Chapter 2

After hanging up, my dad walked back inside and handed me an envelope with some holiday cash. "Nora, an emergency came up at work. I have to head out right away!"

My mom comforted me, "It's okay, sweetie. I'll take you to Grandpa's."

I nodded quietly, slipped the envelope into my jacket pocket, and got ready to head over to my grandparents' place with my mom.

When we arrived, Grandpa opened the door and pulled me inside. "Nora's here! Come in, come in, it's freezing out there!"

His hands were soft and smooth, completely devoid of calluses—nothing like the retired factory machinist he claimed to be.

Grandma hurried over and handed me a small envelope of holiday money.

"Thank you, Grandma," I said quietly, sliding it straight into my pocket.

My mother blinked, clearly startled. Usually, the moment I received any gift money, I would hand it right over to her to "help pay off the family debt."

Back then, she would always beam and say, "Nora is such a good, selfless girl."

Today, my behavior broke the script. Even Grandma paused for a second before letting out a nervous laugh. "Look at that, our little Nora is finally learning to keep her own pocket money!"

I raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "Well, Mom always says the new year brings new beginnings. I figured I should save a little personal cash."

"Of course," my mom quickly chimed in. "Nora is remarkably mature. She earns all her own tuition and living expenses!"

Without even opening the envelope, I already knew Grandma hadn't given me more than a measly fifty bucks. Compared to my crippling college tuition, it was practically an insult.

They were drowning in unimaginable wealth, yet they nickel-and-dimed me at every turn.

Why was this twisted "poverty trial" designed exclusively for me? What had I done to deserve it?

Grandma didn't say much more and disappeared into the kitchen. When the food was served, I took two bites and lost my appetite completely.

Every single dish was identical to the secret banquet menu from the Michelin-starred restaurant last night.

Now, there was zero doubt left in my mind.

My entire family was dripping with wealth, yet they dressed down to cosplay as broke paupers just to fool me.

Even my grandparents were in on the act.

After the meal, my mom took a phone call, fabricated an urgent work emergency, and rushed out the door.

Grandpa and Grandma began yawning theatrically, dropping heavy hints that they were exhausted. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I said my goodbyes and left.

Instead of walking away, I hid behind a corner down the street and watched the house.

Sure enough, barely twenty minutes later, a stretched Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb.

Surrounded by an entourage of handlers and assistants, Grandpa and Grandma stepped outside, dressed in lavish coats, and slid into the luxury car without looking back.

I took a shaky breath, pulled up my face mask, and walked back up to the house.

A crew of professional cleaners in uniforms was already vacuuming and wiping down the place.

One cleaner remarked with a sigh, "Seriously, what's wrong with this family? They rent or keep this dusty old place just to stay for one afternoon a year, eat a single lunch, and leave!"

"Hey, at least the cleaning tip is crazy generous!" another replied.

"You don't know the half of it. They've been pulling this stunt for over twenty years. They own that massive private estate in the exclusive hills. Rich folks just love playing pretend to experience the struggle!"

Hearing those words, every warmth in my chest died completely.

The Miller estate was located in the prestigious Hillside gated community. I rode my beat-up bicycle all the way up the winding roads.

Standing before that palatial, golden-lit mansion guarded by private security gates, I felt sick. This was a world I had never dared to dream of.

The moment I approached the gate, a burly security guard snapped coldly, "Who are you? Back off, vagrant!"

I took a ragged breath and turned to leave when the roar of an engine ripped through the air.

A custom Italian motorcycle screeched to a halt right in front of me.

I had seen that specific bike online—it was a limited-edition model worth over two hundred thousand dollars.

Sitting on it was Lucas Miller.