My Fraud Boyfriend
The salesman smiled as he handed me the car key, the black casing studded with tiny diamonds that made his eyes gleam with flattery.
"Ms. Scott, your custom aniline leather seats and Meteor starry sky roof are all set. You can pick up the car right now. Need me to arrange a driver for you?"
I shook my head and slipped the key into my crocodile leather clutch—my mom bought this at Fashion Week; it's one of only three in the world. She thought it was too flashy back then and insisted I take it.
Just as I turned to leave, three people in black suits blocked my path. The woman in front tapped her ten-centimeter heels sharply on the marble floor, each click sounding like a challenge to my patience.
"So, you're Viola Scott?"
She scanned me up and down, her gaze settling on the watch on my wrist, full of contempt. Then, pulling a bank card from her crocodile leather bag, she said, "Leave Mike. There's fifty thousand in here — enough for a country girl like you to live on for two years in the county town."
My fingers tightened on the car key, knuckles whitening — "Mike" is Mike Lincoln, the boy I'd been chasing for half a month. We met at a bar last week; he called himself a "startup rookie," and when he smiled, he had two dimples. On a whim, I said I wanted to "give dating a try."
"Fifty thousand?" I tugged at the corner of my mouth, my eyes landing on the diamond ring on her finger.
I knew that ring style too well—it was the one I grabbed at last year's jewelry fair, a three-carat pigeon blood red diamond ring.
It cost eight figures back then and was just 'accidentally lost' in Mike Lincoln's car last week. "This ring's pretty nice. Where'd you get it?"
Her face darkened, thinking I was dodging the subject, and she pushed her bank card closer to me once more.
"Don't feed me that nonsense! I've checked—you're just a regular student, and your parents run a small restaurant back home. Fifty thousand isn't a small amount for you. Take what's offered and don't push."
A girl in a miniskirt with pink hair suddenly lunged out from behind her, grabbing my arm so hard her nails almost dug into my flesh: "Exactly! Mike is about to marry into a wealthy family, and some loser like you actually thinks you deserve him? Just take your money and get lost!"
My arm ached from the tug, and I looked down at the jade necklace around her neck—the very necklace I won at an auction last month.
At that time, I thought it was too heavy to wear, so I casually tossed it into Mike Lincoln's car and asked him to help me take it back. Never expected it to end up as Vivian Lincoln's jewelry.
"That necklace of yours..." I deliberately paused, watching Vivian's face instantly tighten. "Looks like the one I lost."
Vivian went pale and hurriedly stuffed the necklace inside her clothes. "What nonsense are you talking about? Mike bought this for me! Are you trying to scam me?"
Fiona Lewis chimed in, "Exactly! She is Mike’s friend — what's wrong with buying her a necklace? Viola, don't even think about slandering our family!"
I looked again at the diamond bracelet on Fiona's wrist — the gift my dad gave me on my eighteenth birthday. It's a full-diamond design with my birthdate engraved on it. I'd been searching for days last week without success, only to realize Mike had stolen it to butter up his mom.
"Your bracelet is pretty unique, too."
I smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in my eyes.
"I remember this style of bracelet—there's only one in the whole world. It was a coming-of-age gift from my dad."
Fiona Lewis instinctively hid her wrist behind her back, but her tone sharpened, "Stop spouting nonsense! My husband bought this for me! Viola Scott, it looks like you're so desperate for money that you want to steal things from our family!"
I was just reaching for my cell phone to call Mike Lincoln—the latest custom model, engraved with the Scott family crest on the back, filled with photos of me and my parents skiing. It was my most treasured possession.
Fiona Lewis suddenly rushed over, snatched the cell phone, and slammed it onto the ground.
With a sharp crack, the phone screen shattered into a spiderweb.
Still not satisfied, she pressed the tips of her high heels onto it twice, sending shards of glass splintering onto my ankle, cutting a streak of blood.
"Still trying to contact Mike? I'll make sure you never reach him again!" She leaned in close, her breath heavy with a sharp perfume scent.
"Mike's about to marry into the Scott family fortune! If you dare get in his way, I'll send you off as a servant somewhere far from home, and you'll never come back for the rest of your life!"
I almost burst out laughing when I heard the words "the Scott family"—my dad, Harry Scott, is the so-called "richest Scott," but my parents have always kept a low profile, never appearing in the media, and even the company's shares are held in a trust. Outsiders only know "the Scott family is wealthy," but they have no idea who we really are.
"The Scott family?" I pretended to be surprised. "Are you sure Mike is going to marry into the Scott family? How come I haven't heard anything about it?"
Fiona Lewis thought I was intimidated and smugly lifted her chin.
"Of course you haven't heard—how would a top-tier family like the Scotts let outsiders know about an arranged marriage? Mike is our pride and joy—he'll be part of the Scotts one day. You're not even on the same level as him!"
Vivian Lincoln was still tugging at my clothes, muttering curses: "Get lost! Don't block the view! Mike doesn't like you at all; he's only with you out of pity!"
I shrugged off her hand but misjudged the force, and she staggered back two steps.
I took the chance to slap her face—the sharp "smack" echoed through the car sales store's lobby; everyone, from salespeople to customers, stopped what they were doing and stared.
"Didn't your parents ever teach you not to grab other people's clothes like that?"
I rubbed my arm where she had grabbed me painfully, my tone icy, "And another thing, watch your words or you'll get what's coming to you."
Vivian covered her face, eyes wide, tears instantly welling up: "You dare hit me? I'll fight you!"
She grabbed a designer bag and swung it at my head. That bag was a gift I had given Mike before, but he ended up giving it to Vivian.
The metal chain on the bag scraped across my cheek, leaving a red mark.
I dodged to the side and pulled Fiona in front of me; Vivian's bag hit Fiona right on the forehead, blood immediately flowing down, staining her flawless foundation.
"Mom! Are you okay?"
Vivian Lincoln went pale with fright, frantically digging paper towels from her bag, but the more she wiped, the dirtier it got.
"Viola Scott, just wait—I'll make you pay! My uncle is the police chief; I'll have him arrest you!"
I sneered coldly, bent down to pick up the car key.
The broken diamonds on the key were a bit dusty; I wiped them off with my sleeve, opened the car door, and sat inside.
"You better call the police now and let them decide who's really scamming."
When I started the car, Mike Lincoln's face flashed through my mind—last week at the bar, he wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the watch on his wrist (the one I gave him), smiling as he said, "Viola, you're really something."
Now that I think about it, that smile was pure calculation.
Thankfully, he kept his distance, saying, "Take it slow, don't rush," and didn't let me get close. Otherwise, I'd need to find a place to take a good shower and wash off all the bad vibes.
I hit the gas and headed to school. There was an economics final that afternoon, and the invigilator was Yale Shawn, who had just returned from overseas.
I heard his exam questions can actually make top students cry.
Last year, a student was two minutes late and got turned away right at the door, forced to repeat the year. There was also a student caught cheating red-handed by him, who was reported to the entire school—losing even the qualification for graduate recommendations.
I definitely don't want my mom flying back from abroad just to twist my ear—she loves me, but she's always strict about studying.
Last time I skipped an elective, she had the housekeeper confiscate all my favorite bags, saying, “When you finish making up the class, you can have them back.”
At the school gate, Rachel Xavier was already waiting by the roadside. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair tied in a ponytail.
Seeing me, she ran over and grabbed me, pulling me toward the teaching building: “Viola Scott! Why haven't you answered your cell? The exam starts in ten minutes!”
"Professor Shawn is personally proctoring the exam today. I heard he brought a scanner that can even detect cheat sheets hidden in pens!"
She panted as she ran. "I just saw him enter the exam hall. Don't be late!"
We rushed into the exam room just as the bell rang.
Yale Shawn stood at the podium holding the test papers, dressed in a black suit with silver cufflinks, his hair combed perfectly—almost unchanged from three years ago.
I kept my head down looking for a seat, not daring to meet his gaze.
Three years ago, my friends and I went to a bar and saw him sitting alone in the corner reading a finance book.
I thought he was "pretentious," so I went over and started a conversation.
Later, after drinking too much, I blindly followed him back to the hotel.
The next morning, I woke up to see him making breakfast and saying, “I'll take care of you from now on.”
I was so scared I quickly packed up and ran away, not even leaving my contact info.
Looking back now, I was really naive, but I'm also relieved it didn't go any deeper — at least, that's what I told myself at the time.
During the exam, I kept feeling eyes on my back. When I looked up, I locked eyes with Yale Shawn.
His gaze was so deep, like he was hiding something. I quickly lowered my head and pretended to focus on the questions, but my heart was racing.
The exam was tough — full of international finance case studies. I stayed up late reviewing last night but still felt unsure.
On my way to the restroom, as I passed the podium, Yale Shawn suddenly called out to me, "Viola Scott, what's wrong with your face?"
I touched the red mark on my cheek, caused by Vivian Lincoln's bag, and casually said, "It's nothing, just accidentally brushed against it."
He frowned, pulled a band-aid out of his pocket, and handed it to me. "Put this on—don't let it get infected."
I took the band-aid; when my fingertips brushed his hand, it felt warm. I pulled back as if shocked, said "Thanks," and quickly headed into the restroom.
Three hours later, the exam was over. As soon as I stepped out of the exam hall, I heard gossip buzzing around me like flies.
"That's Viola Scott, right? I heard she's being a mistress."
Two girls were standing at the end of the corridor, speaking softly but loud enough for me to hear, "I saw Vivian Lincoln's live stream. She said Viola Scott is a country girl trying to climb the social ladder."
"Really? I used to think she kept a low profile. Never thought she was this scheming."
Another girl agreed, "Mike Lincoln is so handsome. Why would he be interested in her? It has to be Viola throwing herself at him."
I frowned, clenching my fists—Rachel was so furious she wanted to storm over and confront them, but I held her back: "Don't stoop to their level. The innocent have nothing to fear."
"But they're spreading lies!" Rachel stomped her foot, pulling out her cell phone and opening a live stream. "Look, Vivian Lincoln is still streaming, calling you a 'con artist and heartbreaker.' Tens of thousands are watching!"
I took Rachel's phone.
On the screen, Vivian was crying straight into the camera, while Fiona Lewis sat beside her with a bandage on her forehead, looking wronged: "Everyone, look. My daughter and I were beaten by Viola Scott like this. She even grabbed the car Mike bought, claiming it's hers. How does that make any sense?"
The chat was flooded with insults: "Viola Scott is disgusting, someone call the police and get her!" "Mike Lincoln's so unlucky to run into a gold digger like her!" "Don't be down, we're all backing you!"
"These people have gone way too far!" Rachel Xavier's hands shook with anger. "Quick, contact Mr. Clark and have him come over! And Lawyer Warren—we need to sue them for defamation!"
I nodded and called Mr. Clark using Rachel's cell phone—he's our family's butler and head bodyguard, has been with my dad for twenty years, and knows exactly how to handle these situations.
As soon as the call connected, Mr. Clark's voice came through: "Miss, are you alright? I've been trying to call you but couldn't get through. Is something wrong?"
"Mr. Clark, I'm fine, it's just that my cell phone got smashed."
I tried to keep my tone calm. "Bring a few bodyguards over, and have Lawyer Warren ready. I'm suing Mike Lincoln's whole family—they stole my stuff and are slandering me."
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