Chapter 1 The Fallen Heiress and the Billionaire's Treasure

# Chapter 1: The Fallen Heiress and the Billionaire's Treasure

I never thought I'd measure my life in counterfeit handbags.

Three months ago, I was Cassandra Wei, beloved daughter of the prestigious Wei family, with access to unlimited credit cards and a penthouse view of Manhattan. Today, I'm just Cassandra, the exposed fraud, living in a cramped studio apartment with water stains on the ceiling and a business selling knockoff luxury goods to former "friends" who don't look me in the eye anymore.

The public humiliation still burns fresh in my memory. Standing in the Wei family's grand ballroom during my twenty-fifth birthday celebration, watching Eleanor Wei—the real daughter—stride in with DNA results and security guards. The collective gasp of three hundred guests. My "father" Richard Wei's face transforming from confusion to disgust. My "mother" Victoria's performative tears as she screamed, "Get this imposter out of my house!"

Eighteen years of memories—all fabricated. I wasn't the baby they'd brought home from the hospital. I was... nobody.

I adjusted my sunglasses, a knockoff pair of Gucci's that I'd sourced from my supplier in Chinatown. The irony wasn't lost on me. A fake heiress selling fake luxury goods. At least I was consistent.

My phone buzzed with a message from a client: "Meet at Bergdorf's. Need the red bag we discussed. 2PM."

The red bag was a nearly perfect replica of a limited-edition Hermès Birkin that retailed for $35,000. My version cost $350. I'd gotten good at this—spotting the tiny differences between authentic luxury items and their counterfeits. The stitching that was one shade too dark. The hardware that felt a fraction too light. The logo that sat two millimeters too high.

I pushed through the revolving doors of Bergdorf Goodman, the cool air-conditioning a welcome relief from the July heat. This was risky—meeting in an actual luxury department store—but some clients insisted. The thrill of the transaction added to the appeal.

I spotted my client, Melissa, browsing scarves near the Hermès counter. I'd known her in my previous life—we'd attended the same charity galas, shared champagne at fashion week. Now she pretended we'd never met outside these clandestine exchanges.

"Cassandra," she whispered when I approached, not making eye contact. "Do you have it?"

I nodded, gesturing toward my tote bag, when a sharp, familiar voice cut through the hushed luxury atmosphere.

"Well, if it isn't the greatest con artist in Manhattan."

My stomach dropped. Eleanor Wei—the real Wei heiress—stood five feet away, draped in authentic designer wear worth more than my annual rent. Behind her stood two friends, their expressions a mixture of disgust and delight at the impending drama.

"I heard you were selling knockoffs now," Eleanor continued, her voice rising deliberately. "How fitting. A fake person selling fake bags."

Melissa backed away immediately, whispering, "I'll call you later," though we both knew she wouldn't.

"Security should know you're conducting illegal business on their premises," Eleanor said, pulling out her phone. "I wonder if there's a reward for reporting counterfeit operations?"

Heads were turning now. A security guard glanced our way. Panic rose in my chest as I backed away, turning to flee—only to crash straight into a solid wall of expensive cologne and tailored suit.

My bag tumbled from my hands, spilling its contents across the polished floor: the red fake Birkin, three counterfeit wallets, and business cards with my new "brand name"—Cassie's Closet.

Mortification paralyzed me as I stared at my exposed counterfeit empire on the floor of Bergdorf's. Then a hand reached down—strong, tanned, with a watch worth more than everything I owned—and picked up the Birkin.

"Not bad," said a deep voice. "The stitching on the handle is almost perfect. They finally fixed the logo placement issue from last season's batch."

I looked up into the most penetrating dark eyes I'd ever seen, set in a face that had graced the cover of Forbes "30 Under 30." Martin Chen, tech billionaire, notorious playboy, and—my heart sank further—Eleanor Wei's fiancé.

He turned the bag over in his hands with the casual expertise of someone who had purchased the real version many times. "The craftsmanship is getting better. But," he added with a slight smirk, "knowing how to sell fakes doesn't mean you know how to spend real money."

Eleanor appeared at his side, hooking her arm through his. "Darling, this is her—the impostor I told you about. The one who stole my life for eighteen years." She shot me a venomous look. "Security is on their way."

I frantically gathered my scattered items, dignity in shreds. This was it—caught selling counterfeits in Bergdorf's. I'd be banned from every store on Fifth Avenue, possibly facing charges.

But instead of helping his fiancée, Martin gently removed Eleanor's arm and walked to the nearest sales associate—an elegantly dressed woman at the Hermès counter.

"Everything in this display," he said, pointing to the entire collection of bags, scarves, and accessories. "I'll take it all."

The saleswoman blinked in confusion. "The entire collection, sir?"

"Everything," he confirmed, sliding a black card across the counter. "And establish a permanent account for this lady." He gestured toward me, still crouched on the floor clutching fake wallets. "She's to be treated as a VIP. All purchases on my account."

Eleanor's face contorted. "Martin, what are you doing?"

He ignored her, addressing the stunned saleswoman again. "Have everything delivered to my penthouse. And please inform your manager that Ms.—" he glanced at me questioningly.

"Cassandra," I managed to say, my voice barely audible.

"That Ms. Cassandra is to receive the highest level of service at all times." He scribbled something on a business card and handed it to me. "My private number. The account will be active today."

Eleanor's face had turned an alarming shade of red. "Have you lost your mind? This woman is a fraud! A criminal!"

Martin looked at me, not her, his eyes calculating something I couldn't understand. "I see potential where others see fraud." He extended his hand to help me up. "Sometimes the most interesting investments come disguised as disasters."

I took his hand, half-expecting some cruel punchline to this bizarre interaction. Instead, he pulled me smoothly to my feet and leaned in close enough that only I could hear.

"The Wei family ruined you. I'm offering a chance to return the favor." His breath was warm against my ear. "Call me when you're ready to stop selling fakes and start living authentically rich."

He straightened, nodded politely to the gathering crowd of shocked onlookers, and strode toward the exit. Before following, Eleanor hissed at me, "Stay away from him, you pathetic counterfeit."

I stood frozen, clutching his business card, surrounded by luxury I couldn't afford and whispers I pretended not to hear. Martin Chen had just spent over $100,000 to make a point—but what point exactly?

I looked down at the card in my hand. Embossed in simple black letters was his name, a phone number, and a handwritten note: "The best revenge requires proper funding."

As the sales associate approached me with a reverent smile I'd never seen directed my way before, I realized with startling clarity: the game had changed. I wasn't just Cassandra the fake heiress anymore.

I was Cassandra with a billionaire's black card.

And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything I'd faced before.