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, thick-necked 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 nine-square collage, Ryan had his arm around Chloe as they posed in a high-end 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 brand-new 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 early-spring 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 head-to-toe 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.
