[#Top University Graduate Unmasked as Shameless Gold Digger!]

[#Gold Digger Blows $500K in 3 Days! Who Would Dare Marry Her?]

[#Wealthy CEO Exploited Like an ATM by His Childhood Fiancée!]

Those headlines were everywhere I looked. No matter which platform I used, the constant scrolling felt like a barrage of information.

And the comment sections? Vicious didn't even come close to describing it.

Once my personal information was uncovered and exposed, the online abuse flooded into my phone nonstop:

[How could your parents raise someone like you? Shame on them. Do the world a favor and disappear!]

[See? Education doesn't mean anything anymore. Women like you are just trash with a degree. Even if you threw yourself at someone, no one would want you!]

It got worse.

Someone dug up my student ID and even tracked down my advisor. Then they turned their pitchforks toward my university, demanding a 'full cleanup.'

By the next morning, my phone rang.

I didn't even need to check the screen. I already knew that it was my counselor, Ms. Brooks.

"Therese," she said, her voice soft and careful. "The university leadership is taking this situation very seriously. I'm afraid your 'Outstanding Graduate' title might be revoked."

I felt my fingers tighten around the phone. My throat went dry like I'd swallowed sand.

"Ms. Brooks, I didn't make those purchases."

There was a pause. Then a long, drawn-out sigh.

"I know," Ms. Brooks said quietly. "But public opinion is spiraling, and the school's image is on the line. Plus, there's pressure coming from the board."

And just like that, it all clicked.

Oliver's company was finalizing a partnership with our university's research lab. They were planning to hire directly from our graduating class.

With job placements approaching and every dean scrambling to impress corporate sponsors, the school wasn't about to jeopardize that deal over me.

And so, I quietly accepted it.

Honestly, losing that 'Outstanding Graduate' title didn't bother me much. It was just a line on paper. At least they didn't go totally off the rails and try to revoke my degree.

But Oliver? Oh, he wasn't done with me.

He leveraged all his contacts to ensure I was blacklisted from every major company in Bayport.

All my résumés disappeared into nothingness—no callbacks, no interviews, not even a courteous rejection.

Meanwhile, he made sure everyone saw how smoothly he'd moved on.

He displayed Kiara at every business event, treating her as if she were his latest trophy girl.

Then one night, she posted a picture online. It was a limited-edition Hermès bag sitting pretty on her arm.

The caption?

[Thank you, Boss, for your love!]

The location tag? An invite-only private club.

Oliver didn't waste any time jumping in with a comment of his own:

[You deserve the best.]

And then, right on cue, I got a text from him.

The timing was laughable, really!

[Therese, if you still want to be a CEO's wife, pay back the $500,000, sign a prenup, and promise to give me three kids in five years after marriage. Play by the rules, and I'll give you a life of luxury and status. Refuse, and you can forget ever finding another job.]

I stared at my screen for a long second and was just stunned.

Was this real life?

Did he honestly think he was doing me a favor?

Then I laughed.

The truth is, Oliver had no idea that marrying me was already out of his league.

If we had truly married, he would have been the one advancing. Even without ever working, I would still live better than most. The influential and wealthy people would recognize me for who I am, and it wouldn't be him they admired.

So I didn't waste another second on his ridiculous "offer."

I typed: [Go away!]

Hit send.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it.

Of course, I was wrong.

To my astonishment, Oliver arrived at my home that evening with four bodyguards.

My doorbell kept ringing like an alarm repeatedly.

I slowly opened the door, only to find him standing there with a dark, furious face, surrounded by four men in black who all radiated hostility.

Oliver gave me this smug, entitled look.

"Therese," he sneered, "did you really think hiding out at home was going to save you?"

Without waiting for me to say a thing, he pushed past me and barged into the house like he owned it.

I leaned against the doorframe with my arms crossed, not even bothering to stop him.

He stalked through the living room, eyes scanning everything—the marble sculptures on the shelves, the antique porcelain, the calligraphy, the paintings.

With each glance, Oliver's expression grew more sour.

"Huh," he finally scoffed. "Now it makes sense. No wonder you had the nerve to max out my card. Guess you've had some top-tier sugar daddies coaching you all this time."

He pointed toward a shelf, a familiar mocking grin spreading across his face.

"How many men did you scam to fill this place up like a damn museum?"

I raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Then Oliver strutted over to the coffee table, picked up a blue-and-white porcelain teacup as if it were a dirty sock, and sneered.

"So, all this stuff in your house is just fake junk to keep up appearances, huh?" Oliver scoffed, holding up the porcelain teacup like it personally offended him. "Gotta say, though, they're decent imitations. But that glaze? Way too fresh. Obvious knockoff."

I let out a quiet, amused laugh. "Good eye, Oliver."

Which was funny, because that teacup?

Ironically, it was the only fake thing in this entire place.

But Oliver didn't catch the irony. Of course not. He took my words as mockery, and his expression went ice-cold all over again.

"Therese, I don't have time for this." His tone turned sharp, clipped. "You've got two options today. Pay back the $500 grand and sign these agreements, or the engagement is officially over."

Oliver tossed a thick envelope onto my coffee table like it was some kind of final warning.

Then he pointed directly at me, with his finger stiff with accusation.

"And once that happens, kiss your dream of marrying into wealth goodbye. Don't come crawling back."

He paused briefly, then added with that same greasy sneer, "And your parents? They've got no pensions. Don't expect me to support them in retirement—"

Before he could finish that charming little threat, one of the bodyguards behind him leaned in close and whispered something in his ear.

"Mr. Jefferson… that vase by the window. Doesn't it look like the final lot from last month's Sotheby's auction?"

Oliver jerked his head around, following the guy's gaze.

The vase sat peacefully by the window, soaking in the late afternoon light. Its silhouette was clean and elegant, the porcelain glowing under the natural sun.

It was a 16th-century Renaissance piece—hand-fired, meticulously preserved, and worth a small fortune.

My dad had caught me admiring it during a collector's showcase and, just for the hell of it, made a sky lantern bid. He won, naturally. The man had flair.

Oliver squinted at it. I saw his face twitch. First came doubt. Then suspicion. Then, predictably, his signature smirk.

"Wow. You really went all in on this little illusion, didn't you? Even copied a fresh-off-the-market auction piece?"

I simply stood there, observing him—this man, five years older than me, who was supposed to be mature and successful. Yet, at that moment, I felt only relief.

Thank God I hadn't yet reached the legal age for marriage. If I had gone along with our families' childhood arrangement, I would already be his wife.

And honestly? That would've been the most humiliating decision of my life. Being married to him—full of surface charm but with a core of selfishness and vanity—was terrible.

With that, I exhaled a long, steady breath and pointed to the door.

"Oliver, I don't blame you for being blind. But if you're just gonna keep embarrassing yourself in my house, I suggest you leave. I'm not here to host your pity party."

Oliver's smile snapped into a scowl. "What's that supposed to mean? You think I need to marry you? Let me tell you something. Everything I've achieved, I earned. I built my business from the ground up. And the thing I can't stand most? Manipulative women like you—pretty on the outside, rotten on the inside—mooching off decent men like parasites."

He jabbed his finger in my direction.

"Your name's already in the gutter. Who else would even consider you? If it weren't for our families' old agreement, I wouldn't be wasting a single second more."

Still calm, I walked over to the Italian vase on the side shelf, picked it up gently, and turned it over in my hands so the bottom faced him.

"Take a good look," I said evenly. "That's Sotheby's official authentication code. One of a kind. Final sale price? $12 million."

I met his eyes without flinching as I continued, "You think I care about your lousy $500,000? I was willing to let this whole thing go, out of respect for our family. But honestly, I could've gifted you that money just to keep things quiet. But you know what I don't tolerate?"

I tilted my head, my tone becoming sharply pointed as I said, "Spineless, freeloading men who want to get something for nothing."

Then I took a step forward.

"Here's the deal. As long as you and your entourage walk out of my house right now and never come back, I won't press defamation charges or harassment. That's me being generous."

Oliver froze mid-scowl.

The bodyguard looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Sir, maybe there was a misunderstanding? And that vase… it might actually be real."

Oliver's hands were trembling now as he snatched the vase back, turning it over again and again. I watched the smug confidence drain from his face like someone pulled the plug.

Panic finally broke through.

He grabbed his phone and barked into it. "Kiara, doesn't your brother work at Sotheby's? Get him on the phone. I need him to check the winner of that final auction piece, the one with the highest bid!"

Oliver didn't even wait for her response before snapping again. "And get that damn lawyer I hired over here. We're settling this now. I want her to admit she used my card! If I let her into my life, she'd be riding my neck and shitting on my head!"

If he was that desperate to humiliate himself, I was more than happy to watch.

Ten minutes later, Kiara showed up with the news and a lawyer following behind.

"Mr. Jefferson, I made a few calls," the lawyer said, clearing his throat. "That 16th-century Italian vase? It was purchased at auction by the richest man in the Capital City. He gave it to his daughter to use as a flower vase."

And just like that, Oliver's entire face lit up with a smug little smirk, as if he had just scored the winning touchdown he'd been waiting for.

Kiara strutted over, picked up the vase with two fingers like it was a cheap flea market find, and examined it with a sneer.

"Wow, Therese. You really went all out with the appearances. Even your high-end knockoffs are almost believable."

But just as she was basking in her own sarcasm, the lawyer frowned and stepped closer. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, leaning in as if preparing to inspect the vase more closely.

Without warning, Kiara raised her hand. With a swift motion, she crashed the vase onto the floor. The sound of it shattering echoed through the room, the priceless 16th-century porcelain reduced to mere shards.

I stood frozen. My brain just blanked.

Even Oliver flinched, clearly not expecting that.

He spun on her, stunned. "Kiara, are you insane? Even if it was fake, that thing still cost money!"

Of course, she instantly turned on the waterworks.

Lip trembling and voice quivering, Kiara replied, "Sir Oliver, I just thought if Therese can't pay you back, I'd help you vent a little by smashing one of her fake antiques. Why are you yelling at me?"

Right in front of me, without a shred of shame, Oliver reached out and wiped away her phony tears, cooing over her like she was some delicate, wronged princess.

"I'm not blaming you, sweetheart," Oliver calmly replied. "I just wanted the $500,000 back so I could buy you a small apartment. My best employee deserves the best."

Then he turned toward me, puffed up and smug.

"I hope someone here understands the difference between the two of you and signs the papers already. Because, believe me, the line of women wanting to be my wife could wrap around this entire city."

I stared at him like he'd completely lost his mind.

Then I scoffed, "Oliver, maybe try figuring out who actually spent that $500 grand before you run your mouth. Or else, there will be a line of people ready to drain your wallet. It might even wrap around the whole Bayport City."

Kiara's eyes flickered with panic. Her crocodile tears returned in full force, with shaky breaths and dramatic sniffles.

Oliver rushed to console her again, falling right into her act.

My god, I'd had enough.

"Since our dear CEO here is feeling so generous," I said sarcastically, "I'm guessing you'll be paying her for smashing that $12 million vase?"

Oliver's face tightened instantly. He looked down at the wreckage as if it had betrayed him. Then he lifted his foot as if he was about to stomp it onto the floor even harder.

"It's fake," he said, voice sharp. "Why would I pay a cent? What, are you heartbroken now? Didn't you say it was real? Didn't you claim to be rich? Then go buy another one."

Kiara immediately dropped the act and flashed a smug little grin, as if she thought she'd won something.

Then, the lawyer dropped to his knees in front of the vase shards, reaching out to stop Oliver's foot from coming down.

"Mr. Jefferson," he said, slightly out of breath. "If I'm not mistaken… that Italian vase was real."

Everything went dead quiet.

Oliver froze mid-step, and Kiara's grin snapped clean off her face.

Even I had to admit, I was a little impressed. 'So he could tell the difference, huh?'

Flustered, Oliver pushed the lawyer aside and stomped onto the remains, grinding them under his heel like a petulant child.

"Atty. Doyle, you're a lawyer, not an art appraiser. Don't embarrass yourself." His tone was full of irritation and denial. "We all heard what the man said—the real vase was bought by the richest man in the Capital City, for his precious daughter. Like hell that thing ended up here in Bayport.

Kiara gasped like she was in a soap opera.

"Unless…" she said, eyes darting to me with fake shock. "Therese stole it from the richest family?"

Then she leaned in, whispering dramatically, "Or maybe she seduced the richest man himself?"

I couldn't help but laugh at their ignorance.

"You two really don't get tired of embarrassing yourselves, do you?"

Then, I leaned back against the edge of the table with my arms crossed, watching them squirm.

"Well, since you're both so desperate to know…" I paused, letting the silence hang for a beat. "Let me put you out of your misery. The richest man in the Capital City? That's my dad."

That shut them both up for about two seconds.

As if it had been rehearsed, Oliver and Kiara made eye contact and burst out laughing.

"Therese, please," Oliver said through wheezing laughter. "I know exactly what your background is. The richest man? Your dad? More like sugar daddy!"

"But hey," he added, "since you managed to snag someone like that, I'll be nice and not cancel the engagement. Don't even worry about paying back the $500,000.