After Being Impersonated,My Mafia Dad Saved Me

The first day of classes kicked off with new grade divisions, and a class i********: group chat popped up within minutes. An admin posted a prompt for everyone to introduce themselves. Ten minutes dragged by, and the thread held nothing but three random emojis. No one bothered to type a single word. I stared at the blinking text box, my thumb hovering lightly over the screen. I typed out "Hi everyone, I'm Elaine," then deleted it instantly. I tried again with "I'm Elaine Voss" and erased that, too. The last name Voss carried far too much weight in Sambori City. My family ran fully legal enterprises on paper, but everyone in the know understood the bloody history tangled up with the Voss name. Since escaping a kidnapper's trunk at age eight, I'd mastered the art of fading into the background, of hiding in plain sight. I locked my phone and set it aside. Seconds later, the group chat exploded into chaos. A flashy bedazzled profile picture stormed into the thread—Mia Carter. Without a single greeting, she dropped thirty high-end Peet's Coffee premium gift cards, one after another. Pop-up after pop-up flooded the entire screen, stacking up thick enough to cover every message in the chat. Instant waves of praise rolled in nonstop. A: [Mia's so generous! Free coffee for everyone, no cap!] B: [Lowkey wanna be in Mia's squad now, hit us up for Eltham Boulevard runs!] C: [These vouchers are gonna cover my coffee runs for weeks—Mia's literally the best!] Sycophantic emojis spammed the feed, completely shifting the group's quiet vibe into a hyped-up frenzy. My phone buzzed relentlessly, the message count skyrocketing past two hundred in mere seconds. Speculations swarmed the comments, everyone scrambling to guess her background. D: [Her rizz and spending power are insane—def comes from old money.] E: [Probably owns luxury hotel chains or high-end boutiques downtown.] F: [Bet her family does overseas trade. Her pocket change alone could cover our whole semester's tuition.] Right on cue to fuel the rumors, Mia dropped three heavily edited aesthetic photos. The first captured her at an open-air Eltham Boulevard café. A brand-new Hermès bag rested on the marble tabletop, a champagne flute propped casually against its leather surface, every detail perfectly staged. The second was a club lounge selfie. Designer Gucci branding blared clearly from the chest of her casual luxury tracksuit, exclusive and upscale. The third showed her standing on a yacht deck. Ocean wind swept through her hair, and a vintage three-leaf diamond pendant glinted around her slender neck. I zoomed in on the pendant without hesitation, a faint jolt running through my chest. The gem cutting and stone ratio were burned into my memory—this was a one-of-a-kind family heirloom, never replicated, never sold. Worse yet, the yacht docked behind her belonged exclusively to my family's private gated marina. No outsiders had access to this spot. 'Who's this Mia? How does she get her hands on my family's possessions?'