$130 from Mom, Breakup from Him

It was my birthday, and I texted my mom:

“Mom, send me some cash boost coins, I want to take my boyfriend out for a fancy dinner.”

Two hours later, my mom finally sent me $130.

“Sweetie, spend it sparingly. This is what your mom earned from two full days of hard labor.”

Ryan’s face changed the moment he saw it.

“You told me you came from a welloff family. Your mom… works construction?”

He pointed at my handbag with a trembling finger.

“You’re always carrying LV or Chanel—don’t tell me they’re all fake?”

“I really misjudged you. You’re just another vain, golddigging woman. We’re done!”

I watched his figure grow smaller as he walked away, then opened WhatsApp:

“The savings account interest rate is ridiculous—twenty million in there and it’s only $450 a day!”

“Anyway, I can’t chat now. Your Aunt Julie needs a fourth player for mahjong. Playing every day has my back aching.”

“Payment received: $130 via PayPal.”

The notification chimed just as Ryan and I were curled up together at our usual coffee shop.

I was chatting idly with my mom, while Ryan was laughing at something on his brandnew iPhone I’d bought for him.

When the sound came, he didn’t even look up, still grinning at whatever was on his screen.

I glanced at my phone, seeing the transfer followed by another exaggerated message:

“Sweetie, spend it sparingly. This is what your mom earned from two full days of hard labor.”

I almost choked on my own saliva.

My mom, the drama queen, was at it again—playing one of her roleplay games.

An actual highsociety socialite, addicted to short dramas, always imagining herself as some evil stepmother character.

“What’s wrong?” Ryan came up from behind, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on my shoulder.

He smelled of the Hermès Terre d’Hermès cologne I’d just bought him, mixed with his own warmth, making me relax instinctively.

Quickly, I hid my phone behind my back. It would be far too embarrassing if he saw my mom’s antics.

Ever since I refused to meet the younger son of one of my dad’s business partners from the Parker family, my father had cut off my credit card.

I might be one of the top heiresses in Riverdale City, but with my spending habits, I relied on my dad’s secondary card to get by.

Cash reserves? Almost nonexistent.

Luckily, my mom sent me money from time to time, saving me from resorting to selling my secondhand designer bags.

“It’s nothing,” I said, shaking my phone. “My mom just sent me some money. It’s my birthday, so I’m treating you to something nice.”

Ryan made a quick feint and snatched my phone from my hand before I could stop him. I felt his body tense immediately as he read.

“Your mom… works construction?” His voice rose in pitch. Releasing my hand, he stepped back, his face dark.

“I thought you were from a rich family?”

I sensed trouble, slowly pried his fingers off my phone, and took it back.

“Did I ever say I was from a rich family?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ryan’s voice was getting louder. “You’re always carrying LV or Chanel!”

Then, as if he’d suddenly figured something out, he sneered.

“Don’t tell me they’re all fake?”

The café lights suddenly felt blinding.

At the next table, a group of girls stopped talking, openly staring at us and sizing up my outfit.

I took a sip of my Americano, its bitterness curling at the back of my tongue.

“Answer me!” Ryan slammed the table, drawing the attention of the waitstaff. My heart thumped in my chest.

“Those designer bags you have, and that watch you bought me—they’re all knockoffs, aren’t they?”

I stared at the LV scarf around his neck—the same one I’d given him for his birthday—and suddenly, it all felt absurd.

I rarely took him directly to the boutiques. Every time I stepped into one, the store manager and sales associates would line up in two neat rows, bow, and chorus, “Welcome, Miss Carter, it’s an honor to have you here!”

It was so awkward I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Instead, I relied on the luxury brands’ monthly service of bringing the latest collections to my home for private selection.

Three months ago, on his birthday, when I gave him a scarf, Ryan wrapped his arms around me and said, “Baby, you’re so good to me.” That image now overlapped with the flushed, thicknecked man in front of me, panting like a bull.

“Break up!” Ryan yanked off the scarf and slammed it onto the table. “I can’t believe I let a fake socialite fool me for half a year!”

He turned to leave. Instinctively, I almost followed, but then I saw Chloe standing a short distance away.

Ryan slid an arm around her shoulders and disappeared into the crowd without looking back.

I stood frozen in place, feeling the blood drain from my body.

My phone buzzed again—it was another message from my mom:

“The savings account interest rate is ridiculous—twenty million in there and it’s only $450 a day!”

“Anyway, I can’t chat now. Your Aunt Julie needs a fourth for mahjong. Playing every day has my back aching.”

I stared at the words “twenty million” on the screen and suddenly burst out laughing.

The girls at the next table glanced over with sympathetic eyes, probably thinking I’d lost my mind from the shock.

So that was it.

Ryan thought I was poor, so he turned on me instantly.

He thought my bags were fakes, that I’d been pretending to be a rich girl all along.

On the way back to the dorms, the campus radio was playing “The Actor.”

I walked in step with the beat, and when I passed the bulletin board, I noticed a new poster for the Campus Singer Competition.

In the bottom right corner was a small sponsor logo: Adams Construction.

Chloe’s family business.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—it was my best friend, Emily Johnson.

“Vanessa! Ryan and Chloe just posted a photo together on Instagram!”

I opened it. In the ninesquare collage, Ryan had his arm around Chloe as they posed in a highend Japanese restaurant where the average bill per person was over a hundred dollars.

The caption read: “Finally found the right person. It feels so secure.”

No need to guess—clearly, Chloe had picked up the tab.

The comments were full of “a perfect match.” One mutual friend even wrote: “Definitely better than that girl with the fake bag.”

So in less than three hours since we broke up, my “fake bag” reputation had spread to every corner of the campus.

“You okay?” Emily asked gently. “Want me to come keep you company?”

“No need.” I looked at the brandnew Mercedes C200 parked under the dorm—it was Chloe’s twentieth birthday present.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Find out if Adams Construction is bidding on the Southside Development Project.”

After hanging up, I opened my wardrobe.

At the very back hung a Dior earlyspring dress, tags still attached.

Mom had bought it last month, saying she’d noticed I hadn’t bought any new clothes in a while. At the time, I thought it was too flashy.

Now, it felt perfect.

The next day for my major class, I arrived ten minutes early.

I picked the perfect seat and set my bag to one side.

When Ryan and Chloe walked in hand in hand, the entire class fell silent for a moment.

Chloe was dressed headtotoe in the current Miu Miu collection, an Hermès Picotin dangling from her arm, its handles crowded with colorful charms that jingled annoyingly with each step.

She deliberately slowed her pace, and as she passed my desk, she suddenly let out an “Oops!”

“Ryan, my charm got caught on something dirty!” she said in a sugary voice, tilting her bag toward me.

The metal clasp of a Disney princess keychain scraped across my Chanel, leaving a clear mark on the leather.

Ryan immediately leaned in. “Let me see.”

He made a show of inspecting it, then gasped theatrically. “Oh my God, Chloe, is your Hermès okay? You don’t want some knockoff scratching it.”

Chloe covered her mouth and laughed, her eyes curving into crescents. “It’s fine, genuine quality doesn’t damage that easily.”

Then she glanced down at me from above. “But your bag, senior… oh dear, that scratch is so obvious. Fake bags really can’t take much wear, can they?”

I slowly raised my head, meeting Ryan’s gaze as he watched for my reaction.

Too bad for him—I didn’t have one.

It’s just a bag. If it’s ruined, I’ll replace it.

Just like this man—once he’s rotten, he’s out.

When I didn’t respond, Chloe snorted and sashayed forward.

“Some people have the nerve to bring a fake bag to class?” She dropped into the seat in front of me, her voice dripping with syrup as she deliberately slammed her Hermès onto the desk. “Right, Ryan?”

Ryan didn’t answer right away, but I noticed his eyes lingering on my bag for a few seconds.

The vintage Chanel’s edges were slightly worn, and the metal clasp bore faint traces of oxidation.

His lips curled into a mocking smile as he ruffled Chloe’s hair.

“Fake is fake. Nothing like our Chloe here, a true heiress.”

He deliberately raised his voice. “If you ask me, people who carry fake bags are just driven by vanity—pretending to be a socialite when their family’s just average, mooching meals, gifts, and affection.”

Chloe jumped in right on cue. “Exactly. I even heard she tricked an upperclassman into buying her gifts!”

She turned and winked at me. “Senior, you do know fraud is illegal, right?”

A few chuckles rippled around us.

I tightened my grip on my pen, nails digging into my palm.

Trading insults was pointless. Arguing with them would only trap me in an endless loop of defending myself.

Better to wait until later—see who gets slapped in the face.

Ryan, emboldened by my silence, leaned over my desk, the scent of Chloe’s perfume heavy on him.

“Vanessa, you know something?” he said in a low voice that carried across the room.

“One of Chloe’s family projects is worth over ten million. Her real bags could buy out your whole closet of fakes.”

He straightened and smirked. “A little nobody like you could never come close.”

Chloe lifted her wrist at the perfect moment, flashing a diamondstudded Cartier bracelet.

“Daddy just bought this for me yesterday, to celebrate the company winning the Southside Development Project.”

She looked at me with a pointed smile. “Want to touch it, senior? After all, it’s something you’ll never afford in your lifetime.”

Ryan burst out laughing, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Don’t be so hard on her. Her mom works two days in construction just to make $130. Not like our Chloe—her allowance starts at $5,000 a month.”

It wasn’t until the professor walked in that the perfect little couple reluctantly separated.

Before sitting down, Chloe suddenly turned back, flicking a goldembossed business card at my face.

“Oh, by the way, senior, my company’s hiring a receptionist—$25 an hour. A lot easier than your mom’s construction work!”

I took the card, running my fingertips over the gold letters Adams Construction.

“Thanks, but I’ve been busy with the campus singer competition.”

“Singer competition?” Ryan finally spoke again, his tone dripping with mockery.

“You really think you can sing? Have you seen the poster? Chloe’s family is sponsoring it this year.”

Of course I’d seen it.

If her family weren’t sponsoring, I wouldn’t even bother with such a lowlevel event.

After all, when I was fifteen, I’d skyrocketed to fame on YouTube under the persona of The Masked Diva.

A few reality shows later, my total fan base across all platforms had passed thirty million.

But my parents worried that if I ever revealed my face, people would discover my true identity—and with it, every detail of a top heiress’s life. It would be far too unsafe.

So they insisted I keep things this way: focus on my studies and management training to prepare for inheriting the family business, while also developing my hobby on the side. It worked out fine for me.

In freshman year, Ryan and I had competed together in several school contests. I found him clever, grounded, able to think of things that never occurred to me—so different from the boys of my own social circle.

I didn’t care that he had a gambling father, a sick mother, a younger brother in school, and a generally messy life.

To me, the money I spent on him was less than what I’d spend on a purebred dog.

But from the first time Chloe laid eyes on Ryan after enrolling, she’d been hooked on that seemingly innocent face of his—and had been targeting me ever since.

If I didn’t teach these two a lesson, I’d never swallow this anger.

I slipped the business card into my bag, and when I looked up, I caught Chloe’s smug little smile.

She pulled a diamondencrusted lipstick from her bag and waved it in front of me.

I frowned, curious. From the way she acted, she didn’t seem to know what she was holding.

“Country bumpkin. Just proves you’re a fake socialite—don’t even recognize a Louboutin lipstick when you see one?”

“Oh… it’s a Louboutin? But isn’t this particular design a limited edition—only ninetynine in the world, each with its own number? And aren’t they all in the hands of royalty and society elites?”

I leaned in, examining it closely.

“Let’s see… your number is… ninetynine?! Isn’t that the one they made exclusively for the brand’s ambassador?”

I gave her a cold smile—because that ambassador was me.

And that number had been made just for me.

I’d assumed she was just flaunting some limited edition she’d managed to buy somewhere. I hadn’t expected her to walk right into the line of fire.

Chloe’s face instantly went pale. Her fingers clamped around the socalled limited edition, knuckles turning white.

Ryan noticed and quickly stepped forward, throwing an arm around her shoulders while sneering at me.

“Well, look at that. Our little fake socialite doesn’t have two nickels to rub together, but she sure knows her online gossip. Chloe’s family is loaded, obviously she got it from knowing the Masked Diva—must have been a gift from the ambassador herself.”

I nodded as if I believed him. “Oh? Chloe, you really know the Masked Diva?”

It was like tossing her a lifeline—her expression lit up with smug confidence again.

“Yes, the Masked Diva is my best friend. She gave me this lipstick herself!”

I let my face fill with admiration. “Wow. In that case, since you’re really close, asking her to be a guest at our campus singer competition should be no problem, right?”

Chloe, of course, had no idea of the Diva’s true identity. She just wanted to brush me off, biting her lip and keeping up her haughty act.

“You don’t get it. Her schedule is packed—it’s not like she can just come whenever she’s called. Not everyone’s like your constructionworking mom, available on demand.”

I blinked innocently. “I was just curious. I mean, if such a precious lipstick was a gift from a true friend, getting her to show up shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

Seeing Chloe cornered, Ryan jumped in to change the subject.

“Vanessa, stop pretending you’re somebody. You can’t even afford a real bag—who are you to comment on anyone else?”

I gave a slow, easy smile, pulling my phone from my bag. Opening Twitter, I scrolled to The Masked Diva’s official account and held it out toward them.

“Take a look at this.”

On the screen was her latest post:

“Invited to perform at Columbia University’s Campus Singer Competition next week. Can’t wait to see you all~”

The attached photo showed her in the signature silver mask, the unmistakable Columbia University crest in the background.

Chloe’s face drained of color, her lips trembling. “Ththis… this can’t be! How could she possibly…”

Ryan froze as well, staring at the screen in disbelief. “You photoshopped that, right?!”

I withdrew my phone with a light smile. “Is it edited? You can find out for yourself. I’m not exactly skilled enough to hack her account.”

Oh, but I was more than skilled enough.

Chloe’s composure finally cracked. She shot to her feet, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Vanessa Carter! Stop with the smoke and mirrors! You know the Masked Diva? Who do you think you are?!”

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know her. I just happen to follow her account.”

Realizing they’d been played, Ryan clenched his jaw. “Chloe, ignore her! She’s just bluffing!”

Chloe took a deep breath, forcing down her anger, and sneered. “Fine. Then we’ll see who embarrasses themselves next week.”

With that, she yanked Ryan away, her heels pounding against the floor like she was trying to smash it.

I watched their backs, the corner of my lips curling.

Embarrassed?

Next week, I’d show them the true meaning of the word.

On the day of the competition, I declined my assistant’s offer to drive me to the venue.

Instead, I pulled my longneglected McLaren out of the garage—the one that had been gathering dust for being too flashy.

My father had taught me to keep a low profile all these years—but not so I could sit back and take hits without striking back.

“Holy crap! A McLaren?!”

“There can’t be more than three in the whole city—someone at our school owns one?”

When I pushed the door open and my crystalstudded Valentino heels touched the pavement, the crowd fell silent for a few seconds.

“V–Vanessa?!” someone gasped.

Whispers rippled through the crowd like a wave.

“Wasn’t she supposed to be broke, carrying fake bags?”

“That car’s worth over a million… where did she get the money?”

Sliding my sunglasses up onto my head, I grabbed my bag and headed toward the competition hall, ignoring the chatter.

As I reached the steps, I came face to face with Ryan and Chloe.

For a moment, she looked startled—then her gaze shifted past me to the Porsche parked nearby, and her expression twisted in amusement.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our little princess,” she said in a shrill voice. “How much to rent a supercar for the day? Does your mom’s construction pay cover the deposit?”

Ryan snorted. “Vanessa, there’s a limit to pretending. You didn’t—what?—get so desperate after I dumped you that you started… working the streets?”

Chloe burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.

“Don’t be so mean, Ryan. With her looks, finding some sucker willing to buy her a McLaren? That’d be a miracle. Don’t tease her where she’s weakest.”

I stopped, reached into my bag, and slowly pulled out my car key. In full view of both of them, I pressed the unlock button.

Beep—

The McLaren’s lights flashed twice, and the gullwing doors lifted smoothly into the air.