Chapter 1

Everyone at campus was whispering that I was some old man's plaything.

My roommate tossed my belongings from the sixth floor, screaming that I was polluting the air of our dorm.

The dean called me in for a chat, strongly hinting that I should just drop out.

I didn't explain a single thing.

On the day of the university's 60th anniversary, the school's biggest donor sat right in the center of the VIP stage.

The president invited him to give a speech. He stood up, his gaze sweeping over the massive crowd until it finally locked onto me.

He spoke into the microphone, "Let me introduce everyone to my daughter. She's the student you've all been calling a sugar baby."

1

The zipper on my designer bag was stuck.

I was crouching on the dorm floor, rummaging through a small sewing kit, when the door swung open. My roommate, Chloe, stood there holding a Starbucks cup. She glanced at the bag in my hand, then looked at me with pure disdain.

"Another one?" she asked.

"It's old. The zipper just broke," I replied calmly.

She set her drink on the table without a word. I knew that expression―the way her lips curled downward before she masked it. She had made that same face the first time she saw me with this bag last semester. Soon after, the whole department knew about it.

Rumors moved faster than I did. During Monday morning's lecture, a group of guys in the back row were huddled over a phone. One of them looked up at me, then whispered something to his friend. They both burst into a suppressed laugh.

As I walked past their desk, the laughter dipped for a second, then exploded even louder.

"Twenty grand a month?" one whispered.

"Twenty? Look at that bag―an old geezer would pay way more than that for her," another replied.

The back row erupted. The mockery rippled through the classroom like a wave.

I didn't turn back to see who was talking. The girl in the seat ahead of me, Mia, glanced back once before quickly turning away. We used to talk. Now, she wouldn't even make eye contact.

Things finally boiled over in the cafeteria.

It was Tuesday at noon. I was carrying my tray, looking for a seat, having only bought a basic side salad and a roll. As I passed Chloe's table, the girl next to her―Sienna from the other class―suddenly slammed her fork down. Her voice was loud enough for everyone within four tables to hear.

"Hey Chloe, don't you find it interesting? Some people carry a twenty-thousand-dollar bag but eat a three-dollar salad. Is the sugar daddy money only enough for the accessories and not the steak?"

The whole table laughed. Chloe didn't join in, though. She just chewed her food slowly, watching me, waiting for a reaction. I stood there, tray in hand, as the whispers around us started to sizzle.

The word "sugar baby" bounced around the air like a taunt.

I placed my tray on an empty table nearby and sat down. I ate every single bite of my salad, one forkful at a time.

Sienna stood up to leave. As she walked past me, her elbow "accidentally" clipped my bowl. What was left of my dressing and water splashed across the table, dripping down onto my white sneakers. The fabric soaked up the brown stains instantly.

"Oops, my bad―" she chirped. She grabbed a napkin, used it to wipe her own sleeve, and walked away without giving me one. I looked down at the stains on my shoes and didn't bother to wipe them.

Wednesday afternoon, the dean called me into her office. She left the door open. People passing by in the hallway kept peeking in. The dean, Mrs. Gable, was a woman in her forties who seemed perpetually tired. She signaled for me to sit and then finally shut the door.

The privacy felt worse than the open door―it meant what she had to say was too scandalous for public ears.

"Elara Sterling, several students have reported some... concerns regarding your situation," she said, blowing on her tea. "There are claims that you are being picked up and dropped off by older men in a way that―well, in a way we don't want to see from our students."

"I don't want to micromanage your private life. But when it starts affecting the campus culture, it becomes an issue."

I looked her in the eye and asked, "What kind of relationship exactly?"

She gave me a look that wasn't a question, but a verdict.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. This university has standards. Watch yourself."

When I left the office, two girls passed me in the hallway. One pulled the other's sleeve and hissed, "That's her."