Part 1The Maybach Lie And My Billion Dollar Reveng

The Stanton Confessions Board blew up with an anonymous post.

No photo, just a block of text dripping with passive aggression:

[Saw the girl I’ve been crushing on for a year get into a Maybach outside the campus gates. Guess I should’ve known she wasn't worth my heart.]

[Some of these campus 'queens' really know how to leverage their assets to skip twenty years of the grind and jump straight into a penthouse apartment.]

[Meanwhile, guys like us are eating the ten-dollar cafeteria special while the gold-diggers are sipping on thirty-dollar Starbucks lattes.]

[P.S. I looked up the car. The owner is a fifty-something dude, married, family man. Some people better watch their backs.]

The post instantly rocketed to the top of the trending list.

The comment section was a storm of outrage:

“Don’t worry, man, she’s not worth it!”

“Which college? Spill the tea, dude! Can’t stand gold-diggers!”

The anonymous poster replied with a mock sigh:

“Hey, let’s give the girl some privacy. I won’t drop the name.”

“I’m just disappointed. I really thought she was different. I mean, she walks around acting like a total angel, but behind the scenes… ugh.”

I read the thread right after stepping out of the shower.

My roommate, Piper Reynolds, leaned over my shoulder, face mask slipping slightly.

“Izzy, look at this… that description sounds kind of like you, doesn’t it?”

She blinked. “Wasn’t there a black sedan that picked you up last Friday when it was raining?”

I paused, the towel in my hand stilling.

That was my family’s driver.

* * *

The next morning, in my 8 AM Architectural History lecture, I felt the atmosphere shift immediately.

A few guys in the back row kept glancing over, whispering, and letting out these little, smug chuckles.

I sat down, and my phone vibrated. A new message popped up in our college group chat.

It was the anonymous poster.

“Some people acting like nothing happened, huh?” He tagged everyone in the class.

“Fine, I’ll name names.”

“@ArchitectureMajorIsabelleVaughan.”

“Last Friday, 4 PM, East Gate. Black Maybach S680, license plate ends in 888. Do I need to post the video?”

The group chat went dead for three seconds, then exploded.

“Wait, seriously, it’s her?”

“She always seemed so… wholesome.”

“A Maybach S680? That’s like, half a million dollars, easy.”

“No wonder she never went to any of the mixers. She thought we were peasants.”

My fingers were ice cold, trembling as I typed:

“That is my father’s car. Do you have a problem?”

He instantly replied:

“Here we go! The classic ‘it’s my dad’ line!”

“Why don’t you just say it’s your sugar daddy?”

“I did my research. The owner’s name is Davies, fifty-something, real estate mogul. Isabelle Vaughan, did your dad change his name?”

I froze.

Mr. Davies was indeed the family driver, and he’d been with us for over a decade.

But how was I supposed to explain that?

Saying “he’s my family’s chauffeur” would sound even more like a pathetic cover story.

Seeing my silence, the poster’s bravado surged:

“Nothing to say now? Fine. Be a gold-digger, be a mistress, but don’t act like a holier-than-thou saint.”

“Just so you know, that guy has a wife and kids. Pull back before you wreck a family!”

Piper Reynolds chimed in:

“Guys, let’s not be so harsh on Izzy… maybe she’s just covering her rent with creative side hustles.”

“Society’s tough these days. You have to respect a woman for taking shortcuts… right?”

I almost laughed, the fury turning my insides to ice.

I rushed to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, trying to calm down.

But I heard distinct voices from the stall next to mine:

“That’s her, huh? Looks so innocent.”

“Innocent? Honey, she’s got a talent for leveraging that image. I heard Braden Miller chased her for a whole year, flowers, coffee runs, everything, and she wouldn’t even look at him. Turns out she was just holding out for bigger money.”

“Poor Braden, feeding his heart to a beast.”

“But wow, trading up for a guy old enough to be her grandfather… she’s got the stomach for anything, I guess.”

I leaned against the stall door, feeling a chill run through me.

Braden Miller. The guy I had explicitly rejected multiple times, who had then devolved into an irritating stalker.

Now, he was the “heartbroken victim”?

Back in the lecture hall, the atmosphere was suffocating.

The class rep, Maria, came over, lowering her voice:

“Izzy, Professor Martin wants to see you in his office.”

In the office, Professor Martin’s face was grim. The Confessions Board page was up on his monitor.

“Ms. Vaughan, this is a very poor look for the department. Several students and faculty have already brought it to my attention. The university is concerned. Can you explain this?”

I waited.

“Now, Braden, he was a little harsh with his words.” He adjusted his glasses. “But you have to see, stepping out of a car like that, on campus, it’s going to generate gossip, right? You have to consider appearances.”

“So, it’s my fault?” I countered.

He waved a dismissive hand.

“I’m just saying, you need to be mindful of the impact. This is a conservative school. A young woman must protect her reputation…”

I cut him off:

“Professor Martin, Braden Miller publicly defamed me in a class-wide chat, accusing me of being a mistress. That’s grounds for disciplinary action, according to the student handbook.”

Professor Martin’s smile froze.

“Well… Izzy, Braden comes from a disadvantaged background. His parents are blue-collar workers, and he’s on a full-ride scholarship.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“If you pursue this, he’ll have a mark on his record. It could ruin his career prospects…”

“So, because he’s poor, he has the right to spread slander?” I stared at him.

“Don’t put words in my mouth!” Professor Martin snapped, his face hardening. “I’m trying to protect you! Your reputation is everything! Do you really want to drag this into the Dean’s office? The whole campus will know you stepped out of a luxury sedan—is that the narrative you want?”

“That car belongs to my father’s comp—”

“Enough!” He waved his hand impatiently. “It doesn't matter who owns the car, you should have been more discreet! Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll make Braden apologize, and we’ll let this whole thing die down. Agreed?”

“What if I don’t agree?”

He glared at me. “Isabelle Vaughan! Why are you being so difficult? Do you want to take this to the Dean? I’m telling you, if this blows up, you will be the one who suffers the most!”

My phone buzzed.

I glanced down. It was a text from my father.

“Izzy, I heard someone at school is giving you trouble? Do you need me to handle it?”

I took a deep breath and replied:

“No. I can handle it myself.”

Then I looked up at Professor Martin.

“Since you can’t resolve this, I will proceed in my own way.”

“What… what are you going to do?” he called after me.

I didn’t look back.