Part 1Splitting the Billionaire's Bill

The designer bag in my hands was a perfect replica, a beautiful lie, and a death sentence. My roommate, the queen bee of campus, gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I thanked her, and then I immediately engineered a swap for the real one owned by the wealthiest heiress in the country.

I could do this because, for me, this wasn't the first time. I’ve lived this before.

In my last life, that fake bag was my undoing. Veronica, my roommate, had somehow linked herself to a "Spending-Split System"—a kind of financial curse. As long as I carried the counterfeit bag she gave me, every single dollar she spent, anywhere in the world, was split evenly between us.

She was the daughter of a millionaire, a girl who treated shopping sprees in Paris and Milan like a part-time job.

I was a scholarship kid who spent her nights in the library, the fake bag sitting on the floor next to me as I studied. With every swipe of her credit card, the money my parents had scrimped and saved for my future vanished from my account.

Eventually, the debt became a tidal wave. It dragged me under, and the loan sharks she was unknowingly connected to made sure I never came up for air. They filled my pockets with stones and threw me in the river.

So, this time, I knew the game. Veronica loves splitting the bill, does she?

Well, dragging a broke student down with her is small-time.

Let’s see how she likes splitting the tab with a billionaire.

* * *

My fingers tightened around the faux-leather handle of the bag, a flawless imitation of the season’s most coveted luxury satchel.

This was my eighteenth birthday. Again.

The only people who remembered were Veronica Thorne and her lapdog, Ashley.

No, that’s not right. They didn't remember my birthday. They remembered the day their trap was supposed to be set.

Veronica’s arm was linked through mine, her touch a proprietary gesture disguised as friendship. "Happy birthday, Josie," she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "This bag is just so you. You have to promise me you'll wear it every single day."

It sounded like a gift, but it felt like a command.

Ashley, ever the hype woman, immediately started her performance. Her voice was loud enough to echo down the dorm hallway. "Oh my god, Ronnie! You are the best friend ever! Josie, do you know how much that costs? That’s like, a five-thousand-dollar bag!"

Her tone was a masterclass in exaggerated envy. Thirty percent praise for her queen, seventy percent a spotlight on the chasm between their wealth and my lack of it.

I clutched the bag, my knuckles white.

The memories washed over me like icy water, a phantom current pulling me under. I saw myself carrying this exact bag, its counterfeit gleam a constant reminder of my own inadequacy.

I saw Veronica laughing on a yacht in the Mediterranean, swiping her card for another case of champagne.

And I saw myself in the university library, my phone buzzing with one bank notification after another, each one a death knell for my savings. The money my parents left me, my scholarships… all of it siphoned away by that parasitic system until there was nothing left.

She lived in luxury while I drowned in debt.

The loan sharks, the final, brutal chapter. The cold water closing over my head.

My heart seized, a knot of pure terror in my chest, and I had to fight to draw a breath. A chill snaked up my spine, the ghostly embrace of a predator. Veronica, smiling at me, wasn't my roommate. She was a demon in Dior, a harbinger of a fate I had already suffered.

I forced down the bile of hatred rising in my throat. My voice, when I finally found it, was so devoid of emotion it scared even me.

"Thanks."

That was all I said. No gushing, no tears of gratitude. Just a single, flat word.

The smile on Ashley’s face froze, then curdled into a scowl. "What is wrong with you, Josie?" she snapped, her voice sharp with indignation. "Veronica gets you a gift that costs more than your entire wardrobe, and that's all you have to say? Have you ever heard of the words 'thank you'?"

Veronica, ever the benevolent martyr, raised a hand to silence her attack dog. "Ash, stop it," she said, feigning kindness. "She's probably just in shock. It's okay, Josie. As long as you love it, that's all that matters."

Her words were honeyed, but her eyes held a triumphant glint. She was certain she had me. She was sure that the poor little scholarship girl would treasure this fake status symbol, carrying it like a holy relic until it destroyed me.

She was already waiting for the punchline.

I lowered my head, pretending to admire the bag’s craftsmanship, but really, I was hiding the murder in my eyes.

Just then, my phone screen lit up.

A news notification.

Heiress Seraphina Monroe to Attend Northwood University's Charity Art Gala as Guest of Honor this Weekend.

My heart began to hammer against my ribs like a drumbeat.

Seraphina Monroe.

The only daughter of the richest man in America.

The article featured a photo of her at a recent event. She was wearing a couture gown, and on her arm was a bag.

The exact same brand, the same limited-edition model, as the fake one in my hands.

The real one.

A plan, audacious and terrifying, began to crystallize in my mind. My breath hitched.

What was the point of dragging me, a nobody, into the abyss?

This time, let's see how Veronica Thorne enjoys splitting the bill with a true one-percenter.

I looked up and offered Veronica a small, hesitant smile. She took it as the gratitude she so desperately craved.

I tightened my grip, making a silent vow. This time, I wouldn't be the one to break.