Chapter 1

The day my bank cards were frozen, the bank told me I had an eight-million-dollar loan that was six months past due.

When the court’s enforcement notice popped up on my phone, I went numb. I was an ordinary office worker. Where would I have gotten eight million dollars?

Following the information on the notice, I rushed to the bank. The lending manager slapped a loan agreement down in front of me.

Fighting back panic, I demanded to know where the money had gone. The records showed that every cent had been transferred to an overseas account one second after the loan hit my account.

I pointed at the screen, my voice shaking. “That’s impossible! I was right here in the country. How could I have made a transfer from overseas?”

Manager Wilson sneered. He tapped a few keys, pulled up another record, and said with open contempt:

“Still trying to deny it, Ms. Bennett? Our system shows you were vacationing in that country on the day of the transfer.”

I slapped my certified hospital records down in front of him. They clearly stated that I’d been hospitalized with a high fever during those days. I hadn’t even been able to get out of bed.

Wilson frowned as he checked the dates. His expression finally shifted, but he refused to back down.

“Even if you weren’t abroad, someone had to make the transfer. The system doesn’t invent transactions out of thin air.”

I asked an old classmate who worked at the bank to check the transfer’s backend logs. What he found sent a chill down my spine—the IP address wasn’t overseas at all. It was right here in the city, traced to the home next door to mine.

I gripped the thin transaction statement so tightly my nails nearly broke the skin.

“Check something else for me. Right now. Is the phone number that received the verification code still active?”

The moment the court’s enforcement notice appeared on my phone, my world fell apart.

My bank cards had been frozen. There was an eight-million-dollar loan in my name, and it was already six months overdue.

I was an ordinary office worker making eight thousand a month. I’d never even seen eight hundred thousand dollars in my life. How could I possibly owe eight million?

After a moment of stunned silence, I grabbed my bag and raced to the bank listed on the notice.

“Ms. Sophie Bennett, please calm down.” The lending manager, Mark Wilson, wore a strictly businesslike expression as he tossed a stack of contracts in front of me.

There it was in black and white. The name “Sophie Bennett” stood out in glaring red at the signature line. The fingerprint beside it looked so clear it could have been pressed there yesterday.

My name. My fingerprint. But never my consent.

My heart was pounding in my throat. I forced it down, but fear still made my voice shake.

“I didn’t sign this. I want to know where the money went.”

Wilson tapped the desk impatiently, but he pulled up the records as required.

The computer screen showed that the entire eight million had been transferred to an unfamiliar overseas account one second after it arrived.

“See? You transferred it yourself.” His voice dripped with contempt.

Then it got even more absurd. He pulled up my international travel records and sneered.

“You were ‘vacationing’ in that country on the day of the transfer, Ms. Bennett. You did all of this yourself. It has nothing to do with our bank.”

The records clearly listed my departure and return dates. The destination was the same country where the overseas account had been opened.

But I remembered those days perfectly. I’d been in the hospital for an entire week with acute appendicitis and a high fever.

I hadn’t even been able to get out of bed.

Someone had done all of this using my identity.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. Panic wouldn’t solve anything.

I hurried out of the bank, rushed home, and searched every drawer until I found the hospital records and discharge summary that could save me.

The dates were clear. The hospital’s official stamp stood out on the page. This was the strongest alibi I had.

Then I called an old classmate who worked in the bank’s IT department. I was almost crying as I begged him for help.

“Please check the IP address on a transfer for me. I’m begging you. This is really important.”

Half an hour later, he called back. His voice sounded strange.

“Sophie, this IP address… it’s right next door to your place.”

Next door?

I clutched the thin hospital record. My nails dug deep into my palm, and the sharp pain helped me hold on to the last of my composure.

Only one person lived next door—my best friend, Lily Foster.

The same “best friend” who had taken such good care of me when I was sick. Who had handled everything at home. Who had even kept my phone and ID safe for me.

All at once, details I’d ignored came flooding back.

She’d said my phone was old and charged too slowly. She was always taking it to her place to “charge overnight.”

She’d said my ID photo was awful and taken it away, claiming she knew someone who could “touch it up.”

The more I’d trusted her then, the colder my heart felt now.

With trembling hands, I called my old classmate again. My voice was so hoarse I barely recognized it.

“Please check something else. Right now. Is the phone number that received the transfer verification code still active?”