Chapter 4Pay Me Back Mr Billionaire

Within ten minutes of leaving the office, the university forum had a new pinned post in bright red.

EXPOSED: Architecture Student Nina Accused of Extorting Ex-Boyfriend for $50k After Being Dumped!

The post was a work of fiction. It painted me as a calculating social climber who had drained Grayson’s "modest" savings and was now lashing out because he couldn't satisfy my greed. It framed Grayson as the victim—a guy blinded by love, who gave me everything only to be betrayed.

The comments were a cesspool.

[I knew it. Grayson is way too hot for her. He was definitely doing her a favor.]

[Fifty thousand? Who does she think she is? A Kardashian?]

[This girl is toxic. Cancel her.]

Paige grabbed my phone, her face a mask of cold fury as she scrolled. Isabelle’s "mean girls" squad had joined the fray. They posted photos of me from freshman and sophomore year—wearing faded T-shirts, eating ramen in the library, pulling all-nighters in the studio with messy hair. I looked plain. Tired. Average.

The caption: [Some people have been planning the 'victim' act since day one. Look at the 'innocent' act. The real Nina is the one screaming for cash now.]

Paige handed the phone back. "It’s time."

She logged into my account and hit 'post.'

Subject: Four Years, Fifty Thousand Dollars. The Ledger of a 'Charity Case.'

The post contained a single, massive image: an Excel spreadsheet.

It was an endless, meticulously detailed scroll. Date. Item. Amount. Payment Method. Notes.

From fifty-dollar skins for his video games to five-hundred-dollar "boys' dinners" to thousand-dollar tech upgrades. And behind every single entry was a screenshot of a text message. Grayson begging, wheedling, or simply demanding.

The evidence of my "sweet burden" was now the evidence of his parasitic nature.

At the very bottom was the watch. $12,000. Next to it was the credit card statement, and the subsequent "overdue" notices from the bank.

The forum went dead silent for three seconds.

Then, it exploded.

The narrative didn't just shift; it was obliterated.

[Holy... my eyes... This isn't charity. This is a scam.]

[Four years? He sucked her dry.]

[I take it back. Nina isn't an ex; she’s a saint. Most tragic partner of the year.]

[I’m gonna puke. Isabelle is wearing gifts bought with another girl's credit card debt?]

I watched the comments roll in, and for the first time in years, I felt a strange, hollow peace.