Chapter 3

Back home, I collapsed into my father's arms and cried for a solid half hour. Only then did the bitterness from my past life begin to lift, just barely.

"Dad," I said between sniffles, "cancel the donation to Lucas."

He had looked completely lost before, unsure why I was so devastated. But now, realization dawned. He slammed a hand down on the table. "He bullied you? I'll go teach that punk a lesson right now!"

I caught his wrist and shook my head. "No need. This one's mine to handle."

The next morning, the driver dropped me off for an early class. I'd deliberately dressed in something plain and cheap.

As expected, Ivy didn't show up.

If I'd guessed right, she was off trying to sell the fake Hermes bag I'd left behind in the dorm.

From across the lawn, Isolde spotted me and practically yelled, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Well, well, if it isn't Miss Hawthorne! What happened to the walking billboard look? Left all your knockoff logos at home today?"

Behind her, Lucas wrinkled his nose in disgust, carefully balancing two breakfast sandwiches. "She had to tone it down now that Ivy's around. Can't keep up the act when the real heiress shows up. Just the other day she said she wanted to date me—can you believe that? Delusional."

I nearly laughed aloud.

He'd only acted chivalrous because he saw my luggage worth tens of thousands.

Even rolled up his sleeves on purpose, trying to show off the barely-there muscle in his arms while carrying my suitcase.

The thought that I'd once fallen head over heels for this walking cliché was now… nauseating.

Lucas had that gleam in his eye—the kind that screams I just landed a rich girlfriend.

Wonder how bitter that smile will be once he finds out his name's been removed from the scholarship list.

I pulled out the receipt for a 600 thousand dollars donation and spoke calmly. "My transfer went through this morning. You're right—we're all students. No one should have to worry about affording food.

"My donation isn't as large as Ivy's, but it's still something. Better than those who can't even part with 600 dollars."

The crowd exploded. Students rushed in, craning their necks to examine the receipt.

Only Isolde muttered bitterly, "Pfft, probably a lie. I'll ask the school to confirm it."

Lucas, taller than most, shoved his way to the front and snatched the receipt. He stared at the official stamp and gasped, "Stella? You actually donated? Wait—where did you even get that kind of money?"

He dragged me into the classroom, face twisted in alarm. "Are you out of your mind? Take it back! Yesterday… did you take that Rolex clipping from my bag? Were you trying to buy me the real thing? Is that why you did this—out of spite?

"Stella, don't be like this. Ivy's got mood disorders, she flips over the smallest things. I had to say what she wanted to hear—otherwise she'd go crazy. Yesterday was just me trying to protect you... I was doing it for you..."

I yanked my arm free and gave a cold snort. "I needed to sell a watch to donate? Please. I tossed that Rolex into the school trash.

"If you want it, start digging. Oh, and thank Ivy. She helped me see your true colors."

Lucas's eyes widened, his breath coming fast. "No, Stella, wait, let me explain—"

The bell rang, silencing him.

Later, the teacher confirmed in class that my donation had been received.

The people who'd mocked me yesterday fell into an awkward, shame-faced quiet.

When the teacher called Ivy's name, Isolde shot up and chirped, "She's at the bank, sir! She said the funds will be transferred soon!"

That kind of grand posturing made me chuckle. I joined the rest of the class in letting out a few theatrical "wows."

Suddenly, someone tapped my shoulder from behind.

A perfectly packed breakfast appeared in front of me. I looked up to see Lucas grinning like sunshine itself.

I took it—and handed it straight to Isolde in the row ahead. Then pointed at Lucas.

Isolde blinked, confused, but her ears turned bright red.

Ivy didn't return all day.

How amusing. Things were finally starting to get interesting.

After class, I rallied a group of students—those who'd been worried sick about Ivy's donation—and led them to the school gates to welcome her back.

Soon, a taxi pulled up. Ivy stepped out, smug as ever, her enormous backpack stuffed to bursting.

I called her name loudly. The others flocked around her.

Isolde pushed through first, eyes sparkling with urgency. "So, Ivy? Did the money go through?"