One day, in the school's group chat, I accidentally revealed that I was the daughter of Sanfiric Inc.'s chairman.

Out of nowhere, Sally jumped in with a scathing remark: [Do you have no shame? Clinging to some random man and calling him ‘Dad' just because you're desperate to be an heiress. Have you lost your mind?]

Her accusation left me completely baffled. I didn't even bother responding, but she wasn't about to let it go. She bombarded the chat with photos and videos, all claiming to prove that she was the real heiress.

In a video she shared, she was clinging to my father's arm, acting sweet and coy.

I stared at the screen in shock, my mind reeling. Before I could even process what I was seeing, the school advisor kicked me out of the group chat entirely.

"How could we have such a vain and shameless student? You're a disgrace to the school!"

Furious, I whipped out my phone and called my dad. The moment he picked up, I exploded, "Roger Burberry, do you have another daughter I don't know about?!"

It was a quiet afternoon in the university library, and I was bent over my IELTS prep materials, diligently working toward my dream of studying abroad after graduation. Suddenly, the tranquility was broken by the insistent vibration of my phone.

I picked it up and saw a barrage of messages from our class advisor in the campus group chat.

[@Everyone, a heartfelt thank you to Mr. Roger Burberry for his generous support of our university. Would Mr. Burberry's daughter please contact me? The school extends a warm invitation to you and your father to attend tomorrow's graduation ceremony as honored guests.]

The moment I saw my father's name in the message, I froze for a second, perplexed. Why was the school looking for me and my dad?

Scrolling up, I found a string of photos that the advisor had shared earlier. In the pictures, my father, looking every bit the confident businessman, was shaking hands with the university dean, the two of them standing beside a gleaming ribbon, ready to inaugurate the school's newly built swimming pool.

There was also a forwarded news article:

"A heartfelt thank you to Roger Burberry, Chairman of Sanfiric Inc., for generously donating the swimming pool and supporting our students."

Now, our university was a well-known private institution in the region, and accepting donations from prominent figures was nothing out of the ordinary. My father had always been enthusiastic about philanthropy, so his involvement didn't surprise me too much. But this time, he had gone big—donating an entire swimming pool. That was something else.

Meanwhile, the advisor kept flooding the chat with profuse gratitude.

Feeling a bit self-conscious but wanting to be polite, I finally replied: [Thank you. As a member of this school, I'm honored to contribute in any way I can.]

The group chat exploded in an instant.

[Whoa, I had no idea Roger Burberry's daughter was one of us!]

[No way—so humble! She's never even mentioned it before.]

[This is amazing. Her dad donates a swimming pool, and she's just as impressive!]

Messages of surprise and admiration scrolled relentlessly across the screen.

My cheeks burned as I read them. Regret crept in—I should've thought better and just messaged the advisor privately.

As I hesitated over whether to explain further, a sudden flurry of voice messages popped up in the chat from a user with a cute bunny profile picture. The words were like daggers.

[Some people are just shameless, huh? Chasing after someone else's dad—don't you have your own? You're just like a toad dreaming of turning into a princess, that's what this is. You're ugly and delusional!]

[Crazy for a rich daddy, aren't you? Why don't you try reincarnating instead of pretending to be someone you're not?]

For a long moment, I was stunned, completely blindsided by the venom. When the haze lifted, a storm of emotions surged—anger, humiliation, and confusion all at once.

What kind of nonsense was this? I thought furiously. I was getting scolded for recognizing my own father?

Without hesitation, I fired back: [Excuse me, but you've got this all wrong. How could I possibly mistake my own dad?]

The bunny avatar looked vaguely familiar. Clicking on it, I realized it belonged to someone from my own class—Sally Mitchell. We'd hardly interacted before, so her sudden hostility made no sense.

I tried to keep my cool.

But the chat was already in chaos.

[Is there some kind of misunderstanding here? If there's an issue, let's talk it through calmly.]

[Wait, what's going on? Two people claiming Mr. Burberry as their dad? This is wild.]

[LOL, does this mean one of them is a secret love child? Oooo! Scandalous!]

The comments turned more speculative and absurd by the second.

Clearly frustrated, Sally snapped back: [All of you, shut up!]

She followed her outburst with a series of photos—one of which struck me like a bolt of lightning.

It was a photo of her, arm affectionately linked with my father's, looking every bit like a doting daughter. But the setting was what froze my breath: the front gate of our family villa.

Sally: [Surely, y'all have heard of Sanfiric Villa—the most famous estate in the city? Well, that's my home.]

Her tone dripping with smugness and laced with mockery.

Sally: [Rachel Murphy, if you're going to impersonate someone's daughter, at least try harder! Your last name is Murphy, not Burberry. How do you even have the nerve to spin such an outrageous lie?]

The moment Sally posted those damning words alongside her glittering photos, the group chat turned into a maelstrom of judgment and gossip.

[Oh my gosh, someone's actually shameless enough to pretend to be a rich kid, get called out, and still refuse to admit it!]

[Different last names, yet claiming to be Mr. Burberry's daughter? She must be desperate to climb the social ladder!]

[This is beyond embarrassing. People wrapped up in their vanity like this deserve to be exposed.]

The tide shifted fully in Sally's favor, and the flattery began to pour in, tagging her in post after post.

[Princess Sally, can we be friends?]

[Wow, is that Sanfiric Villa? It looks like a palace! That yard alone is bigger than my whole neighborhood. Can I come visit sometime?]

[Sally, please share more about your life at the villa! Let us dream a little with you!]

[You're officially my gateway to the high life now. You're the best, sis!]

The chat exploded with praise for her and jeers aimed at me. A handful of voices urging calm were drowned out by the flood of gossip and scorn.

Buoyed by the attention, Sally became even more brazen. She replied with mock modesty: [Oh, come on, everyone, you're too kind! I'm just an ordinary person, really. I like to keep a low profile most of the time. It's just that today, I couldn't stand someone's shameless attempt to climb the social ladder, so I had to call her out.]

Then, as if she were a judge handing down a sentence, she added: [But, since we're all classmates, I'll let it go if she gives me a proper apology today. Oh, and writes a 5,000-word reflection and posts it on the campus forum for everyone to see.]

Sometimes, when the absurdity of a situation surpasses the boundaries of reason, all you can do is laugh. I stared at her pompous declaration, feeling a wave of disbelief and hilarity crashing over me.

Who would've thought, just as I was about to graduate, that I'd stumble into such a ridiculous melodrama?

The truth? My father married into my mother's family. She's the one who's the real power behind Sanfiric Inc.. I've carried my mother's last name since birth.

And this—this insignificant detail—was somehow twisted into evidence that I was impersonating my own father's daughter?

Explaining myself to someone like her felt beneath me.

Every word I typed in response would be a waste of my time.

I locked my phone screen and tried to refocus on the IELTS book in front of me. But the phone just wouldn't give up—it buzzed relentlessly, tugging at my patience and utterly destroying any chance of studying in peace.

With no choice, I unlocked the screen again to glance at the group chat. As I had expected, Sally was still at it. Seeing that I hadn't responded, she seemed to have taken my silence as an admission of guilt.

Her smugness practically leaped off the screen as she tagged the advisor, demanding that the school deal with me for being "vain" and "pretending to be someone I'm not."

I could feel my anger rising, fast and sharp. That Sally was going too far!

Rachel: [Sally, you know better than anyone whether or not Roger Burberry is your father! I've been sparing you out of courtesy, but don't push your luck!]

She replied almost instantly, her words soaked in mockery.

Sally: [Oh, that's rich! Why don't you prove it right now by calling him? Or wait, let me guess—you don't even have his number, do you?]

Then, as if to hammer the nail in deeper, she sent a recorded screen video to the group.

The video showed her dialing a video call. The moment the other side picked up, the camera revealed a face I knew all too well—my father, Roger Burberry, chairman of Sanfiric Inc..

"Daddy!" she chirped sweetly.

To my shock, my father responded with a cheerful, "Yes, my dear?"

The video cut off there, but it left a storm raging in my mind.

What in the world was going on?

Why was my father responding to her like that?

Why was she calling him Daddy?

A million questions whirled in my head, each one louder than the last.

The group chat, predictably, erupted into chaos.

[Well, there you have it! That's solid proof if I've ever seen it. See? Sally really is Mr. Burberry's daughter. Someone's run out of excuses now!]

[Rachel, got anything else to say? Look at you getting slapped in the face and still trying to argue.]

[Ha! Talk about hoisting yourself with your own petard. How will she even show her face on campus now?]

[Apologize! Or we'll demand the school take action. This kind of behavior is way over the line!]

The chat flooded with sneers, accusations, and jeers, each one piling on like stones meant to bury me alive.

Finally, when things seemed on the verge of spinning completely out of control, the advisor chimed in: [Rachel, I can understand a moment of vanity, something most students experience at some point. It's not the mistake itself that's the issue—it's your refusal to own up to it. Our school holds honesty and integrity in the highest regard, and I sincerely hope you'll apologize to Sally. Her father has made significant contributions to our institution, and for someone to impersonate his daughter? That's simply unacceptable.]

She turned to comfort Sally: [Don't worry, the school will handle this properly. You won't have to endure this kind of humiliation without some form of justice.]

Her bias was as blatant as it was infuriating. My frustration and sense of injustice reached their boiling point.

Rachel: [I am not pretending to be someone else! Why should I apologize?]

The advisor's tone turned icy: [Rachel! If this is your attitude, be prepared to face disciplinary action from the school!]

I hadn't even had the chance to present any evidence, hadn't even started tearing down Sally's lies, when—

In the next instant, the advisor kicked me out of the group chat.

I sat there, fuming and dumbfounded for a few moments.

I grabbed my phone to call my father and demanded some answers.

The line rang a few times before someone picked up, but it wasn't my father—it was his secretary. Her voice came through polite but apologetic.

"Mr. Burberry is currently inspecting the development project at the mountain resort. He doesn't have his phone on him and can't be reached for now. Ms. Murphy, if it's something urgent, you can tell me, and I'll relay the message to him as soon as he returns."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to rein in my temper.

"That's fine. Thank you, Betsy," I said, striving to keep my voice calm.

Lately, my father had been run ragged with the company's new business expansion. He worked tirelessly, day and night, to the point that even catching a glimpse of him had become a rare occurrence.

But tomorrow was my graduation ceremony, and no matter how busy he was, I knew he wouldn't miss it.

I stared at my phone screen for a long moment before typing in my mother's number. My finger hovered hesitantly over the call button.

That video earlier had left a knot of unease in my chest. How could Sally be so confident, so self-assured? Could it really be possible that she… was my father's illegitimate child?

The thought alone sent a cold shiver down my spine. Wealth has a way of corrupting men, doesn't it? Could my father have committed that mistake—the one that seems to plague men everywhere?

The moment the idea crossed my mind, I shook my head violently, trying to banish it.

No, that couldn't be. My father had always been a responsible man, a family man through and through. He treated my mother with more love and care than he ever showed me, his own daughter. No matter how busy he was, he always made the effort to brighten her day, to make her smile.

A man like that—my father—couldn't possibly betray his family.

That reassurance eased my nerves, and I dismissed the notion of calling my mother. I couldn't let baseless suspicions disrupt the harmony of our home.

Maybe this whole situation was just a misunderstanding, something I didn't yet understand.

Still, no matter how much I tried to reason it away, the uneasiness lingered. My mind refused to settle, and that night, I tossed and turned in bed, unable to find any peace. It wasn't until the early hours of morning that sleep finally began to claim me.

When I woke up the next morning, the graduation ceremony had already started. Panicked, I scrambled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and bolted toward the school auditorium.

As I neared the hall, the lively chatter of a crowd reached my ears. Outside the grand entrance stood an enormous rainbow arch, with bold letters that read:

"A Warm Welcome to Esteemed Entrepreneur Mr. Roger Burberry for Attending Our Graduation Ceremony!"

Beside it was a life-sized cardboard cutout of my father.

And there, basking in the spotlight, stood Sally, beaming as she posed for photos with classmates who had eagerly flocked to her.

"Sally, you've been keeping too low a profile! If it weren't for what happened in the group chat yesterday, I'd never have known that the chairman of Sanfiric Inc.'s daughter is my classmate!"

"Exactly! Not only is Sally from a wealthy family, but she's also beautiful and kind. You've got to help us out more, you know, as old classmates!"

"Yeah, Sally, does your family's company hire fresh grads? Could you give us alumni some priority consideration?"

"By the way, your dress is stunning, Sally. It must be custom-made, right? Honestly, only you could pull off something so elegant."

One of the girls circled Sally, her eyes brimming with envy.

Sally, soaking up the compliments, smiled even brighter. Tilting her chin slightly, a flicker of smugness danced in her gaze.

"This dress? My dad had a designer custom-make it just for me," she said with an air of nonchalance.

She was draped in an opulent white gown, her long hair flowing over her shoulders, her makeup flawless. She looked every bit like a princess.

By contrast, I had thrown on a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt in my rush, tying my hair into a simple ponytail. Standing next to her, I couldn't have looked more out of place.

When the crowd noticed me, their chatter faded, replaced by disdainful stares.

"What's she doing here?" someone muttered. Though quiet, the words reached my ears loud and clear.

Sally's lips curled into a faint, mocking smile when she saw me. With a delicate hand, she smoothed her dress and said,

"Well, if it isn't Rachel, who claims to be Sanfiric Inc.'s heiress. Showing up to a graduation ceremony dressed like that?"

Her remark triggered a burst of laughter from the surrounding students.

"Ha! Just look at her, she's dressed worse than me and still dares to compete with Sally."

"Right? She's so deep in her delusion she actually believes she's some kind of heiress."

"I'm telling you, she's just crazy—going around claiming to be the chairman's daughter. It's hilarious!"

One girl rolled her eyes, strutted over, and sneered as she tugged at my sleeve.

"Look at this outfit—it's cheap, isn't it? Probably from some roadside stall. And you call yourself a rich girl? Dream on!"

She gave my sleeve a hard yank. I glared at her and stepped back, trying to free myself, but the sound of ripping fabric rang out. With one sharp pull, she'd torn the sleeve of my T-shirt.

"With this kind of quality, you're still pretending to be a rich heiress?"

Her smirk widened in mockery. But then, as if struck by lightning, her face froze.