Chapter 68
Ashley
I stepped confidently down Fifth Avenue, my Louboutin heels clicking against the pavement like a metronome counting my triumphs.
But something felt off. People were looking at me—not with the usual admiration or envy, but with something closer to... amusement? A woman whispered to her friend as I passed, both of them quickly averting their eyes when I glared at them. A man in a business suit actually snickered.
What the hell was going on?
I pulled out my phone, initially checking my reflection in the camera. My makeup was flawless, hair perfectly styled. So why were these peasants looking at me like I was some kind of—
My stomach dropped as notifications flooded my screen. Breaking news alerts, social media mentions, texts from people I hadn't spoken to in years. The blood drained from my face as I tapped on the top notification.
"Emily Thompson's True Colors: High School Trysts with Manhattan's Elite Heirs."
The headline was accompanied by photos of Emily exiting luxury hotels with different men. Any other day, I would have savored this takedown of Thompson's stuck-up daughter.
But it was the second headline that made my legs go weak.
"Ashley Miller's Fraudulent Identity: Randal Family's 'Adopted Daughter' Forced Name Change."
I frantically scrolled through the article, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. There were childhood photos of me, as Ashley Miller. Documents showing my father, Nathan Miller, as Mrs. Randal's nephew. And worst of all, photos of me meeting with the financial project manager of the bidding event.
How did they get these photos? And who got these?
"Fuck," I whispered, my fingers trembling as I opened Twitter.
The comments were vicious:
"Ashley's been playing dress-up as a Randal for years! Talk about identity theft lol"
"No wonder she got that lead role in the opera. Sleeping with the director much? #FakeHeiress"
"This explains why she's so desperate to hang around actual important people. Pathetic."
I felt exposed, stripped naked in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and they were all laughing at me.
Panic seized me. I stumbled away from the laughing crowds, hailing the first taxi I saw, my only thought to escape, to hide. Home. I had to get home.
---
"FUCK!" I slammed the door of my apartment.
"What the hell is happening?" My father's voice cut through my tantrum. Nathan stood in the doorway, his face ashen.
"What's happening?" I laughed bitterly. "What's fucking happening is that someone leaked everything! EVERYTHING!"
I thrust my phone at him, watching as he scrolled through the articles, his expression growing more horrified by the second.
"This is a disaster," he muttered, pacing the room. "These headlines are all over every news outlet in New York. This could jeopardize your position at the Metropolitan Opera."
"My position?" I spat. "What about my entire fucking life? Everyone knows I'm not really a Randal now! Do you have any idea what that means in this city?"
Sweat beaded on my father's forehead. "Ashley, you need to calm down and think strategically. We need to contact Ethan. He's the only one with enough influence to help contain this."
"Ethan..." His name tasted different on my tongue now—less like desire and more like desperation.
"Yes," Nathan nodded quickly. "He can help smooth this over. Make some calls, pull some strings."
I sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "He'll help me. He has to. We have history."
I'd go to Black Investment Group myself. Ethan would see me. He always did, eventually.
---
The Black Investment Group tower stood tall in the Manhattan skyline. I wore a simple black and white Chanel suit—professional yet sharp enough to remind Ethan what he was missing.
I approached the reception desk with practiced confidence.
"I'm here to see Ethan Black," I announced, not bothering to look at the receptionist as I checked my lipstick in my compact mirror.
"Do you have an appointment, miss?" The receptionist's voice was professional but cool.
I snapped my compact shut. "I don't need an appointment. I'm Ashley Randal."
A flicker of recognition crossed her face, but not the kind I wanted. "I'm afraid Mr. Black is in meetings all day, Ms. Miller. If you'd like to schedule—"
"Don't call me Miller," I hissed, leaning over the desk. "I am Ashley Randal. Now get Michael Davis down here and tell him I need to see Ethan immediately."
The receptionist maintained her composure, but I could see other staff watching our exchange. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Black's schedule is completely full today. If you'd like to make an appointment—"
"Do you have any idea who I am?" My voice rose. "I've known Ethan Black for years. We have a personal relationship that someone like you couldn't possibly understand."
After several more minutes of arguing, a security guard approached. Before things could escalate further, a junior assistant intervened and led me to a conference room, promising that someone would be with me shortly.
I strutted into the conference room, flipping my hair. That girl needed to learn some respect.
---
Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. The sleek conference room felt increasingly like a prison cell. The silence was maddening.
I needed to use the restroom, partly to escape this suffocating room and partly to freshen up before Ethan arrived. I had to look perfect when he finally saw me.
I stood, smoothing my skirt and preparing to step into the hallway.
As I reached for the door handle, voices from the hallway froze me in place.
"Can you believe that Ashley Randal is actually Ashley Miller?" A woman's voice, dripping with disdain.
"I always thought something was off about her," replied another. "She comes in here acting like she owns the place, and now we find out she's been lying about her identity this whole time."
"I heard she's only in opera because her fake daddy paid for her spot."
"Just goes to show—you can change your name, but you can't change where you came from."
Something snapped inside me. All the years of careful image cultivation, of distancing myself from my Miller origins, of becoming the perfect Randal—all of it crumbling because of these insignificant nobodies gossiping in a hallway.
I threw the door open, startling the two women—executive assistants, judging by their attire.
"What did you just say?" My voice was dangerously quiet.
The women exchanged glances. One of them—a redhead with a pitying smile—stepped forward. "I think you should calm down, Ms. Miller."
That name again. Miller. Like a slap across the face.
"I AM A RANDAL!" I screamed, lunging forward. My hand connected with her cheek in a satisfying crack. "How dare you! I'm going to be Mrs. Black someday, and I'll make sure you're both fired!"
The second woman tried to pull me away from her colleague, but I was beyond reason. We grappled in the hallway, my designer heels slipping on the polished floor as I tried to maintain my balance while still clawing at her.
"When Ethan finds out how you treated me, you're done!" I shrieked. "DONE!"
"What's going on here?"
Michael's voice cut through the chaos. I immediately released my grip on the assistant's blouse, breathing heavily.
"Michael," I said, trying to sound composed despite my disheveled appearance. "These two employees were spreading vicious lies about me. I demand they be disciplined immediately."
Michael didn't rush to my defense as I expected. Instead, he helped the redhead to her feet, asking if she was okay.
"Michael Davis," I snapped, "get these two bitches away from me right now!"
He turned to me, his expression cold. "Ms. Randal, this is Black Investment Group, not a schoolyard. Please conduct yourself appropriately."
The way he emphasized "Randal" made it clear he was mocking me. I felt my face flush with anger.
"I am Ethan Black's ex-girlfriend," I said through gritted teeth. "I have social standing in this city. I will not be disrespected like this!"
"Shut up!"
Ethan's voice echoed down the hallway, deep and commanding. Everyone froze. I quickly tried to smooth my hair and straighten my jacket, forcing my expression into something vulnerable and appealing.