rolled in like a parade of thunder. Eight luxurious cars waited—Rolls, Bentley, Ferrari, Ferrari again—lined up like trophies.
"They're my family's cars," Veronika said, effortlessly luminous. "Take whichever one you like."
Khloe squealed catching at the ribbon of status. Gabriel bowed.
Cole smirked and stepped forward. "These cars? They're my family's," he said flatly.
The drivers stepped forward, confused. Cole tossed a name at the leader and the drivers bowed to him, surprised and instant.
Veronika blinked, color draining. She snatched her phone and called someone who promptly cursed her out. "You want ten luxury cars? You bargained for one midnight ride and a ticket; you expect me to make every network bend? Are you crazy?" The voice on the other end was a man who had helped her stir company trouble for favors. He hung up, furious.
Her phone call ended with her trembling. I recorded the call and sent it to my father's assistant.
That night, my brother Cole arranged transportation for us and for a group of colleagues. The convoy rolled past Veronika like a ship cutting through waves. In the rearview mirror, I watched her face warp—boiling anger, humiliation, denial.
A week later, the company issued a strict notice: an internal investigation. My father, Alonso Burnett, called a meeting. He is uncompromising. This wasn't going to be brushed under the rug.
He pulled together evidence. I worked with Cole to gather every scrap. We found that Veronika had traded favors—gifts, inside access, and flattery—for support. She had used a fatherly chauffeur contact and a few greedy managers to set up a network. They had arranged to leak privileged images and coax small bribes from managers who would be embarrassed, and then she would threaten exposure—blackmail dressed as favor.
She had even used a nightclub contact and a middleman—Angel Mikhaylov—to coordinate the shady logistics. They set traps for people like Guy Coleman, who had access to funds, and Angel had introduced them to her. Roadman—Dell Roberts—was involved in sharing early blind-box images.
Then the day came.
The company moved fast. Human Resources and security swept the whole office. A list was prepared. The culprits would be confronted publicly—in their own department, where everyone could see.
The room filled. I stood by the doorway, hands tight. Cole stood with his arms folded, expression iron. Alonso sat in the corner, tall as a judge. Dawson Hunter—my brother, the singer—came quietly and stayed in the back. People from every department gathered; whispers fed the air like a swarm of insects.
"Why are we here?" whispered a woman.
"Get your phones ready," someone else said.
Veronika sat at her desk, eyes glossy with fake calm. Khloe hovered nearby, hopeful and empty. Dell Roberts tried to look composed, but his jaw trembled. Guy Coleman shifted, pale.
A human resources manager, with two security officers flanking him, stood up. He cleared his throat. "We have a statement from the board. This meeting addresses a serious breach of company ethics."
Veronika smiled thinly and said, "This is ridiculous. I did nothing wrong."
"Ms. Deleon," the manager said formally—using her surname like an indictment—"we have evidence that you and several associates conspired to falsify privileged access. You accepted and extorted company managers, and you used that leverage to create a false perception of status. This included blackmail and threats. We have witnesses and recordings."
At that moment, I stood and walked forward. "You told people you were the CEO's daughter," I said, loud enough for the room. "You offered favors in exchange for blind loyalty, and you benefitted from stolen privilege."
"That is false," Veronika hissed. "You're defaming me."
"Then hear this," I replied. "You arranged for an NGO of managers to be paid through shell accounts, you threatened exposure to anyone who refused you, and you orchestrated a staged 'leak' for the blind-box images. Your partner Angel Mikhaylov coordinated funding. We have bank transfers and witness accounts."
Gasps filled the room. Dell Roberts tried to protest, but I stepped aside and cued the HR manager. He flicked on a tablet and started playing a chain of voice calls. There it was—the voice, Veronika's voice, calling a man and whining about cars and tickets. The man's reply? Loud, angry, swearing. "You threatened me with the company's internal images? You made me give favors? You make me look like a fool?"
Veronika's face went white. Her hands started shaking.
Khloe swallowed and stepped back. She looked at Veronika as if seeing a stranger. Dell Roberts' face crumpled. "I—I didn't know—" he mumbled. "I thought it was harmless."
"Harmless?" the HR manager said. "You shared confidential images, you blocked internal lines of communication, and you leveraged company insiders for personal benefit."
Guy Coleman, the finance manager, stammered, "I didn't sign anything. I was coerced. I—"
"You signed," a security officer said coldly, pushing a paper across the table. It was an authorization—my signature absentmindedly scanned because Veronika had manipulated a manager. The room erupted.
Veronika's expression moved in jerks: first surprise, then fury, then denial. Her voice rose. "You can't do this! I'm the CEO's—"
"Not anymore," Alonso said quietly, not looking away. "You forged relationships, threatened colleagues, and filed false claims to enrich yourself. The board voted unanimously."
Veronika leaned forward, rage hot and animal. She lunged toward the table, knocked over a cup. "You think you're so righteous? You who were born into it—you don't know how it feels!"
I stepped in. "I was born into it," I said. "But we don't use it to crush people. We run a company. You used our name to extort and humiliate others. That is criminal."
She hissed, "You're jealous. You can't stop me just because you hate me."
The room filled with whispers and the clack of phones. The HR manager read the charges: extortion, coercion, falsification, and misuse of company resources. He announced termination and that legal action was being pursued.
Then came the public punishment—the part some of them had been waiting for.
They escorted Dell Roberts, Guy Coleman, Angel Mikhaylov, and Veronika to stand by the large glass wall, so everyone in the department could see. We played the emails, the bank transfers, and the chat messages—dozens of them—onto a big screen.
"Look," I said to the room, voice steady, "they pretended to protect the company, but they sold pieces of it for their own gain."
Veronika's reaction shifted through a thousand shades. First, she tried arrogance—lips curling, chin up. Then the color drained. She clenched her fists, denial forming in her mouth: "I didn't—" but the evidence kept rolling. As we played a recorded confession from Angel about giving funds and taking commissions, her hands started trembling. She broke into a sharper, louder denial. "You made that up! You hacked me!"
A dozen people raised their phones. The crowd—our colleagues—split into reactions. Some whispered, "Finally." Some filmed. Some cried. A few stared at me in confusion; one woman, who had once promised to stand by Veronika, now flung her head away.
Veronika burst into tears, then laughter, then a low, animal scream. "You'll regret this!" she sobbed. "You'll pay!"
"But they paid first," Cole said coldly. "They paid with other people's reputations."
The HR manager detailed bans, repayments, and that the company would pursue criminal charges. The sight of the documents, the bank transfers, the forged approvals, all made the air electric. Dell Roberts' face crumpled and he begged, "I didn't think—I'm sorry." Guy Coleman's jaw hung. Angel's face twisted from bravado to pleading.
The punishment didn't end with arm's-length memos. This was a public stripping of pretense.
First, a conference room was converted into a tribunal. Chairs were set in strict rows. Members from multiple departments were invited. The culprits had to face the company. Each was brought forward.
"Veronika," the HR manager said, "explain your actions."
She tried to pull herself together. "I wanted to belong. I thought—"
"Belong?" the manager cut in. "You used threats."
"You think you can buy people's loyalty?" I asked, standing up. "You tried to buy devotion with favors, and when it didn't work, you threatened to expose them."
Her eyes darted around the room. Fellow employees spoke up—people who had been bullied into silence. One by one, three people stepped forward, telling stories: a manager who had paid out of shame, a junior who had been threatened, a colleague who had lost a promotion because she refused to kneel.
The testimonies washed over Veronika like acid. Her bravado hung in ribbons. For the first time, she was smaller than her stories.
Then came the hardest blow—her father couldn't vouch for her. He had no knowledge of these antics. The man who had been manipulated to provide favors was exposed. She had burned bridges with everyone who could have saved her.
She tried denial. She tried bargaining. She tried slander. Her voice shifted: "You can't do this! You're ruining me!"
"Look at her now," a woman in the back whispered. "She owned herself the whole time." A few colleagues laughed, a few clapped.
The humiliation crawled into Veronika's bones. She leaned forward and clutched the edge of the table; her knuckles whitened. She whispered, "Please—" Then louder, "I'll give back the money! It's not fair!"
"Where's the money?" asked the finance director, cold. "Show us."
She had nothing left. The black market accounts were empty; the middlemen had vanished. Some had been paid in favors, some had spent it. A few had been traced. The legal team left with files.
By the time security led them out, the department had gathered at the windows. People looked distraught, offended, relieved—all in a single tangle. Some had tears. Some had phones still raised.
The worst part for them wasn't just losing position. It was losing faces—friends and enablers who had once smiled. Dell Roberts had been a swaggering vice director; he walked out with no dignity, face chalk white, and his colleagues whispered like bees. Guy Coleman could only lower his head as the list of his involvement flashed on the screen.
Veronika's collapse was theatrical. First she'd been defiant. Then she tried bargaining. Then she caved to weeping. Then she raged. The crowd mirrored all of that. They recorded, they whispered, they shallowly patted their chests and called it justice.
"Don't think this is over," she barked once, voice cracked. "Word travels fast. This will be on the internet. You'll all be judged."
"Maybe," I said, and my voice was softer than it should have been. "But you will be the one judged for what you did."
Security led her toward the elevators. People who had once praised her looked away. A few shrugged. A few clapped. One woman—someone Veronika had tried to blackmail—took a deep breath and walked up, stared at her, and spat a single word: "Shame."
It landed like a stone.
They were escorted out, later to face charges. The police came. Accounts were frozen. My father's assistant filed a complaint with the authorities, and the law took over. They were placed under arrest for fraud and extortion. The cameras that had once been turned for gossip now turned for evidence.
Gabriel came once to apologize, wrung with shame. He looked broken when he saw my face. "I was stupid," he said. "I wanted to impress her."
"You wanted to be impressed by what?" I asked. "By someone who made a business of hurting others?"
He hung his head. He was gone after that; legal problems followed him because of his small part. He tried to come back; Cole found him and made sure he wouldn't bother me again.
In the weeks that followed, the company had to pick up the pieces. Some people who had stood by Veronika quietly slunk away from their posts. Some stayed and tried to make amends. The blind boxes arrived on schedule. The little figurines sat on desks like innocence reclaimed.
My father called a meeting and sat everyone down. "We failed to protect our people," he said. "We will do better. We will make consequences clear."
I thought of all that had happened—the fake heiress, the gullible boyfriend, the petty colleagues, and the men who sold their names. I thought of the tape of Veronika's call and Cole with his projector, and the way my brothers had stood with me.
My reward wasn't office fame. My reward was the quiet satisfaction of knowing the company had been rescued from a group of people who would have engineered ruin for profit. I didn't dance on their downfall. I simply walked back to my desk, picked up my ordinary tote bag, and put the little He Xian Gu blind-box figurine my team had pulled at random on my monitor.
"You did good," Cole said. He bumped my shoulder, smiling.
"I had good company," I said.
The press released a short statement: several employees were dismissed and arrested for fraud, extortion, and falsifying documents. My family supported the investigation fully. The company moved to strengthen internal oversight.
Months later, I passed the office wall where the surveillance projector had once hung. Someone had pinned a tiny note under a magnet: "We don't sell our souls for blind boxes." I smiled and kept walking.
The ending wasn't a speech or a new romance. It was a small figurine, perched by my screen, a quiet, stubborn token of how easy it can be for people to believe in power—but how essential it is to stand up when power is abused.
The End
— Thank you for reading —