“First, it was the Chanel tablecloth and now she’s claiming to use Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea for boiling tea eggs. Such a braggart and a liar at such a young age!”

“Come on, give her a break. She’s just a nine-year-old, poor and stubborn and probably hasn’t seen much of the world.”

I sighed, hearing the disbelieving comments.

But I wasn’t lying.

That coffee? It came from an old man with a bamboo pole and it only cost a few cents per pound. There was no way it could be that expensive.

Right about now, it was probably the time Mom would be making her famous tea eggs.

The livestream switched over to my house.

The camera panned to show Mom walking into the living room, her Cartoon-themed pajamas making her look casual yet radiant.

With fair skin, a stunning face, long legs and sharp features, she practically glowed, even without a hint of makeup.

While the audience was busy marveling at her beauty, she casually grabbed a face mask from the side.

[Wait, could that be… the $4,000-a-sheet luxury face mask?]

[$4,000! That’s like spending a whole month’s salary on your face!]

I scratched my head in confusion. “It’s not expensive. Mom said it only costs fifty cents per sheet.”

[I knew it! Fake! Little poor girl, tell your mom not to use counterfeit products, or her face will break out!]

[Exactly! Knockoffs are everywhere nowadays. How can you trust them?]

[What’s the point of being so pretty if she’s married to a broke man? She should just get a divorce! With those looks, she could easily land a rich husband!]

[Falling for a guy who’s broke, toothless and balding. What a fool! So love-struck.]

Meanwhile, Mom, unfazed, had already moved on to the kitchen.

She casually grabbed a handful of tea leaves, tossing them effortlessly into a pot filled with eggs and seasonings.

“Today’s Emma’s birthday. Let’s make something she loves,” she said with a warm smile.

The camera zoomed in on the tea leaves.

They looked strikingly similar to the ones Claire had at her house.

Claire’s were in a sleek, premium package; ours, by contrast, were packed more simply in a plain bag.

[Wait a second. I was laughing earlier, but now those look like real Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea!]

[Who are you kidding? Look at their house; those could be weeds for all we know!]

[My grandpa’s a certified tea expert! He says those aren’t just Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea; they’re from the original mother trees! What a waste, using them for tea eggs!]

For context, regular Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea was already expensive. Still, tea from the remaining six mother trees was the pinnacle of luxury, something only the elite could afford.

[Seriously? How could anyone tell just by looking?]

[My grandpa’s a tea enthusiast. He’s willing to buy it, no matter the price. Leave your contact info, little girl!]

[Wow, someone actually believes this nonsense? Have you seen their house? That tea’s obviously fake!]

The reply came swiftly, [No need to argue; my grandpa’s on his way to the filming location.]

After that message, the chat fell into silence.

[I’m dying of laughter. Someone’s actually gonna pay for fake tea?]

The comments erupted into a heated debate as the host turned to the panel of judges.

Coincidentally, one of the judges today was a respected tea master.

“Mr. Lewis,” the host asked, “The comments are all over the place, arguing whether the tea at Emma’s house is real or fake. As a pioneer in tea culture and an expert in tea tasting, can you clear this up for us?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Lewis adjusted his glasses, peering at the screen.

With a quick glance, he waved dismissively and sneered, “Fake.”

He leaned forward, his voice dripping with authority. “High-quality Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea features tight, sturdy, slightly twisted strips, with dry leaves that are dark green, gleaming with a jewel-like shine. What they’ve got here? Just plain black tea.”

He scoffed again, his finger pointing dismissively at Claire’s screen.

“This, on the other hand,” he said with a smirk, “is the real Gorreana Broken Leaf Black Tea.”

Hearing that, I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

Thank goodness, it wasn’t the old man making the mistake.

After all, it was just black tea. If it had truly been a mix-up, how would he keep his job?

The host smiled graciously, his voice soft with understanding. “Since it was all just a misunderstanding, let’s move on to the next segment.”

As the livestream continued its ascent in popularity, the screen shifted back to Claire’s home.

“My brother!”

Claire’s brother, Phoenix Hamilton, appeared his face a striking balance of delicacy and youthful charm.

At just over twenty, he carried the easy confidence of someone aware of their own allure.

“I’m back. Pour me a glass of water,” he demanded.

Claire’s mother raised an eyebrow, the faintest line of concern furrowing her brow. “Why are you back? Didn’t you say you weren’t coming today…?”

Phoenix’s expression darkened, an unmistakable edge to his voice. “Go pour the water. Stop nagging.”

Unaware of the livestream, Phoenix’s casual disregard was clear, but his mother was well accustomed to his unruly nature. She knew that trouble could easily follow if she wasn’t careful.

“Watch your words while you’re here today,” she warned, her tone sharp but maternal.

Phoenix sprawled across the coffee table, legs casually stretched out as he spoke with a lazy grin. “I was supposed to race with Third Young Master Evans, but he bailed. Said it’s his sister’s tenth birthday, so he’s skipping out.”

“His sister?” Claire’s mother muttered, regret flickering across her features. “She’s kept so secretive; barely anyone in our circle’s even seen her.”

She knew just how crucial it was to establish connections with the Evans family.

The Evans family was a powerhouse of prominence, with three sons, each more impressive than the last:

Lester, the cold-faced overlord, ruled over half the entertainment industry, his billions fueling his dominance.

Sandro, the smiling fox, was a top-tier cardiothoracic surgeon, his hands steady and flawless in the operating room.

Then there was Dallas, the carefree third son, who had earned world championship titles as a racer.

Any news involving these three could ignite the internet into a frenzy.

[My goodness! The Hamilton family’s son actually knows Third Young Master Evans!]

[Did you notice? That poor girl shares the same birthday as the Evans family’s little sister. And they both have the surname Evans. Now, that’s a coincidence too big to ignore!]

I couldn’t help but agree.

Not only did we share the same surname, but our birthdays were a mirror image of each other.

And now, the whole internet knew the Evans family’s youngest daughter was celebrating her tenth birthday today.

When the camera returned to my house, my mom had already removed her face mask.

Her natural beauty, radiant and fresh, left everyone in stunned silence.

Who would have thought a simple fifty-cent face mask could cause such a stir?

Mom’s voice rang out from the back of the house, "Soren Evans, hurry up and get the kids to come home. Emma will be back soon and we need to give her a big surprise."

I stood there, stunned, while the comment section exploded with updates flooding in at lightning speed.

[Whoa! So handsome!]

[Oh my gosh! Does the poor kid’s brother look this good?]

[Those ridiculously long legs! And there are two of them!]

[Wait, the one in the mask looks familiar.]

Sandro was the first to walk into the living room, a scholarly aura surrounding him, his presence as refined as polished jade.

Then came Dallas, wearing a black mask that barely revealed his sharp, eagle-like eyes. His walk was casual, a hand shoved deep in his pocket, oozing a laid-back yet rebellious charm.

Mom gave them a quick glance.

"Did you order the cake? Emma loves Elite Reverie’s cakes."

Dallas replied with a careless tone, "It’s from Elite Reverie. They’ll deliver it later."

[That’s a laugh. Do you even know how expensive Elite Reverie is? Even the wealthiest have to pick up their orders themselves!]

[Still playing the game at home, huh?]

[Probably one of those five-dollar floral basket cakes. That’s more their speed.]

Just as the laughter died down, the phone rang.

Dallas answered it, his expression shifting ever so slightly.

"There’s been a small hiccup with the cake delivery. Of all days to have an issue, it had to be on our little birthday star’s special day! I’ll go take care of it."

Sandro’s hand shot out, resting on his younger brother’s shoulder.

"Your temper is only going to make things worse. Let me handle it."

Dallas glanced around, his eyes darting before he responded, "Fine, you're more reliable anyway."

If he were the one handling it, the whole situation would probably spiral into chaos.

"Then let me borrow a car."

"Sure," he replied with a shrug. "Which one do you want? I’ve got a McLaren and a Maybach."

Sandro waved him off, "Forget it. I’ll just grab something from the underground garage."

[This is hilarious! A McLaren and a Maybach? How could a place like this even have an underground garage? Did they dig a tunnel themselves?]

[Take whatever you want? Are we talking about bicycles or mopeds? Maybe they put a label on a seat and called it a car.]

[Repeat after me: They're faking it! Total frauds!]

Dallas seemed to pause for a moment, then, as if a lightbulb went off in his head, added, "Oh and don’t touch the pink Ferrari. That’s Emma’s birthday gift."

The comments section exploded with laughter and mockery, but Sandro wasn’t fazed. He opened a drawer, revealing a stash of car keys.

Wait, what was this?

There were keys for a Lincoln, a Ferrari, an Audi, a Cayenne... each one more valuable than the last.

The audience went silent in shock.

[This has to be fake! How could they possibly have all these? They’re definitely fake!]

Even the host, caught off guard, had no idea how to react.

"Emma, why does your family have so many car keys?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

I recalled Dallas’s words and gave a nonchalant shrug. "He loves collecting models. That’s probably what they are."

[See? It’s just impossible for them to have real cars. No way they’d have a whole drawer full of keys!]

[Such bald-faced lies! But, you know, it’s kind of entertaining.]

[It’s not hope; it’s delusion.]

The conversation slowly fizzled out as Sandro pulled out an e-bike key.

"If it’s nearby, this will be more convenient," he said with a casual air.

"I’m heading out to get the cake."

A bold viewer tagged Elite Reverie Cakes’ official account.

[@Elite_Reverie_Cakes (Fort Worth HQ), come spill the tea. Did anyone from this family place an order today?]

Soon, the comment section was flooded with tags and sure enough, the Elite Reverie Cakes account responded.

[No, sorry. Our owner said we’re not accepting orders today due to unavoidable circumstances.]

The truth had been revealed and the audience erupted, enjoying the drama unfolding.

[Ha! The truth’s out. How far can they push this act? Can’t wait to see.]

[Knew it! Another fabrication exposed.]

I frowned, biting my lip at the response.

My brothers often bought me little cakes, claiming they were from a friend's bakery with discounts that couldn’t sell out. It always had the same name.

Maybe it was just a coincidence.

While the mockery continued, Dallas, on screen, began glancing around with the suspicion of a thief.

He slipped into my room, drawing the audience's attention.

Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he reached for my piggy bank.

The viewers were on edge, wondering what he’d do next.

With a quick, practiced shake, two coins fell from the bank, clinking softly.

The audience fell silent, stunned into disbelief.

[This is too much! Is he stealing from his little sister now?]

[No matter how handsome he is, that’s just shameless!]

I glared at the screen, my anger bubbling to the surface. Dallas had taken my coins again.

After slipping the money into his pocket, he gave the piggy bank a quick shake.

"Desperate times," he muttered, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Borrowing two bucks for the bus. No one will notice, right?"

"Who even carries cash these days?"

As he spoke, he pulled out a golden bead the size of a thumb and casually slipped it into the piggy bank.

It gleamed so bright, so luxurious!

First, it was the miniature car keys and now he was swapping gold beads for coins.

The viewers couldn’t hold back.

[It’s all aluminum! There’s no way this is real!]

[Gold? Is that actual gold?]

[Relax, everyone. It can’t be gold.]

[Wait, who’s that?!]