The Text

The meeting was about Clearwater Resort Town, a project held with the Hewitts. The Hewitts were in charge of development, while Aphrodite was in charge of marketing.

I got a job in Aphrodite five years ago, when they were recruiting at my campus. As one of the world's top marketing companies, Aphrodite was a demanding place to work, but the pay was excellent.

I told the Shaws that I was a janitor at Aphrodite and got paid three thousand every month. Blinded by their prejudice, Johnny and Yves gobbled up the story right away.

After the director was done with the progress report, they said solemnly, "The Hewitts' PIC is Wendy now, and it's her first project as their heiress."

Then, the director added that Wendy was not satisfied with our current proposal. We had to prepare two more versions and hold another meeting in two weeks.

Wendy would be joining the review in person.

"She's extremely particular about details, and our budget has been cut. By a lot. I need everyone to stay sharp."

After the meeting ended, my colleagues started gossiping in the pantry.

"I heard Wendy was disfigured when she was a child. That's why she almost never shows her face in public."

"Who'd have the guts to do that?"

"No idea. My mom was the reporter on that case back then. She managed to take photos of Wendy being sent to the hospital, but her boss ordered her to delete them."

"Aristocrats fighting among themselves. They'll go to any lengths. And I bet something's fishy about Wendy's sister's death. A little girl going to a beach late at night isn't normal."

"Philip Hewitt has three wives and four daughters. Wendy's the youngest, but if she could become the heiress, she's more cunning than we thought."

"We should just do our jobs. The director did say she's very particular."

I was reminded of the face I saw.

Although a scar marred her features, it did not take much away from her beauty. Still, there was something dark and heavy surrounding her, like a thick mist that made her seem even more mysterious.

She was not the sort of woman who would be easily swayed by lust, no matter what Yves claimed.

I took a sip of coffee and opened Instagram. Yves had posted some photos. He was in expensive attire and sipping red wine on a hotel balcony, while bouquets of flowers surrounded him.

Within the photos were two foreigners who radiated the presence of nobility. The caption read, 'Another fine wine from 1982, courtesy of Romagnan Winery. The aroma fills the mouth. Every sip tastes like romance. Gentlemen, I highly recommend stocking up on premium red wine.'

Beyond the photos, about a dozen men with immaculate makeup were waiting for Yves. The heirmaking course had its designated photography set. Supercars, designer goods, expensive jewelry, and beachfront properties were just part of the list.

Their goal was to mold every student into the image of elegance, wealth, and good breeding. Anyone who did not know the truth would easily be fooled.

To prevent others from looking down on them, every student also had to pretend to be successful in their own career.

Yves was neither a business partner nor a visiting professor. The heirmaking course made it all up.

My property agent sent me two more options for my new place to choose from. I had enough savings to get a two-bedroom near the company.

Cutting ties with the Shaws needed to be done as soon as possible. A problem was the last thing I needed.

…

Three days later, the video of Yves crashing into that supercar went viral. The comments praised his looks as something that only appeared once in a thousand years, and that was supposedly without makeup.

People even dragged the biggest online celebrities into it, claiming they would lose their jobs if Yves ever entered the entertainment industry.

Then someone showed Yves' social media posts, praising him for his great pedigree and elegance, as if he were the best thing ever to happen. It would be hard for Wendy not to notice Yves at this point.

After all, fame was the best stepping stone into aristocracy.

The course's organizers really did their work.

After signing the sale and purchase agreement, I went back to the Shaws' place to pack up.

Johnny opened the door and gave me a disdainful once-over. "Which slum are you moving into?"

Fiona did not even look at me. She was huddled beside Yves, trembling with excitement as if she had just won the lottery.

"It's Wendy. She texted me. Garfield always said that if I could get a woman to text me first, then I've won most of the battle!"

Yves closed his eyes, held his phone to his chest, and only opened up WhatsApp a few moments later.

The three stared at the message, but what they saw clamped their mouth shut for a very long time. I put my suitcase down and approached them, wondering what the message was.

The message read, 'The car will be sent back to headquarters in Soland. Repair costs amount to 8.57 million.'

Below it was a full repair report, written entirely in Brundelan.

Calling for Help

Yves zoomed in on the bill. "What kind of repair costs that much?" He carefully counted the zeroes.

Johnny refused to believe it too. He insisted the sender had to be a scammer, not Wendy.

That car Yves crashed into was a Koenigsegg, and the chassis was fully handmade. There was only one of its kind in the entire country. Because it was so rare, most people would not even recognize it.

Aphrodite had partnered up with Koenigsegg before, so I knew that car was 50 million. For a car like that, eight million in repair costs was not impossible. On top of that, transporting it back to Soland would not be cheap either.

While they were struggling to grasp whether the bill was real, Wendy texted them again. 'Pay up as soon as you can.'

That left no grounds for negotiation.

Panic seeped into Yves, and all color drained from his face. "She should've asked me on a date, not money for repairs! Where do I even get eight million?"

He looked to Fiona for help.

Finally, Fiona remembered that I existed. She comforted Yves, claiming that my car was insured, and the insurance company would pay for the damages.

"Commercial insurance only covers up to three million. You're still 5.5 million short." I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and headed toward my room. After taking one step, I paused and tapped my forehead as if I had just remembered something.

"Oh, right. I didn't manage to buy that in time. There's only compulsory insurance, and that covers two hundred grand at most. Besides, Yves doesn't even have a driving license. The insurance company won't pay."

My room was tiny. There was nothing to take except for the toys my father had made for me.

I was about to leave the room, but Johnny put his arm across the entrance and gave me a look that said he wanted to tear me apart.

"You're not leaving! That's your car. Even if the cops are involved, you're still paying!"

I knew he would say that, so I pulled the vehicle registration out of my bag. Yves was named as the owner. This was Fiona's doing.

For once, she had accompanied me on a semi-important errand. I had gone to the DMV to register my car, but while I was in the restroom, Fiona switched my ID with Yves'. Just like that, the car became his.

Ever since we were children, Yves always had to be the first to get anything good in the family. Fiona would never tolerate me having a car while Yves did not.

The realization made Johnny snap. He turned on Fiona and struck her. "You moron! You ruined Yves! She's the Hewitts' heiress! We can't weasel our way out!"

Fiona curled up, not daring to fight back. She stammered that she had no idea things would turn out this way.

Yves grabbed his head and screamed, "Stop it! I'm calling Garfield! He knows what to do!"

Garfield. He was the homeroom teacher of the heirmaking course.

I had once seen him bringing a group of charming, well-dressed men into a luxurious club. Everyone said he had deep connections.

Thanks to him, more than a few of his students had supposedly married famous celebrities or wealthy business owners.

Yves waited for the answer like it was his last hope at survival.

A moment later, a rough, impatient voice sounded from the phone. "I'd love to help you, but you haven't paid up, Yves. Give me the 300 grand, and I'll tell you what to do. She'll be at your beck and call."

Yves promised profusely that he would pay up. While he was nodding to Garfield, I shoved Johnny away and left. These people were beyond saving.

…

Two weeks later, I met Wendy again in the reception room.

Under the bright lights, her scar was nearly invisible. To my surprise, Wendy had come with Yves.

He was wearing an expensive suit with dark brown leather shoes. At a glance, he actually looked like a proper office worker.

This must be Garfield's idea. I just wondered how Yves had managed to scrape together that three hundred grand.