The glow of my laptop screen cast shadows across my face as I refreshed the university's booking system for the fifth time that hour. Three days. Three days of navigating this dysfunctional website, calling travel agencies during their limited student hours, and standing in queues that stretched across campus. All for two business class train tickets home for the holidays.

"Come on, come on," I whispered, blinking away the fatigue burning behind my eyes. The system crashed twice yesterday, and I'd spent six hours on hold with three different agencies. But it would be worth it. Worth every minute of lost sleep.

When the confirmation finally appeared, I let out a squeal that startled my roommate Emma from her studies.

"Valery? You okay?" she asked, peering over her economics textbook.

"I got them!" I spun my laptop toward her, pointing at the screen. "Two business class tickets for me and Wesley. We'll be able to sleep properly on the overnighter home."

Emma's eyebrows shot up. "You actually managed to get business class? How?"

"It wasn't easy," I admitted, allowing myself a small smile of triumph. "But Wesley's never traveled business class before, and I want our first trip to meet my family to be perfect."

I carefully printed the e-tickets, tucking them into my wallet like precious documents. For three days, I'd maintained my usual modest appearance—jeans worn at the knees, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail—while secretly drawing on resources most students couldn't access. Not that they needed to know that.

---

"I have a surprise for you," Wesley said the next afternoon, sliding into the seat across from me at our favorite coffee shop. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

I stirred my latte absently. "What kind of surprise?"

He reached for my hand across the table, but I pulled back slightly. Something in his tone made me uneasy.

"I gave your train ticket to Isla," he said casually, as if announcing he'd borrowed my pen.

The spoon stilled in my cup. "You... what?"

"Isla's going through a really rough patch," he continued, oblivious to my growing disbelief. "Her boyfriend just dumped her, and she's been a wreck. She needs the comfort of business class more than you do."

"More than me?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

Wesley sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "It's just a train ticket, Valery. Don't be so materialistic."

"Just a train ticket?" I echoed, heat rising in my cheeks. "Do you have any idea what I went through to get those seats?"

"You can still come home," he said dismissively. "I booked you a standing-room ticket in the same car. It's not like you'll be in steerage or anything."

I stared at him, trying to process what was happening. Three sleepless nights. Countless phone calls. Hours of my time—all for nothing.

"Isla's really upset," he continued, his tone suggesting I should be more concerned about her feelings than my own. "She's been crying for days. You've never seen her like this."

"And you didn't think to discuss this with me first?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.

Wesley's expression hardened. "What was there to discuss? It's my ticket too, and Isla needed it more."

"Your ticket?" I repeated, incredulous. "I secured both tickets."

"And I paid for them," he countered, though we both knew that wasn't true. I'd insisted on handling everything this time.

As I sat there, something shifted inside me. The carefully constructed wall I'd built around my true identity trembled slightly.

"I don't understand why you're making such a big deal out of this," Wesley said, his voice taking on that condescending tone I'd grown to resent. "I thought you were better than this, Valery. More caring about others' feelings."

"Others' feelings?" I repeated, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Isla is going through real emotional pain. Have you ever been truly devastated by a breakup? Do you even understand what that feels like?"

I stared at him, speechless. Of course I understood pain. But what struck me most was how easily he dismissed my efforts, how quickly he assumed I was being selfish rather than disappointed.

"Look," he said, reaching for his phone, "if it makes you feel better, I'll show you the standing-room ticket I got you. It's actually not that bad—"

I tuned out as he scrolled through his phone, suddenly seeing with perfect clarity what I had been blind to for months.

I sat there, staring at Wesley's face as he waved his phone in front of me, showing off the standing-room ticket he'd "generously" arranged for me. The audacity of it all—after everything I'd done to secure those business class seats.

"Valery?" Wesley's voice pulled me back. "Did you hear what I said? It's really not that bad."

I took a deep breath, feeling something shift inside me. The wall I'd carefully constructed around my identity trembled again, this time more insistently.

"Don't worry about my travel arrangements," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'll handle them myself."

Wesley's eyebrows shot up. "What do you mean? I already booked your ticket."

"I'm sure Isla will appreciate the business class seat more than I would," I replied, reaching for my phone. "And I'm sure I can find something more suitable for myself."

I pulled up my contacts and found James, my father's executive assistant. We'd established a protocol for emergencies—not that Wesley would know what constituted an emergency in my world.

"James? It's Valery," I said quietly, stepping away from the table. "I need the jet prepared for tomorrow evening. Yes, just me. Returning home for the holidays."

Wesley's eyes widened as he overheard my conversation. I caught Isla's gaze from across the coffee shop where she'd been watching our interaction with poorly concealed interest.

"Is everything alright?" James asked on the other end.

"Yes," I replied, maintaining my composure. "Just a change of plans."

As I returned to the table, Wesley exchanged a look with Isla, who had moved to sit beside him during my call.

"Was that... your dad's assistant?" Wesley asked, his tone a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

I nodded, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "I'll be taking my father's private jet home tomorrow."

Wesley and Isla exchanged glances again, this time with matching expressions of pity tinged with mockery.

"A private jet?" Isla repeated, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "How... extravagant."

"Valery," Wesley said, leaning forward as if speaking to a child, "there's no need to make up stories just because you're upset about the ticket."

"I'm not upset," I replied truthfully. "I'm simply making alternate arrangements."

Isla snorted, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just... a private jet? Really?"

Before I could respond, Wesley burst into laughter—not his usual charming laugh, but something harsher, more dismissive.

"Valery, this isn't like you," he said between chuckles. "Making up ridiculous stories to save face? A private jet?"

I watched them both, suddenly seeing how alike they were—Wesley with his judgmental arrogance, Isla with her calculating eyes and false innocence.

"I'm not making anything up," I said quietly.

Wesley shook his head, already texting someone. "You know what? I think we need to lighten the mood here." He turned his phone toward me, showing a group chat where he'd just posted: "Valery just claimed she's taking a private jet home. Emergency delusions of grandeur?"

I watched as notifications popped up one after another:

"OMG no way"

"That's wild"

"She's losing it"

Isla leaned over to look at the messages, giggling as she added her own comment: "I always knew she was a bit... off."

"Wesley," I said, interrupting their amusement, "there's something else you should know."

He looked up, still smirking. "What's that?"

"You should prepare for some changes to your scholarship funding," I said, keeping my voice level.

His smile faltered momentarily before returning with even more dismissiveness. "What are you talking about?"

"The Morrison Scholarship," I clarified. "It might not be available to you next semester."

Wesley exchanged another glance with Isla, who placed a comforting hand on his arm.

"Is this some kind of threat?" he asked, his tone hardening. "Because it's not a good look, Valery."

Isla nodded solemnly. "Wesley, I think she might be having some kind of breakdown. First the private jet, now this?"

"She's always been jealous of you," Isla continued, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Maybe she can't handle that you chose to help me instead."

Wesley patted her hand, his eyes never leaving mine. "Don't worry about Valery's threats," he told her. "They're just words."

I stood up, gathering my things. There was nothing left to say—at least not to them.

"Enjoy your business class seat, Isla," I said quietly. "And Wesley... you should really prepare for those scholarship changes."

As I walked away, I heard Isla's voice behind me: "She's definitely losing it. Did you see her face?"

Their laughter followed me out the door, but I didn't look back. By tomorrow, they'd understand exactly how wrong they were.

I was halfway across campus when my phone started buzzing incessantly. At first, I ignored it, assuming it was just Wesley trying to apologize—or more likely, mock me further. But when I finally checked the screen, I saw a string of notifications from various group chats I didn't even know I'd been added to.

"Did you see what Valery claimed?" read one message.

"OMG she actually thinks she's taking a private jet home!"

"I always knew she was delusional."

I scrolled through them, my stomach knotting tighter with each swipe. Screenshots of my conversation with James were being passed around—along with wildly embellished details.

"Valery told Wesley she's secretly a billionaire heiress," Isla had written in one chat. "She's been pretending to be poor this whole time."

"Total attention-seeking behavior," Wesley had responded. "She's been acting weird for weeks."

I quickened my pace, ducking into an empty classroom to gather my thoughts. My hands trembled slightly as I scrolled through more messages.

"Remember how she always paid for coffee with exact change?" someone wrote. "So calculated."

"And those 'family emergencies' she'd have? Probably just her butler calling."

The cruelty of it all stole my breath. These were people who'd smiled at me in the cafeteria, borrowed my notes, invited me to study groups. Now they were dissecting my every move, constructing elaborate fantasies about my supposed lies.

My phone buzzed again. It was Emma.

"Valery, where are you? We need to talk."

I texted back our location and waited, trying to compose myself. When Emma burst through the door, her face was flushed with anger.

"You need to see this," she said, thrusting her phone at me. "It's getting worse."

Emma's screen displayed a campus-wide anonymous confession page. At the top was a post that had already garnered hundreds of likes and comments:

"Saw V.M. with her 'sugar daddy' at Le Bernardin last week. He was at least 50. She was wearing that cheap dress she always wears to 'look normal.' Total gold digger."

My blood ran cold. I'd had lunch with my father at Le Bernardin three weeks ago—a rare meeting because he'd been in town for business. We'd sat in a private booth, and I'd worn jeans and a simple blouse.

"That's not—" I started, but Emma cut me off.

"There's more."

She scrolled down, revealing dozens of similar posts.

"V.M. gets all her money from her 'sponsor.' That's why she could afford those business class tickets."

"Heard she's been seeing him since freshman year. Explains how she affords tuition."

"Always thought she was too good for campus housing. Now we know why."

I handed the phone back to Emma, a strange calm settling over me. "They're saying I'm being kept by a sugar daddy."

"Because of those business class tickets?" Emma asked incredulously.

"No," I said quietly. "Because of Wesley and Isla."

---

By evening, the rumors had evolved into a full-blown witch hunt. As I walked across campus, I could feel eyes following me, hear whispers trailing in my wake.

"Is it true about her and that rich guy?"

"How old do you think he is?"

"Bet she's been sleeping with him for years."

I kept my head high, but inside I was seething. Not just at the rumors, but at how quickly people believed them. How many times had I helped classmates with projects? Loaned books? Stayed up all night proofreading papers?

None of that mattered now. All that mattered was this juicy new gossip.

Emma met me at our dorm, her expression grim. "It's everywhere," she said, opening her laptop to show me. "They're rating your attractiveness on a scale of how much a sugar daddy would pay."

I glanced at the screen and immediately regretted it. A campus forum had dedicated an entire thread to "Valery's Sugar Daddy Scandal," complete with photos of me taken from social media, ranked on a scale of 1-10 for "daddy appeal."

"Someone even made a fake profile for him," Emma said, clicking on a photo of an older man in a business suit. "They're calling him 'Mr. Moneybags.'"

I stared at the stranger's face—someone my father had never met, someone who was now being described in intimate detail as my supposed benefactor.

"They're saying he bought you that designer bag you wore to the winter formal," Emma continued, her voice tight with anger. "The one your mom gave you for your birthday."

A notification popped up on Emma's screen—a new anonymous confession.

"Just saw V.M. on the phone with her sugar daddy AGAIN. She was giggling and touching his arm. Disgusting."

Attached was a blurry photo of me talking to my father's assistant James earlier that day.

"They're watching me," I whispered, a chill running down my spine.

Emma closed her laptop firmly. "This has gone too far," she said. "We need to fight back."

But as I stared at the wall of our dorm room, I wondered how you fought shadows and whispers. How you proved that the father who loved you wasn't the sugar daddy they'd invented.

And most importantly—how much worse this would get before it ended.