Who Is the Real Heiress

I gripped the strap of my canvas bag tightly, my fingertips digging into the rough fabric. Today is the third day of winter break and also my first incognito visit to my own supermarket. As the sole heiress to the Anderson Group supermarket, my father, Bob Anderson, always says I should get a better feel for on-the-ground operations, so I purposely wore faded jeans and an old sweatshirt. The security gate at the supermarket entrance glowed with a cold light as I followed the crowd through. "Beep—beep—beep—" A sharp alarm suddenly blared, cutting through the supermarket's noise. People around me immediately stopped in their tracks, all their eyes locked onto me. I froze for a second, instinctively checking my pockets — only my phone and keys were inside, no metal at all. "Miss, please wait." A clear but slightly sharp voice called out. I turned to see a girl in a supermarket intern manager uniform hurrying toward me. She had shoulder-length hair, and strangely enough, she looked just like me, but her eyes were full of scrutiny. "The alarm on the security gate just went off. Maybe you have some unpaid items on you." She looked me up and down, her tone tinged with barely concealed disdain. "Protocol requires a coat check. Remove it, please." I frowned and said, "I didn't buy anything, and I'm not carrying any prohibited items." "Whether you have them or not isn't for you to decide." She stepped forward, raising her voice a few notches, "Take off your jacket for inspection. If there's nothing wrong, we'll let you go." Whispers rippled around; some pulled out their phones to sneak photos, while others pointed fingers at me. "She doesn't look like a bad person. How did the alarm get triggered?" "Maybe she was trying to pull a fast one, stole something small and hid it in her clothes." "This intern manager is quite responsible, but the attitude is a little too harsh." Those whispers stabbed at my heart like needles, my cheeks burning with a mix of anger and frustration. "I'll say it again—I didn't steal anything, and I'm not taking off my jacket." I clenched my fists, trying to stay calm. "You can use a scanner to check; there's no need to strip." "A scanner?" She sneered, "The supermarket scanner's broken. Now it's all manual checks. If you're afraid to take it off, it just means you're hiding something!" Her words completely set me off. But I can't reveal who I am yet; I still want to see what's really going on at the supermarket without my identity blowing the plan. "What's your name? I want to speak to your supervisor." I stared at her employee badge—it said "Diana Bourbon." "Talking to the supervisor won't help. I'm in charge of security screening right now." Diana lifted her chin, totally confident. "Either take off your coat to prove you're innocent, or I'll call the police and accuse you of theft." The stares around me grew sharper by the second. I stood there, feeling like a clown being roasted alive. As the heiress of the Anderson family, I had never been humiliated like this before. But now, to keep my identity a secret, I have no choice but to endure it. Just as I hesitated about whether to give in, Diana suddenly reached out, trying to yank off my jacket: "Since you won't make a move, I'll help you take it off!" I stepped back sharply, dodging her hand, my eyes burning with anger: "Don't push it!"