Chapter 1: The Fake Mrs. Whitaker

My son’s kindergarten teacher pretended to be me online, secretly snapping photos of my husband and son and going viral on TikTok. Not only did she show off fake designer bags and jewelry to scam money, but she even sent my husband flirty late-night texts. I stopped Carter just as he was about to call our lawyer about suing her, and with a sly little grin, casually dropped the fan group link into the country club wives’ chat. Mischief managed. “Ladies, isn’t this way more fun than playing bridge?”

The group chat blew up instantly—emojis and exclamation points everywhere. Someone dropped a Lucille Bluth martini GIF, and another chimed in, “I haven’t had this much excitement since the last charity auction.” Was it wrong to love a little chaos? Probably. But honestly, what’s suburban life without a juicy scandal now and then?

Late that night, I was showing off the Chanel bag I’d scored today in the wives’ group when Carter’s phone started buzzing nonstop. We’ve always been open with each other, so I didn’t think twice. I picked up his phone and unlocked it. What popped up was a Facebook Messenger message from someone named Jessie, who used a Pikachu avatar: “Thanks for your help, the clothes are all washed.” There was a photo attached—a black suit jacket hanging in a woman’s closet, and half her body was visible in a thin, low-cut slip dress. My stomach did a little flip. I zoomed in on the photo, holding the phone as I walked into our walk-in closet. Wait. Carter hates solid black suits—the only one he owns is the one I forced him to buy for our wedding. I stared at the jacket, collecting dust in our closet, totally thrown.

Carter came out of the bathroom, hair damp, the familiar scent of his aftershave trailing behind him. He spotted me standing barefoot on the hardwood. He crossed the room in two quick steps and, grinning, scooped me up like it was just another Tuesday. He nuzzled my nose, always the goof. “Don’t want to make a baby sister anymore? It’s cold—you’re not even wearing socks.”

I pouted, shoving the phone in his face, giving him my best “explain this” look. I waited a beat, letting the silence stretch. “Well? Care to explain?”

Carter took the phone, set me down on the bed, and finally took a real look at the message. “What the hell, is this teacher nuts?”

I sat cross-legged on the bed, arms folded, grilling him. Was he actually this clueless? “So?”

Carter tossed the phone aside and scooted over, looking all put out. “Last week, when you went out with the other wives, I went to pick up our son. Out of nowhere, this teacher I’d never seen before tripped right in front of me—landed straight in a puddle from the rain.”

I raised an eyebrow, giving him a long, hard stare. If looks could talk: really? “So you played hero and gave her your jacket?”

He snorted. “No way! You think I’d hand over my designer suit jacket? I thought the fall was fake, honestly, but it felt weird to just walk away. So I gave her Mike the driver’s jacket instead.”

I made a little noise, like, “Uh-huh, sure,” clearly not buying it—but I felt a smile pulling at my lips. Carter’s way too practical to hand over a designer suit, but he’s also too polite to leave someone sprawled in a puddle. That tracks.

“She insisted on adding me on Messenger, and our son was fussing for you, so I just did it in a hurry. Honey, you’re not mad, right?” Carter blinked up at me, burrowing into my arms, giving me full puppy eyes. He looked so much like our son when he wanted to get out of trouble that I almost lost it.

I rolled my eyes and gave him a playful smack on the back. “Who knows if Mr. Whitaker’s been flirting left and right, giving the wrong impression to the poor girl.”

Carter grinned and kissed me, and when he saw I wasn’t actually mad, he hugged me tighter. I couldn’t help but laugh. I gave in. Picked up the phone... and started scrolling through her Facebook posts. I mean, how could I resist?

Her feed was a minefield of perfectly edited selfies, travel pics, late-night emotional rants, and curated hobby shots. Carter leaned in, peeking over my shoulder, occasionally muttering, “These photo editing apps are wild—you could fool your own mom.”

I shushed him, laughing. Seriously? Who even has time for this many selfies? Is she trying out for The Bachelor? We scrolled through her entire feed—no landmarks, nothing familiar. She was careful. I tried searching her Messenger name on Instagram. Jessie with a bunny emoji popped right up, but her Insta was totally empty.

Just as I started feeling like a total stalker, Jessie messaged again: “Mr. Whitaker, can I treat you to dinner tomorrow? I have a small gift to thank you.” She even attached a cutesy, bashful emoji. Oh, this is about to get good.

“Mr. Whitaker, someone wants to take you out to dinner!” I teased in my best fake-sweet voice. Carter rolled his eyes and made a grab for the phone, probably ready to fire off a reply, but I stopped him. I was having way too much fun. I typed back in my boss-wife tone: “No need, it was nothing.”

She replied instantly: “Sorry, Mr. Whitaker, you’re the first person to ever be this nice to me. I’m really touched.” Crying emoji. Oh, she’s going for the orphan card now?

Amateur move.

Carter, still leaning on me, was done watching and wanted me to block her. I nudged him into the study, knowing he hated girls who couldn’t take a hint. Out of sight, out of mind—I’d handle it myself.

I didn’t reply to the teacher again, but I opened her Instagram. Still empty, but she had a decent number of followers. I checked her following list, weeded out the obvious spam, and found a few suspicious accounts. After a little digging, I found her alt account in a comment thread. What a shock. Her alt had hundreds of posts, all couple-y relationship blog stuff, updated daily, with people swooning over her “amazing husband.” Wait, she’s already married?

Now I was really thrown. I scrolled through dozens of posts, and under one about her “husband” buying her a bag, I found a comment linking to her TikTok. The TikTok handle matched her Instagram alt. I followed the breadcrumbs and found her main TikTok account—a small influencer gig with half a million followers and livestreaming privileges.

I had to admit, this girl was something else. I clicked her first video. There were photos of my husband and son at kindergarten, shot from every angle, soft indie soundtrack playing, racking up a million likes. She claimed to be a wealthy wife married into a rich family, that her husband gave her $80,000 as pocket money, that her son spoiled her rotten, and that all she did was drink afternoon tea with her girlfriends…

Wait. That’s literally my life! How did it become hers?

I didn’t say a word to Carter, just kept scrolling. Eventually, I found the photo she’d sent him—the suit jacket. My skin prickled. “He just had to put his CEO suit next to my pink dress—what am I going to do with him?” The comments: “Is this straight out of a romance novel or what?!” A chill ran down my spine. I kept scrolling.

A shot of our car: “Birthday gift from him. He said he wanted me to smile in the Maybach.” Next, a snap of my son at kindergarten: “My precious son told me Daddy said Mommy looked beautiful today.” Then, my husband waiting to pick up our son: “He came with me to pick up our child today, said he’d take me out for sushi.” Each post had hundreds of comments. I scrolled through over a hundred, almost believing it myself. Judging by the dates, she’d been posting for a year. Sure, Carter picked up our son a lot, but I knew all the teachers and didn’t remember this girl. Since Carter traveled abroad a lot this year and I liked to have fun, we’d hired a nanny and rarely went to the kindergarten ourselves. So, starting this year, this so-called rich wife switched to posting mostly fake bags and jewelry, rarely showing my husband or son anymore. The bags and jewelry? All knockoffs.