I was halfway across campus when my phone started buzzing incessantly. At first, I ignored it, assuming it was just Wesley trying to apologize—or more likely, mock me further. But when I finally checked the screen, I saw a string of notifications from various group chats I didn't even know I'd been added to.
"Did you see what Valery claimed?" read one message.
"OMG she actually thinks she's taking a private jet home!"
"I always knew she was delusional."
I scrolled through them, my stomach knotting tighter with each swipe. Screenshots of my conversation with James were being passed around—along with wildly embellished details.
"Valery told Wesley she's secretly a billionaire heiress," Isla had written in one chat. "She's been pretending to be poor this whole time."
"Total attention-seeking behavior," Wesley had responded. "She's been acting weird for weeks."
I quickened my pace, ducking into an empty classroom to gather my thoughts. My hands trembled slightly as I scrolled through more messages.
"Remember how she always paid for coffee with exact change?" someone wrote. "So calculated."
"And those 'family emergencies' she'd have? Probably just her butler calling."
The cruelty of it all stole my breath. These were people who'd smiled at me in the cafeteria, borrowed my notes, invited me to study groups. Now they were dissecting my every move, constructing elaborate fantasies about my supposed lies.
My phone buzzed again. It was Emma.
"Valery, where are you? We need to talk."
I texted back our location and waited, trying to compose myself. When Emma burst through the door, her face was flushed with anger.
"You need to see this," she said, thrusting her phone at me. "It's getting worse."
Emma's screen displayed a campus-wide anonymous confession page. At the top was a post that had already garnered hundreds of likes and comments:
"Saw V.M. with her 'sugar daddy' at Le Bernardin last week. He was at least 50. She was wearing that cheap dress she always wears to 'look normal.' Total gold digger."
My blood ran cold. I'd had lunch with my father at Le Bernardin three weeks ago—a rare meeting because he'd been in town for business. We'd sat in a private booth, and I'd worn jeans and a simple blouse.
"That's not—" I started, but Emma cut me off.
"There's more."
She scrolled down, revealing dozens of similar posts.
"V.M. gets all her money from her 'sponsor.' That's why she could afford those business class tickets."
"Heard she's been seeing him since freshman year. Explains how she affords tuition."
"Always thought she was too good for campus housing. Now we know why."
I handed the phone back to Emma, a strange calm settling over me. "They're saying I'm being kept by a sugar daddy."
"Because of those business class tickets?" Emma asked incredulously.
"No," I said quietly. "Because of Wesley and Isla."
---
By evening, the rumors had evolved into a full-blown witch hunt. As I walked across campus, I could feel eyes following me, hear whispers trailing in my wake.
"Is it true about her and that rich guy?"
"How old do you think he is?"
"Bet she's been sleeping with him for years."
I kept my head high, but inside I was seething. Not just at the rumors, but at how quickly people believed them. How many times had I helped classmates with projects? Loaned books? Stayed up all night proofreading papers?
None of that mattered now. All that mattered was this juicy new gossip.
Emma met me at our dorm, her expression grim. "It's everywhere," she said, opening her laptop to show me. "They're rating your attractiveness on a scale of how much a sugar daddy would pay."
I glanced at the screen and immediately regretted it. A campus forum had dedicated an entire thread to "Valery's Sugar Daddy Scandal," complete with photos of me taken from social media, ranked on a scale of 1-10 for "daddy appeal."
"Someone even made a fake profile for him," Emma said, clicking on a photo of an older man in a business suit. "They're calling him 'Mr. Moneybags.'"
I stared at the stranger's face—someone my father had never met, someone who was now being described in intimate detail as my supposed benefactor.
"They're saying he bought you that designer bag you wore to the winter formal," Emma continued, her voice tight with anger. "The one your mom gave you for your birthday."
A notification popped up on Emma's screen—a new anonymous confession.
"Just saw V.M. on the phone with her sugar daddy AGAIN. She was giggling and touching his arm. Disgusting."
Attached was a blurry photo of me talking to my father's assistant James earlier that day.
"They're watching me," I whispered, a chill running down my spine.
Emma closed her laptop firmly. "This has gone too far," she said. "We need to fight back."
But as I stared at the wall of our dorm room, I wondered how you fought shadows and whispers. How you proved that the father who loved you wasn't the sugar daddy they'd invented.
And most importantly—how much worse this would get before it ended.
