Why would I go all the way to the School of Physical Education to claim a drying spot?
Delilah's reply was quick and vicious.
【Who knows where your money even comes from—and you've got the nerve to hit me up for ten grand over some ratty comforter.】
I dug up the receipt for the silk comforter, ready to slap her with it.
But the message just sat there loading. Someone had reported the post, and it was already gone.
Three minutes later, she posted again.
【You sneaky little bitch, scared I'll tell everyone what you've been up to? You actually reported me!】
After her endless lies and provocations, whatever patience I had was long gone.
【Keep making things up and don't blame me for calling the police!】
Delilah replied like she couldn't care less：
【Ha. If you don't want people to know, maybe you shouldn't have done it in the first place.】
I told her to say it clearly. She blocked me.
I was so furious I nearly switched to a burner account to go after her.
My dad's knock on the door cut that short.
“Get some sleep. You're going shopping with your mom tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
I tossed my phone down, irritated, and turned off the light.
In the dark room, the second I closed my eyes,
all I could see was my silk comforter buried under garbage.
I woke up the next morning.
I kept yawning through breakfast.
Dad noticed first.
“You seeing someone?”
I could tell he'd gotten the wrong idea.
The words about the comforter were right there on my tongue—but my mom looked up, and that thin, cutting gaze of hers shut my mouth before it opened.
The air went right out of me.
Forget it. Even if one word from her could make the school administration investigate Delilah top to bottom, so what?
She had never once stood up for me. Not once, my entire life.
Even if she found out someone had deliberately trashed my comforter, she'd just say I deserved it. Why was I the one being targeted?
I hunched over my bowl, poking at the rice with no real rhythm, and mumbled：
“I'm almost a senior. My advisor's been pushing me on my thesis.”
My mom let out a cold laugh, and I slowed my breathing on instinct.
On the way out, she handed me a shopping bag.
Her tone left no room for argument.
“Wear this.”
We got to the mall.
My parents said they wanted some time alone and told me to wait in the café.
I had barely stepped inside when a man I didn't recognize walked straight toward me.
Something flickered across his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Admiration.
“Hi. You must be Penelope Simmons, from Simmons Group?”
He saw me tense up and quickly explained：
“Sorry, I should've introduced myself first. I'm Mike Matthews. My mom's last name is Li—she's a good friend of Aunt Muriel's.”
Only then did it click.
My parents hadn't rushed me home for May Day because they missed me. They'd wanted to set me up on a blind date.
Disappointment welled up inside me.
Were they really that eager to marry me off?
Didn't they want me around at all?
I told Mike I wasn't looking for a relationship. He said he understood.
He suggested we put on a show for a while, just to keep both sets of parents off our backs.
That made a certain kind of sense.
We found a table and sat down. He did almost all the talking.
I had no idea—not until he started talking—just how much effort my parents had put into finding me a match.
We weren't just at the same school. Same year, same major.
I was in Financial Management Class 1. He was in Financial Management Class 3.
The two classes met in different buildings, though, so our paths had never crossed. We'd had no idea the other existed.
When the small talk wound down, Mike suggested we add each other as friends.
After we parted ways, I found my parents at the luxury counter.
“So how'd it go?” Dad nudged me with his elbow, grinning. “Good kid, right?”
I answered honestly：
