I wasn’t lying.
I stared at the tablecloth on the screen, then shrugged. “Oh, maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
Claire’s eyes widened as she turned to look at the screen again.
Sure enough, the camera zoomed in on the wobbly, corner-chipped table in my house. Draped across it was a piece of fabric identical in pattern and style to her dress. It was an absurdly perfect “matching outfit” moment.
The audience comments rolled in like a tidal wave.
[Now that I look closely, it really does look the same!]
[No doubt about it. The tablecloth must be a knockoff. Who in their right mind would use real Chanel fabric like that? What a waste!]
[Exactly! My grandma owns a “classic LV” handbag from the flea market, probably twenty-five bucks max. Poor people wouldn’t recognize true luxury if it hit them in the face.]
[Quick, get rid of the tablecloth, little pauper! Or Chanel might come knocking with a lawsuit for copyright infringement!]
The flood of criticism wasn’t lost on Claire. Her smug grin widened as her confidence soared.
“See? No matter how hard you try, once this show is over, you’ll understand; you’ll never reach my level.”
The competition itself was split into two parts: family atmosphere and personal conduct. But the wildcard? A hidden round designed to expose financial status.
When asked about her parents’ professions, Claire eagerly grabbed the microphone, her smile practically glowing with pride.
“My mom’s a renowned piano teacher and she even has several original compositions to her name! As for my dad? He’s even more extraordinary. He’s a highly respected professor in the education field. His consultation fees are calculated in the thousands per hour!”
She turned her smirk toward me, her gaze full of provocation. “And what about your family?”
My family? Pretty ordinary, I suppose.
I answered truthfully, “My dad lays bricks at construction sites. He spends his days wearing a safety helmet and running around under the sun. My mom works in a flower shop and in her free time, she enjoys playing mahjong with the aunties next door.”
Claire folded her arms, a mocking glint in her eyes. “Does your dad own a car? A Land Rover, perhaps? Or maybe a BMW?”
She already knew the answer.
I shook my head. “We do have a vehicle, a sturdy old tricycle and an electric bike.”
That was good enough, wasn’t it?
Claire snorted. “A tricycle counts as a car?”
I furrowed my brows, mulling over her words. “Why wouldn’t it? My mom often rides the tricycle to take me along when selling flowers. My brothers get around on shared bikes. And honestly, buses and subways are super convenient nowadays, not to mention energy-saving and environmentally friendly.”
The audience’s comments flooded the screen.
[Poor kid. It’s sad, but luck really does play a huge role in life.]
[Sigh. Like parents, like children. Mediocrity is probably her destiny.]
[Not having kids when you can’t provide for them is honestly an act of kindness.]
Before I could respond, the lights dimmed and a giant screen flickered to life. Claire clapped her hands in excitement.
“Look! That’s my dad!”
The screen displayed an opulent hall, every corner radiating wealth and refinement. A middle-aged man, impeccably dressed, entered the frame with a much younger woman by his side.
Claire’s father sat on an expensive-looking sofa, his every movement exuding authority. He tapped the table lightly, commanding attention without a word.
Her mother then appeared, moving with elegance and grace, carrying a set of exquisite blue and white porcelain tea wares. With delicate, slender fingers, she placed tea leaves into cups, her fluid movements so refined it was like watching an artist paint a masterpiece.
She cast a fleeting glance at the camera before proceeding to perform an exquisite tea ceremony. Every movement was flawless, a perfect blend of elegance and precision, captivating everyone present.
[Absolutely mesmerizing! Watching this feels like an art exhibition!]
[This is how the wealthy brew their tea? Truly a feast for the eyes!]
Some eagle-eyed viewers began dissecting the scene, identifying the tea with precision.
[Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea, $22 per pound.]
[Now, this is true luxury. Even if you have the money, tea of this quality isn’t easy to come by.]
I watched Claire’s mom handle the tea leaves with such reverence, my brows furrowing slightly.
“$22 per pound?” I muttered under my breath. “Did she get ripped off?”
I blinked at the realization and added, “We’ve got this tea at home, too, a big bag of it.”
The comment section was abuzz, but I wasn’t done.
“My dad enjoys drinking it, but my mom mostly uses it to boil tea eggs.”
The moment the words left my mouth, the comment section erupted like a volcano.
