The 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.

1

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.

2

Almost instantly, my dad called.

“Izzy, if you’re unhappy, just walk away. I’ll get the transfer papers ready. You can go to any school you want. Also, I recall Stellar Industries pledged a one-billion-dollar endowment to Stanton last year, correct? I think we should hold that up. A student body with this kind of toxic culture…”

“Dad!” I interrupted quickly. “Don’t stop it.”

My father paused.

I inhaled, trying to keep my voice steady.

“That money… there are students in my class who genuinely need it. Sarah’s mom has late-stage cancer. Mike worked construction all summer just to pay tuition. We can’t let those who actually need help lose hope just because of a couple of toxic people.”

I hesitated, my voice dropping.

“But the transfer, I do want to think about it. I… I can’t stay here.”

After a long silence, my dad sighed.

“If anyone lays a finger on you again, tell me. Money can be donated, and it can also be withdrawn.”

Hanging up the phone, I finally felt a flicker of warmth.

I opened my contacts and found Braden Miller’s number.

“Braden, delete your defamatory post immediately and issue a public apology and factual clarification across all relevant platforms.”

He sounded like he’d heard the funniest joke in the world, his voice spiking.

“Isabelle Vaughan, are you delusional? Defamation? Everything I said is true! Everyone can see it!”

“That was my father’s assigned driver!” My voice shook with anger.

“Driver? Ha ha ha!” He burst into malicious laughter.

“Keep spinning that yarn! Why don’t you say he’s your long-lost father? I’m telling you, I’ve seen countless vain girls who pretend to be pure. I was blind to think you were different! Turns out, you’re dirtier than the rest! At least they’re honest about the price. You? You want to have your cake and eat it too!”

“This is slander!” I yelled.

“Slander? Go ahead and sue me!” He sounded completely unconcerned, even thrilled by the confrontation.

Then, he hung up.

That night, the campus Confessions Board updated.

It was an audio link with the caption:

“Forced to apologize due to pressure. Sorry everyone, I shouldn’t have told the truth. Her ‘sugar daddy’ has too much power. A poor kid from a small town like me can’t fight them. [Crying emoji] Hope Ms. Vaughan and her people will take pity on me.”

I clicked the link. It was a maliciously edited snippet of our conversation.

The comment section was completely lost.

“Oh my God, he’s such a victim!”

“Isabelle Vaughan is a bully! Using her wealth and connections to threaten students?”

“No wonder the professor wouldn’t touch it. She’s connected!”

“@UniversityOfficial, do something! Protect Braden Miller!”

I dragged my exhausted body back to the dorm. The moment I pushed the door open, a force shoved me backward.

Piper Reynolds stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, flanked by the two other roommates, their faces cold and hostile.

“Isabelle Vaughan, don’t you dare come in!” Piper’s voice was sharp.

“You’ve been sleeping around, who knows what you’ve picked up? We don’t want your filth here!”

“Seriously! Get out now!”

“You’re disgusting! We actually thought we were friends!”

The other two roommates chimed in, roughly pushing my suitcase out the door.

I tried to explain, but they wouldn’t let me speak. I watched helplessly as they shoved me out and slammed the door shut. I had no choice but to call Mr. Davies to come pick me up and take me home, making sure to ask him to drive a less conspicuous car.

I slept for a day, feverish and heavy, finally waking up the next evening as the fever broke.

I opened my phone. A new message was pinned to the top of the group chat:

[Stellar Industries $1 Billion Poverty Relief Fund has been disbursed! Every student in this class is on the list, receiving $50,000 annually for the next four years!]

3

The chat exploded with cheers, dozens of screens flashing with “Thank you, Stellar Industries!” and “Best surprise ever!”

Many of the quieter students posted with excitement, detailing how the money would relieve their family stress and allow them to focus purely on their studies.

I was on the list, too.

After an attempted kidnapping when I was a child, my father had insisted I maintain a low profile, so I was officially registered as a regular student, technically qualifying for the aid.

Just then, two jarring messages cut through the noise.

Braden Miller: “@ClassRep @ProfessorMartin I think this list needs a second look, don’t you? Some students clearly do not meet the ‘disadvantaged’ criteria, and some have serious moral issues. Giving them scholarships would be an insult to the donor’s intent. @IsabelleVaughan.”

Piper Reynolds immediately backed him up:

“Braden is right! Scholarships are for hard-working, needy students with good character! Some people are riding around in Maybachs and collecting poverty aid. That’s gross! I suggest we revoke @IsabelleVaughan’s eligibility, for the sake of integrity!”

The previously festive atmosphere in the chat instantly froze.

A few seconds later, someone tentatively posted:

“…Honestly, Braden has a point.”

“Izzy doesn’t look like she needs financial aid…”

“And the character issues… that’s a bad look.”

I stared at the screen, a profound exhaustion washing over me. I didn’t even have the energy to argue.

I typed, then hit send:

“I voluntarily forfeit my eligibility for this scholarship cycle. I wish everyone the best.”

Then, I muted the group chat.

The silence lasted less than two minutes.

Piper Reynolds’ private message window started flashing wildly.

I opened it. It was a selfie: Braden Miller, turning his head, kissing Piper on the cheek.

Piper’s smile was saccharine, the caption cruel:

“Braden says some people are born low, only fit to look up at other people’s happiness from the gutter. Oh, and I forgot to tell you—Braden’s not only top of the class, his family’s old house is in the new development zone. He’s major up-and-coming stock, babe. Some gold-diggers must be kicking themselves right now, huh? Too bad, you didn’t measure up.”

I looked at the smug photo and the vicious text, completely unmoved. In fact, I felt a faint urge to laugh.

I didn’t reply with a single punctuation mark. I blocked the number and deleted the contact.

Clean. Decisive.

The day of the relief fund distribution ceremony arrived.

My father, as the CEO of Stellar Industries, was scheduled to speak at the university auditorium, which was packed with over thirty thousand students.

I was submitting my transfer application paperwork to the advisor’s office and purposefully walked the long way around the main auditorium. Still, I ran right into Braden and Piper on a side corridor.

“Well, well. Said no to the scholarship, but you’re still hanging around? Isn’t your sugar daddy giving you enough allowance?” Braden sneered, looking me up and down with open contempt.

I didn’t want to engage and tried to step past them.

Piper suddenly lunged forward, blocking my path, her voice shrill:

“Isabelle Vaughan! How dare you show your face here? If it wasn’t for you, Braden wouldn’t be getting judged by everyone! You did this to him!”

“Move.” I said, my voice cold.

“Apologize to me!” Braden suddenly grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight.

Piper stoked the fire beside him:

“Braden, why are you being gentle with her? A tramp like this needs a lesson! Scratch her face off! Let’s see her try to seduce old men now!”

Then, Braden seemed to completely lose control.

He violently shoved me against the wall. Piper jumped at me too, her sharp nails aiming for my face and neck.

“Bitch! You think you’re so great! I’ve been waiting to do this to you.”

“I’ll beat you up! See if you can keep acting so pure!”

“Tear her clothes off! Let everyone see what she really is!”

I fought back desperately, but my fever-weakened body was no match for their manic assault.

In the struggle, we slammed against the slightly ajar safety exit door, tumbling down a few steps.

I hit the floor, my vision blurring, my bones screaming in protest.

“Drag her up!” Piper shrieked.

“Drag her into the auditorium! Let the whole school see what a wreck she is! Let’s see her try to stay here after this!”

Braden grinned, a nasty, contorted look, and he and Piper grabbed me by my arms, roughly dragging me like a sack of trash.

I had almost no strength left, my consciousness fading.

They dragged me to the side entrance of the main auditorium.

Inside, the lights were blinding, the hall packed, the ceremony in full swing.

I stumbled and fell onto the smooth, cold marble floor, right in the center of countless converging gazes.

For a split second, the entire auditorium fell silent.

Then, I heard a loud crash from the stage—a microphone had been knocked over.

In the final moments before I blacked out, I saw my father’s horrified figure racing towards me.

His voice thundered, raw with rage:

“It seems this university doesn’t need our endowment after all!”