Ripping Off the Impostor Wearing My Name

I rush into work this morning and accidentally send the car photos meant for the dealership into the medical intern group chat.

The new intern snaps at me. "Dr. Tyson, why are you sending me pictures of my car? Are you jealous and trying to steal attention?"

I stop short and ask if she has mixed things up, because the car is mine.

She fires back with a whole stack of photos of herself driving a G-class with one hand, plus videos to prove the car in my picture belongs to her.

She even tacks on a snide little jab. "You're a shameless, broke wannabe. You want any spotlight you can grab. You think a picture of a car is going to make you the lady of the Reed family?"

I frown and turn to my husband, Jackson Reed. "Since when does the Reed family have a second lady of the house?"

I rushed to work this morning and accidentally sent the car pictures meant for the dealership to the medical intern group chat.

I didn't even get the chance to delete them before a few interns saw them, and the chat blew up.

"Damn! That G-Class with the starlight roof is crazy expensive. The upgrade alone must've cost a fortune. I didn't know Dr. Tyson was loaded!"

"I didn't expect her to be a trust-fund baby. I'm shocked!"

"Dr. Tyson, what do your parents do? That G-Class has to cost a few million dollars, right?"

Within minutes, the group chat was filled with dozens of messages. Everyone kept asking about my family.

A few male interns even messaged me privately to ask me out.

I felt helpless and simply replied, "I'm not a trust-fund baby. It was a birthday gift from my husband. Let's please focus on work."

I didn't even finish typing the rest of my message when my junior, Christina Vaughan, jumped in.

"Dr. Tyson, why did you send pictures of my car? Are you jealous and trying to get attention?

"And now you say it was a gift from your husband? What? Are you trying to brag that you married into some rich family?

"I should've never driven my car to the hospital. You stalked me, took pictures, and used them to show off. This is gross."

Her sharp words stunned me. I stared at the screen and asked, "Are you talking to me? Christina, you must be confused. Maybe our cars just look alike?"

She went quiet for a few seconds. Then she flooded the chat with pictures of herself and her G-Class, including videos of her driving it.

Her words turned even harsher. "The starlight roof in my G-Class is custom. There's nothing else like it. How does a broke doctor like you have the nerve to say yours looks like mine?

"You crept around my car, snapped a picture, and claimed it's yours. Why don't you take a photo of a castle next and say you own it?"

Her mockery hit hard. The