Never Underestimate an Heiress
Every night, I set my alarm for three a.m. and sit in front of my computer half an hour early, fingers poised over the mouse, practicing clicks repeatedly.
My three roommates in the dorm were sound asleep; only my desk lamp was on, the screen's light casting shadows on my face—I didn't even dare breathe too heavily, afraid that missing a second would cost me the ticket.
On the third morning, when the system flashed "Ticket Purchase Successful," I was so thrilled I nearly shouted out loud but I quickly covered my mouth, but tears still slipped down.
My hometown is in a small town more than a thousand kilometers away, and with my busy studies, I can only go back once every six months.
Mom had already posted on her Twitter, saying she'd make my favorite dishes. Dad also said he'd take me to stroll down the old street we used to visit when I was little.
This ticket carries half a month of my anticipation and the heartfelt care from my parents.
I carefully saved a screenshot of the ticket info and triple-checked the train number and time before I dared to close my laptop.
The next morning, I tucked my phone into my pocket and walked briskly to find Mathew Lutz.
He's my boyfriend; we've been together almost two years. I wanted him to be the first person who can share my joy.
He lived in a rented room right across from the school. When I pushed the door open, he was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. The screen was lit up, showing a chat with someone.
Hearing the noise, he looked up at me with a faint expression—no trace of his usual smile.
"I canceled your ticket." After saying that, he lowered his head and kept scrolling, as if it were no big deal.
The phone in my hand slipped and dropped with a snap onto the floor. The tempered glass cracked with a long, jagged line—like my heart shattering in an instant.
I knelt down to pick up the phone. My fingertips brushed the cold screen, and only then did I realize my hands were trembling.
"What did you say?" My voice trembled, and even breathing felt difficult.
Mathew finally put down his phone and looked up at me, his eyes showing no hint of apology—actually, there was a flicker of impatience: "Abby's in a bad mood, since she's homesick and couldn't get a high-speed rail ticket home."
"I saw your ticket was perfectly timed, so I gave it to her."
Abby is his junior in the computer science department, lately always coming to Mathew with excuses like, "I can't solve this programming problem" or "I don't understand the paper format."
Last time I went to his rented room, I saw Abby sitting right next to him, their heads close together, both focused on the computer screen.
When I asked, Mathew said I was being petty and that Abby was just an immature junior; he told me not to overthink it.
Looking back now, I realize I was the fool deceiving only myself.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging painfully into my palms, waking me just enough to say, "What about me? I also want to go home on that day. My parents are waiting for me."
"What else can you do?" Mathew frowned, leaned back on the sofa, his tone growing even more impatient, "Keep trying—aren't there still some standing tickets left?"
"It's just seven or eight hours, right? You can handle it; it'll be over soon."
I froze, like my blood had suddenly turned to ice.
He clearly knows I get motion sickness—that bus rides make me so sick I end up vomiting everywhere.
Last time, our club went to the countryside; in just half an hour, I threw up three times.
It's impossible for me to stand in a crowded train for eight hours.
"No, I won't do that." I gritted my teeth and spoke each word deliberately.
It was the first time in two years I'd ever said "no" to him.
Back then, no matter what he asked—even if it was waking up at dawn to buy him breakfast or helping with his course papers—I never said "no".
But this time, I don't want to compromise anymore.
I pulled out my backup phone from my bag — it was a birthday gift from Dad last year, and I rarely use it because I'm afraid Mathew might think I'm wasting money.
I dialed Dad's number, and after two rings, he answered.
"Molly? Why are you calling at this hour? Is something wrong?" Dad's voice was gentle, laced with familiar concern.
My nose tingled, and tears started falling again. "Daddy, I want to go home tomorrow, but... the high-speed rail ticket I grabbed was canceled by Mathew. He gave it to someone else."
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then Dad's calm voice came through: "Don't worry, Molly, it's okay."
"Stay at school. I'll ask Dr Ward to send a private jet to pick you up. It'll be there early tomorrow morning."
After hanging up, I looked up and met Mathew's gaze.
His expression completely changed—from impatience to anger. He suddenly stood up, pointed at me, and said, "Molly, are you serious?"
"It's just one high-speed rail ticket, and you cry to your dad? Do you really think having some money at home makes you so special?"
"So vain and fragile! Why did I never realize you were like this before?"
His words were like knives, stabbing straight into my heart.
The guy who used to wait for me after class, holding an umbrella on rainy days, the one who once said he'd take care of me for a lifetime, but now, over a single ticket, describes me as a douchebag.
I looked at his twisted face and suddenly felt like he was a stranger—so unfamiliar, it scared me.
"Tell Abby to give me back the ticket, and I'll pretend none of this ever happened." I forced my voice to stay steady, not wanting to lose it in front of him.
"No way!" Mathew said firmly, "The ticket's already with Abby. She's leaving tomorrow."
"Either you go grab a standing ticket yourself, or don't come home at all!"
After saying that, he shoved me aside, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door as he left.
The door slammed with a bang, shaking the pictures on the wall until they fell.
I stood there, looking at the mess on the floor and my phone with its cracked screen in my hand, finally unable to hold back the tears. They fell in heavy drops onto the ground.
Mathew came to find me again the next morning.
When he knocked on the dorm door, I was sitting at my desk sorting through my textbooks, my eyes red and swollen from crying all night.
When he opened the door, there was a fake smile on his face, and he was holding a bag of breakfast—my old favorite steamed meat buns. But now, I feel disgusting.
"Molly, it was my fault yesterday. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you." He placed the breakfast on the table, his tone softening. "Please don't be mad, okay?"
I didn't look at him and kept organizing my textbooks. "What's matter?"
Seeing my cold attitude, he dropped the act and spoke with a hint of command in his voice, "Molly, after the festival vacation, come back to school early."
"Abby wanted to use the holiday to review for her postgraduate exams. The library gets crowded, so could you go early and save her a seat?"
My hand hesitated on the textbook, my fingertips chilling.
Last winter, before the final exams, I asked him to come with me to the library to study.
It was cold then, but the library had heating and was quiet.
But he said, "The library is noisy and crowded, and the air isn't great. It's more comfortable to play games in the dorm."
In the end, I spent half a month alone in the library, showing up at six in the morning to save a seat and only returning to the dorm at ten at night.
Now, he wants me to go back to school early just to save a seat for Abby.
It felt like something was choking my chest, heavy and suffocating—I even felt pain when I breathed.
I looked up at him and forced a smile. "Alright."
I want to see how far his hypocrisy goes, and how ruthless he can be with me.
Mathew thought I had given in and smiled with satisfaction. "I knew you were the most sensible one."
"Now I need to find Abby first; she's still waiting for me to help with her thesis."
After saying that, he grabbed his coat and walked out without even glancing at the breakfast on the table.
After he left, I threw that bag of steamed meat buns into the trash.
Then, I opened Instagram and scrolled through Mathew and Abby's social accounts.
Mathew rarely posted on Ins before, except for a few game screenshots here and there.
But in the past month, he's been posting a lot, almost every day.
Yesterday afternoon, he posted a photo of a coffee cup with the caption: "Taking Abby out to clear her mind. She's so mature, way better than someone."
I recognized the coffee cup in the photo.
It's a limited edition from that popular coffee shop downtown.
Last month, on my birthday, I wanted to grab a coffee at that café. He said, "A cup costs over thirty dollars, too expensive, not worth it," then dragged me to the convenience store at the school entrance and bought a two-dollar bottled water.
This morning at seven, Abby posted a photo on Ins.
In the photo, she's sitting by the café window, holding the same coffee, with a blurry guy sitting across from her — no doubt, it's Mathew.
Her caption read: "Thanks for keeping me company, Mathew. I'm feeling so much better now~ I'll keep learning from you!"
Below is Mathew 's comment: "No problem. If you ever feel down, just reach out to me anytime."
I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling uncontrollably.
It turned out he wasn't clueless about romance, nor was he unwilling to spend money.
He just gave his romance and money to someone else.
I remembered that on my birthday, he gave me a lipstick that cost twenty-nine dollars and said, "This cheap one is good enough for girls."
But he was happy to drink coffee costing over thirty dollars with Abby and even brag about it on social media.
I threw my phone on the desk, then lay my head down, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
Tears silently soaked my textbook, blurring the words on the page.
The love I believed in, the lifetime I dreamed of—it was all just a carefully spun lie.
I felt like such a fool, deceived for two whole years.
The day before the vacation, Mathew came to my dorm with Abby.
They carried a small fruit basket with just a few apples and a bunch of bananas; the apples were spotted—obviously discounted fruit from the supermarket.
It looked like a distant relatives dropping by, but there was a perfunctory arrogance in their manner.
All the other roommates were in the dorm; when they saw him come in, they all stopped what they were doing, their eyes filled with curiosity.
Mathew walked over to the sofa and sat down, picked up a glass of water from the table, took a sip, and then said, "Molly, did you manage to get a ticket home?"
His tone sounded like fake concern, but his eyes were scanning my luggage—I'd only packed a small backpack, so he probably thought I really hadn't managed to get a ticket.
Abby stood beside him, holding an apple, picking at the skin with her nails and taking small bites.
She was wearing a white dress—the one Mathew bought online last month. When I asked him who it was for, he said, "For my cousin."
But now it's obvious—there's no cousin; it was clearly meant for Abby.
"Molly, if you can't get a ticket, why don't you stay a few days at the apartment I'm renting?" Abby looked up, smiling innocently, but her eyes held an unmistakable challenge.
"My apartment's a bit small, only ten square meters, and it's on the top floor of an old building with no elevator. Sometimes the water and electricity even go out, but it's still better than wandering outside."
She made a point of mentioning "ten square meters," "top floor," and "no water or electricity," like she was bragging about how tough she could be, while also mocking me for being "delicate," unwilling even to fight for a standing ticket.
I know about the apartment she rented because Mathew mentioned it to me before, saying Abby's family isn't well off, so she's very sensible and knows how to save money."
But he never said he was helping Abby cover the rent.
I picked up the glass on the table, took a light sip of warm water, and swallowed the anger in my heart: "No need, I've already found a way home faster than the train."
Mathew raised an eyebrow, leaned back on the sofa, his tone full of sarcasm: "Faster than the train?"
"You mean you fly back?"
Abby laughed along, her voice sharp like nails on a chalkboard: "Molly, don't joke around."
"Plane tickets are so expensive— even the cheapest economy seat costs over a thousand dollars. You don't even splurge on a coffee over thirty bucks; how could you afford a plane ticket?"
She deliberately spoke loudly, as if to make sure everyone in the dorm could hear.
The other roommates all looked down, pretending to read, but I knew they were listening.
Watching their chorus-like act, I sneered inwardly.
Soon, their laughter died out.
I set down my cup, my voice calm but tinged with undeniable certainty: "I really can fly home."
"My dad is sending a private jet to pick me up. He'll arrive at school at ten tomorrow morning."
Mathew 's smile froze instantly. He looked at me, eyes filled with surprise and disbelief—as if seeing me for the first time.
Abby stopped biting her apple, and it slipped from her hand, rolling under the sofa.
They exchanged a glance, both seeing panic in the other's eyes.
"Molly, stop bragging." Mathew frowned, a trace of panic in his voice. "Do you think I don't know your family situation? Your parents are just regular office workers. Where would a private jet come from?"
"Exactly, Molly, that's a terrible lie." Abby bent down to pick up the apple, brushed off the dust, but didn't dare take a bite. "If you really had a private jet, would you be staying up late fighting for a high-speed rail ticket? Would you still hesitate to spend over thirty dollars on a coffee?"
I didn't argue with them anymore.
No use saying more. Tomorrow morning, the truth will prove everything.
I stood up, pointed toward the door, and asked them to leave: "It's getting late, I need to pack up, so I won't see you off."
Mathew and Abby stood up with gloomy faces. When they reached the door, Abby suddenly turned around and shot me a venomous look: "Molly, I advise you to stop pretending. Lies will be exposed sooner or later."
I ignored her and closed the door.
The moment the door shut, the calm on my face finally broke.
I leaned against the door and slowly slid down to sit on the floor, hugging my knees.
I'm not bragging—I just can't hide who I am anymore.
I used to think love needed equality, so I kept my family background a secret—Dad's the chairman of The Bolton Business, and we have a private jet and a villa.
I was afraid Mathew would think I was too rich and too distant, or that he was only with me for the money.
So I ate street food with him, wore cheap clothes, and didn't even dare to drink my favorite coffee.
Looking back now, I realize how completely wrong I was.
True love is never built on just one person's compromise and secrets.
On the day we left campus, the whole place felt unusually lively.
Everywhere, students dragged their suitcases, rushing to catch their rides; the bus stop at the school gate was packed, every face glowing with the anticipation of going home.
I stood in the open space beneath the dorm, carrying a small backpack, waiting for my flight.
Inside the backpack were just a few changes of clothes and gifts for my parents — a scarf I bought with my scholarship money. It wasn't expensive, but it was really warm.
Around ten o'clock, Mathew and Abby came over dragging their suitcases.
They saw me and stopped. Abby smiled and said, "Molly, where's your private jet?"
"Being afraid we'd catch you in a lie, so you didn't dare to send it?"
Mathew laughed too, his tone dripping with mockery: "Stop waiting. Hurry to the station and grab a standing ticket. If you're late, even those'll be gone."
A few students nearby glanced over, their eyes curious and hungry for some entertainment.
I ignored them, lifted my head, and stared up at the sky.
A tiny white dot appeared in the distant sky, getting closer and closer, with the engine's roar growing louder.
"Wow! What is that?"
"Looks like a plane! A private jet, maybe? I've seen those on TV!"
"Oh my god, who's rich enough to fly a private jet to school?"
"Could it be some trust-fund kid? So cool!"
The students around pulled out their phones to take pictures, the buzz of conversation growing louder, and some even ran toward the plane.
Mathew and Abby's smiles froze instantly. They looked up as the plane got closer, eyes wide, mouths open like they could fit an egg inside.
The plane slowly landed on the school's temporary helipad — it was donated by The Bolton Business last year for emergencies and academic exchanges, and is rarely used.
The cabin door opened, and Dr Ward, dressed in a black suit, stepped out.
He's Dad's driver and has watched me grow up since I was little; he's always taken great care of me.
Dr Ward approached me and bowed respectfully. "Miss Bolton, the plane is ready and can take off at any moment."
I nodded. "Dr Ward, thank you for everything."
"It's the least I could do." Dr Ward smiled and reached out, trying to help me with my backpack.
"No need, it's not heavy." I smiled and declined.
As I passed Mathew and Abby, I stopped and looked at their pale faces.
"By the way, Mathew." I said calmly, "I've already asked the Bolton Foundation cancel your Dream Builder Scholarship eligibility."
Mathew staggered as if he might fall. Looking at me, his voice trembled, "What did you say?"
"The Dream Builder Scholarship was set up by our family foundation to support students facing financial difficulties who also excel in character and academics."
I said calmly, "As the sponsor, I have the right to revoke the qualifications of those who don't meet the standards."
"You... you're the heiress of The Bolton Business?" Abby asked in disbelief, her eyes filled with shock and a trace of jealousy.
I didn't reply, turning to follow Dr Ward onto the plane.
The plane was spacious, with leather seats. On the small tray table were my favorite strawberries and blueberries, along with a warm glass of milk.
Dr Ward fastened my seatbelt. "Miss Bolton, your dad specifically instructed the kitchen to prepare your favorite fruits and milk."
"Thank you, Dr Ward." I picked up a strawberry and popped it into my mouth—sweet, but somehow bittersweet inside.
After the plane took off, I got a call from Dad.
"Molly, are you on the plane? Has Dr Ward been taking good care of you?" Dad's voice was gentle and filled with concern.
"I'm on board. Dr Ward's great—he even prepared strawberries for me." I said with a smile, though tears nearly welled up.
"That's good to hear." Dad paused, then added, "I've already asked my secretary to take care of the financial aid, so you don't need to worry."
"Mathew isn't the kind of person worthy of our family's support."
"Mm, thanks, Dad."
After hanging up, I stared out at the clouds, feeling a sudden wave of relief.
My phone buzzed unexpectedly—it was a message from Mathew.
He sent a string of messages: "Molly, are you kidding?"
"I know I was wrong. Please don't cancel my financial aid, okay?"
"I won't hang out with Abby anymore. I'm only here for you. Please forgive me, okay?"
I read the messages, but my heart didn't twitch at all.
Realizing your mistakes only now? Too little, too late.
I didn't reply; I just blocked him and added his phone number to the blacklist.
Later, I heard from my roommate that Mathew wasn't willing to give up and called The Bolton Business.
He cried on the phone, saying he was Molly Bolton's boyfriend, and asked the secretary to help reinstate his financial aid.
The secretary told him, "Without Miss Bolton's permission, no one can reinstate your eligibility."
Then she hung up.
Mathew broke down and shouted on the phone; his voice carried outside the dorm building, drawing a crowd.
I pictured his panicked, desperate expression and felt not a shred of sympathy.
He had it coming.
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