My grandfather raised me on scraps, pulling me from the refuse of the world. I knew the bitter taste of poverty all too well. To marry into wealth, I armed myself with designer shopping bags bought from eBay and rented luxury purses for five dollars a day. My days were spent drifting through art galleries, my nights curled up in the waiting areas of five-star hotels. After six months of playing the part of a phantom heiress, a man finally approached me. It was him. The one I’d seen in Forbes last month: Michael Astor, the scion of a New York dynasty. I offered him a business card. Vivian Sterling. A painter signed with the Galerie Saint-Victor in Paris, and curator of the Sterling Gallery. He raised an eyebrow, then beckoned the gallery’s curator over. “Have this piece delivered to Miss Sterling’s home.” The painting Michael pointed to was marked at two million dollars. But before I could even process my elation, comments started scrolling across my vision, like a phantom social media feed only I could see. "The wannabe socialite is on the scene! I can’t wait to see the real heroine expose her." "Go on, keep up the act! Serves her right for trying to seduce the male lead. She'll learn her lesson once Michael ships her off to some grimy nightclub in Eastern Europe!" ... After dinner with Michael, we were walking to the parking garage when we passed a massive Chanel display window. The soft glow of the lights caressed the latest season's collection, and for a moment, it captured my entire soul. I turned my head, my feet halting. "Thank you for dinner," I said, my voice pulling me back to reality. "My treat next time." My gaze fell upon Michael, his hair slicked back, his face framed by thin, gold-rimmed glasses. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I was worried it might not be to your taste." I faced him, walking backward slowly with my hands behind my back. "Oh, I used to go there all the time in Europe. After moving back to the States, I often found myself missing those days. I was surprised to see they’d opened a location here, so I had to bring you." The phantom comments went wild with mockery. 【She spins lies so effortlessly! Europe? She only moved to New York last year. She doesn't even have a passport!】 【The male lead is so gullible! She couldn't afford a real Michelin-star place, so she took him to this prix-fixe joint. The whole meal barely cost her a hundred bucks!】 【Just wait, girls. Let's see what other tall tales this gold digger can cook up!】 "Now I remember," Michael said, a smile playing on his lips. "A friend took me to their flagship in Paris once. The line was a mile long, and by the time we got in, they were sold out of their signature beef and truffle burger. Thanks to you, I finally got to make up for a regret that's haunted me for eight years." We shared a knowing smile. He offered me his arm, and I slipped mine through it. Half an hour later, his car pulled up to a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side. A doorman stepped forward, blocking our way. "Key card, please." My heart hammered against my ribs as I fumbled through my handbag. After a long moment, the doorman’s patience wore thin. "Ma'am, this is a private residence. If you're not a resident, you need to leave." I shot Michael an embarrassed smile. "I can just get out here." His gaze shifted from me to the doorman, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "What's wrong with your security? You don't even recognize your own residents?" "He must be new," I stammered, "still learning the faces. It's been a long night, thank you for everything. I can walk from here." I reached for the door handle, but Michael locked it with a soft click. He turned to the doorman, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "Her name is Vivian Sterling. She's a resident. I'm giving you three minutes to verify that, or you can be sure I'll be filing a formal complaint." The doorman eyed me warily before muttering into his walkie-talkie. 【Is she getting exposed this quickly?】 【Of course she is. The smallest unit in this building is 1,500 square feet and costs over ten million. No way she can afford that!】 【You have to admit, the girl's got nerve. She's got the Astor heir completely fooled!】 Sensing the moment was right, I pulled the key card from my coat pocket and flashed it at the doorman through the window. "My apologies," I said smoothly. "I forgot I'd slipped it in my coat." The doorman breathed a sigh of relief, offering me a respectful nod before waving us through. The car stopped in front of one of the towers, and Michael came around to open my door. "There's an art gala next week," he said as I stepped out. "Eleanor Davenport will be there. She's also an alum of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. You two would be classmates, in a way. I'm sure you'd have plenty to talk about. Would you like to go?" The threat of my lies unraveling set off alarm bells in my head. I made a vague excuse about checking my schedule with my assistant and managed to deflect. Back in my apartment, I opened my laptop and searched for everything I could find on Eleanor Davenport. Wife of the powerful Davenport family. Her father was a renowned literary figure from the early 20th century, her mother a famous attorney. She was accepted into the oil painting program at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris at sixteen and married into a family that held Washington's economic strings at twenty-four. She was the real deal—the pinnacle of high society, the woman everyone wanted to impress. To her, a fraud like me would be as obvious as a cheap knock-off. One wrong word, and my entire facade would crumble. The room was dark. I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, lighting a cigarette. When the cherry died out, I texted Michael back, confirming my attendance at the gala. The reason was simple. Money. After just three dates with Michael, I was already up nearly two million dollars. First, he gave me that two-million-dollar painting, which I discreetly sold for 1.8 million. Then, he gifted me a diamond bracelet, which I pawned for another two hundred thousand. The very apartment I was standing in was a temporary rental, paid for with Michael’s money. The phantom comments were right. I was a fake, a gold digger. Because I was terrified of being poor. I grew up an orphan, found in a dumpster by my grandfather, who raised me by collecting cans and scrap metal. I wore ill-fitting clothes and shoes pulled from the trash, and ate expired bread from grocery store dumpsters. My entire life, poverty had been a magnet for cruelty. If something went missing at school, I was always the first suspect. "Your grandfather even picks up old socks from the trash. Why wouldn't you steal money?" "So we were wrong last time. That just makes it more likely you did it this time!" That was bad enough, but it got worse. As I hit puberty, my body began to change. The rumors changed with it. "Twenty bucks gets you a night with Vivian. Buy her a coffee in the morning and she'll let you touch whatever you want. See how big her chest is? That's how she paid for it." Once, while I was waiting for a bus, a man pulled over. "You're starting young, aren't you? Hope you don't have anything nasty." If I was going to be harassed anyway, why not take control and aim for a rich man? So I came to New York, pooled all my money, and reinvented myself as a European-educated socialite. Even if the comments said I'd end up trafficked, so what? To me, there is nothing in this world more terrifying than poverty. Right now, whatever Michael's motives were for inviting me, if I could actually connect with Eleanor Davenport, even the scraps from her table could set me up for life. Opportunity and risk always go hand in hand. You just have to be prepared. I spent the next three days studying Eleanor Davenport. She hated lilies but loved sandalwood. Her favorite artist was Séraphine Louis, her favorite classical piece Chopin's Polonaises. By the time the gala arrived, I was ready. Mrs. Davenport gave a brief opening speech but spent the rest of the evening sitting alone in a corner, listening to the music. Several society wives attempted to approach her, only to be deterred by her formidable aura. I moved through the room on Michael's arm, feeling the fiery glares of debutantes and heiresses. 【Here we go! The first showdown between the real heroine and the wannabe!】 【Ugh, this faker's act is making me sick. Heroine, please crush her!】 【Our girl Bianca is the real deal! Once she gets Mrs. Davenport's attention, this imposter is toast!】 As the comments scrolled, a woman dripping in jewels glided toward us, a champagne flute in her hand. "Michael, darling, you came to New York and didn't even call me?" Her eyes flickered over to me. "And who is this? I don't believe we've met. Which family's darling might you be?" "This is Vivian Sterling," Michael said smoothly. "She's just returned from Europe. She's a painter." "Vivian, this is Bianca Vanderbilt, of Vanderbilt Corp. Bianca is very involved in philanthropy. You were saying you wanted to organize a charity exhibition? Perhaps you two could discuss it." Bianca looked me up and down with a smirk. "Studied in Europe, you say? Which school?" "The École des Beaux-Arts in Paris." She sniffed dismissively. "Well then, let's hear some French!" Michael frowned. "Bianca, don't be ridiculous." "It's alright," I said, cutting Michael off with a gentle touch. I smiled and offered a few pleasantries in fluent, practiced French. Bianca seemed taken aback. "Wow, you're actually good!" "Vivian is brilliant," Michael added. "Her work has won numerous international awards." "Then I'll have to learn a thing or two from Miss Sterling!" Even though I was prepared, I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my palm under Bianca’s sharp gaze. The awards were fabrications, easily disproven with a single search. I needed to escape. I made a quick excuse and slipped away. But when I came out of the restroom, Bianca was waiting for me. "Let's drop the act," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "What's your game, pretending to be a socialite to get close to Michael? Is it his money or his name you're after?" I clenched my trembling hands into fists. "Miss Vanderbilt, I have no idea what you're talking about." She let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Your dress can't be more than three grand, can it? You're the most cheaply dressed woman here tonight." "Let me give you a reality check. Michael came to New York to be set up with me. You and he are from different worlds. Stop dreaming. The poor should stick with the poor." She pulled a wad of cash from her clutch and threw it at my feet. "I had my driver get cash just for this. Take it and get out. Don't make me expose you in front of him." 【YESSS, our heroine is so badass!】 【Look at the faker's face! She looks like she just swallowed a fly. Hilarious!】 【Am I the only one who feels a little bad for her? She hasn't stolen anything. Michael gave her all those gifts willingly. Does she really deserve this?】 【Are you serious? She's a gold-digging liar! She deserves to be shamed!】 I picked up the money from the floor and walked back into the ballroom in a daze. The chatter around me felt like a power drill boring into my skull. Why? Why were they born with silver spoons while I had to be looked down upon for my humble origins? We were all human, but even a lifetime of my effort couldn't get me to their starting line. Is it a crime to be poor? Is it a crime to want money? My eyes found Bianca, who was now fawning over Eleanor Davenport, obsequiously pouring her a cup of tea. Mrs. Davenport, however, looked bored, her face cold as she scrolled through her phone. I let out a bitter laugh, downed my champagne in one gulp, and strode toward them. Perhaps I was moving too fast. I stumbled, bumping into a waiter carrying a tray of red wine. The crimson liquid splashed all over my pristine white gown. Gasps erupted around me. The commotion finally drew Mrs. Davenport's attention; she turned her head with mild curiosity. The waiter's face was beet red as he stammered apologies. I touched the stain on my dress, then looked up at the event manager nearby. "Could you possibly bring me some chocolate sauce and a silver foil pen?" I dabbed the chocolate sauce around the edges of the wine stain, blending it softly, then used the silver pen to sketch delicate petals. Thank God for all those online art courses I’d taken to maintain my painter persona. The result was surprisingly decent. "Look at that," someone whispered. "Her style... it's a bit like Séraphine Louis!" "You're right! It does have a hint of Séraphine!" Guests started to gather, murmuring praise. I turned my body slightly toward Mrs. Davenport. When I saw the hint of a smile on her face, I knew I had won. Just as I'd planned, ten minutes later, I was sitting across from Eleanor Davenport. "Causing a scene with a wine stain to get my attention," she said, her eyes twinkling. "How very creative." Before I could reply, Bianca materialized out of nowhere.
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