I was like the pure and innocent Cinderella of a school romance novel.

Unlike the aristocratic students around me, I didn't come from wealth or privilege. I earned my place at this elite academy through merit alone, my high scores opening the gates to a world far beyond my means.

Cinderella is supposed to be stubborn, proud, and righteous—standing tall despite her humble origins. But I have none of those qualities.

All I have is poverty.

From the moment I was born, I understood one thing with absolute clarity—I was poor.

I was an orphan, hardly getting enough to eat, never dressed warm enough, buried under a mountain of debt just to stay in school. No one could figure out how I managed to keep going.

Of course, that only proved one thing—I was a genius at studying.

Then, something changed. An elite academy opened its doors to top scorers, offering full tuition waivers and generous scholarships.

Holding the acceptance letter, I turned it over, examined it from every angle, and nodded in satisfaction.

Good thing I was smart.

…

The city's most elite high school, Ace High, reached out to me.

They made a sincere offer—if I enrolled, I wouldn't have to worry about tuition. More importantly, I'd have a stable environment to study.

The school administrator sighed with regret. "You're a gifted student. It would be a waste to let that talent go unnoticed."

There was something unspoken in his words.

I knew this elite academy had a bad reputation. Every year, special admissions students like me came and went, swallowed whole by the system.

If I went in, I might meet the same fate.

I said confidently, "Don't worry, I'm not like the others."

I was only in it for the scholarship money—and the school's garbage dump.

Just here for the cash.

…

"Naïve girls don't survive here. I'd advise you to be careful."

The red-haired girl sitting in front of me turned around, giving me a cold stare.

I hesitated, then pointed at her drink bottle. "Are you gonna finish that?"

"...What?"

She followed my gaze to the empty bottle in her hand.

The world had kissed me with hardship, so I must get something as compensation.

Another bottle added to my collection.

Satisfied, I hoisted my bulging sack onto my back and walked out.

"What's that new special admissions girl doing?"

"I think she's got a collecting habit. She's been picking up bottles all day."

"Oh my god, that's so weird!"

I strolled away without a care.

These rich kids, untouched by reality—did they even know what was inside that sack?

Eight dollars.

A whole eight dollars!

…

Most days, I wandered around the school's garbage dump. The place had treasures.

Luxury goods, casually discarded, made the dump feel more like an exclusive recycling center.

As I dug through the pile, I looked up and locked eyes with a boy. He looked lean, pale, and well-kept.

His clothes were simple but clean. Seeing me, he frowned slightly.

I suddenly felt that my sack was exposed.

Even in this niche survival game, there was competition.

I clutched my sack tightly. "Don't go poking around here."

He raised a brow. "Did you write your name on it?"

...I hadn't.

Writing my name on a dump wasn't exactly dignified. And I still had my dignity.

I ignored him, grabbed my finds, and left.

He followed.

Soon, we both ended up at the same scrap shop.

The owner greeted us with a knowing smile. We were both regular customers, clearly.

That was how I found out his name was Wesley Chance. Like me, he was a special admissions student.

The look on his face was… complicated.

I understood why.

A moment ago, we were competitors. Now, we were just two people in the same sinking boat.

His eyes landed on the patches on my sleeves.

"You..."

I shrugged. "Need patches? I've got ten. Two dollars each."

"Forget it… Sorry," he muttered, "I didn't know things were that rough for you."

I sniffed, putting on a solemn face. "It's fine."

After a brief silence, he handed me his sack.

"Put it on her tab," he told the shop owner.

I was touched. "You're a good guy."

…

I was poor, but I was also undeniably brilliant.

Exams didn't scare me.

In every city-wide test, I ranked first. Wesley's name wasn't far behind, always within the top ten.

What made it more satisfying? The school name listed next to our names.

It stood out, sharp against the others.

The principal was thrilled. He called us in, beaming with pride, showering us with praise.

With his reputation soaring, he now walked into meetings with his head held high.

Before we left, he pressed an envelope, thick with a wad of dollar bills, into our hands.

The principal beamed. "Cammy, keep up the good work!"

I was moved. "When there's money to be earned, that's a piece of cake!"

Somehow, that phrase—a piece of cake—spread like wildfire.

The elite school had its own forum. Soon enough, someone mocked me: [A poor student talking about things being a piece of cake? Are you sure your life has been a piece of cake?]

I was defenseless.

My life was an absolute mess.

So, I chose the simplest solution—I reported them.

The principal wasted no time comforting me, while Wesley, who happened to be delivering something nearby, averted his gaze as if he couldn't bear to watch.

The principal was a man of both prestige and power. In his younger days, he had dominated the scene, and now, in his later years, he wanted to leave his mark on this school, to create something lasting.

Without hesitation, he pulled out the ringleader of the mockery, berated him on the spot, and demanded an apology.

The boy muttered a reluctant apology.

Of course, I knew he wasn't sincere.

As soon as we stepped out of the office, he turned to sneer at me, probably ready to mock me for tattling. But before he could speak, I smiled mysteriously.

"You're ranked at the bottom of the class, aren't you?"

His face turned red.

"How do you—wait, no! What does that have to do with you?!"

I maintained my enigmatic expression. "Don't you want to..."

His guard went up immediately. "Want what? I'm warning you, just because you have good grades and the principal on your side doesn't mean you're special. My family owns a big company—I could crush you with a single finger."

Hearing him reveal his background, I tilted my head back in my mind and wept silently.

Being rich must be nice.

I'm envious.

I adjusted my mindset, suppressing the urge to hit him, and whispered demagogically, "Don't you want to work hard in secret, then shock everyone in the tests?"

He froze.

I pressed on.

"Don't you want to see your name on the honor roll?

"Don't you want teachers to marvel at your progress, the principal to praise you, your parents to cry tears of joy?"

His steps faltered.

Then, I delivered the final blow.

"Don't you want to stand at the top and look down on everyone else?"

These rich kids were still students. Even in their world, competition existed in subtle and overt ways. Maybe grades didn't determine their futures, but if one of them consistently ranked at the bottom, they would undoubtedly become a laughingstock.

He gritted his teeth. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

I could see it—his resolve wavering.

I was satisfied. With a loud slap, I patted his shoulder.

"Well. You're in luck. Teacher Cammy's tutoring sessions are now open. Not 998 dollars, not even 888 dollars—just 98 dollars for an exclusive lesson from the city's top student!"

He stared at me, dumbfounded.

…

Bruce Felton never imagined that one day, he would be sneaking around with a special admissions student, hiding in an empty break room.

Clenching his jaw, he lowered his voice. "Cammy, I'm telling you, don't mess with me. I have the power and resources to make you pay if this doesn't work out."

Then, he pulled out a crisp 100-dollar bill.

I snatched it at lightning speed, scanning the room warily.

"Let's begin."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Why're you being so secretive, like you're committing a crime?"

...

Bruce's academic foundation was a disaster.

To sum it up: in all my years, I had never seen talent this nonexistent.

But at least he listened. He had a brain that, though sluggish, was willing to work. There was still hope.

By the end of the lesson, he sat there, staring blankly at the problems he had miraculously understood and solved correctly. He squeezed his pen.

This—this was his own work.

To him, I seemed to radiate light.

The light of knowledge.

He took a deep breath.

Truth be told, his family had already hired an expensive one-on-one tutor for him. Yet, for some reason, no matter how much effort they put in, the knowledge simply wouldn't stick.

I, however, immediately identified the problem. It was simple—Bruce and those tutors weren't even on the same wavelength.

Bruce was stunned. He didn't know how I'd managed to pull it off.

His previous tutors had only ever taught students on their own level. They had never encountered a case like Bruce.

But I was different. As long as I was paid, I could adjust my thinking to match his.

It was a piece of cake for me.

…

We agreed to weekly tutoring sessions.

Bruce, ever the generous heir, offered to pay me double the standard hourly rate.

I accepted.

And to make things official, we signed a one-month contract.

Bruce frowned. "Why only three sessions a week? I can hire you every day. As long as the results are there, I don't mind raising your pay."

I refused.

Three times a week. No more, no less.

I wasn't the kind of person to put all my eggs in one basket.

Without hesitation, I turned around and messaged Bruce's sworn rival, Shawn Pendle—the second-to-last ranked student in the grade.

Cammy: [Tutoring lessons. Interested?]

Shawn: [?]

I laid out his current situation with brutal honesty. If he didn't make some changes, it wouldn't be long before he took Bruce's place at the bottom.

He scoffed. [Ridiculous. No matter what he does, Bruce is destined to be last.]

Then I sent him a picture of Bruce's latest quiz results.

Cammy: [Oops, wrong person.]

Silence.

On the other end of the screen, he was struggling. I could feel it.

After a long pause, he finally replied: [Let's talk in person.]

…

Soon, Shawn was locked in as well.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were for Bruce.

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were for Shawn.

My great tutoring enterprise had officially begun.

Without a sound, Bruce and Shawn were rising in the ranks of this elite school.

According to Bruce, he simply couldn't tolerate being at the bottom any longer.

According to Shawn, he absolutely refused to let Bruce surpass him.

Making money from both of them wasn't easy.

I would casually let slip some of Bruce's recent progress, or accidentally leave behind one of his passing quiz papers.

"Oh? How did this get here?"

Shawn's eyes widened, locking onto the page like a hawk.

"Can we add an extra hour today? I'll pay triple."

"Deal."

I made sure to compliment his ambition. He soaked it in, working even harder.

With Bruce, I played to his sense of competition. After all, there was no place lower than dead last. He had no choice but to fight.

…

Over time, I grew exhausted.

I took back what I said about making money being a piece of cake.

Money was hard to earn. And dealing with these two was hell.

Tutoring wasn't difficult—it all depended on who I was tutoring.

Sometimes, I snapped. "Do you even have a brain between your ears?"

I finally understood the pain of cows being forced to work in fields.

I even felt I deserved compensation for emotional damages.

That day, rubbing the dark circles under my eyes, I stumbled out of the lounge, half-asleep.

Then I stopped.

A figure stood in front of me.

Wesley.

Armband on his sleeve, a blue folder in one hand, a black pen in the other.

His gaze lingered on me, unreadable.

"Cammy."

Instantly, I snapped to attention.

I was wary of Wesley.

He had a way of existing just enough to be noticed, yet not enough to be truly understood.

We were destined to be enemies from the moment we found ourselves standing in the garbage dump—or at least, that was my unilateral declaration.

I fully expected him to say something like, "This is my garbage dump. If you touch it, I'll deduct all your points."

Instead, he lowered his head and scribbled something on his notepad.

"No school badge. Minus two points."

I was speechless.

He was definitely not a friend.

Wesley eyed the dark circles under my eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he carefully chose his words.

"Be mindful of your image."

I admitted my fault. "Yes, I know. Not wearing the school badge is my mistake. But has it ever occurred to you that I don't even own a school uniform?"

The school had supposedly invited some famous designer to custom-make them.

The others had reacted as follows:

"This brand isn't high-end enough."

"Unbelievable. You expect me to wear this?"

"Is the school bankrupt? I'll ask my dad to invest in another building."

Every sentence made me be aware of my poverty.

Wesley paused. "You didn't know?"

I blinked. "Know what?"

After a moment's thought, he handed me his phone.

He pointed to the screen.

I glanced at it. A giant headline jumped out at me.

[The Innocent Cinderella Is Not What She Seems: Secret Trysts Revealed! Monday, Wednesday, and Friday With Him—And Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday With…]

I scratched my head. It looked like the kind of trashy gossip article you'd find in sketchy tabloids. Some random scandal, probably.

Then I scrolled down.

The first photo was a close-up of my face, dark circles and all, looking like something straight out of a horror movie.

I was shocked.

My innocent and cute schoolgirl image had turned into a vengeful spirit that lingered in the halls at night.