Never Underestimate an Heiress

I stayed up three nights straight just to secure a high-speed rail ticket home for the festival. Every night, I set my alarm for three a.m. and sit in front of my computer half an hour early, fingers poised over the mouse, practicing clicks repeatedly. My three roommates in the dorm were sound asleep; only my desk lamp was on, the screen's light casting shadows on my face—I didn't even dare breathe too heavily, afraid that missing a second would cost me the ticket. On the third morning, when the system flashed "Ticket Purchase Successful," I was so thrilled I nearly shouted out loud but I quickly covered my mouth, but tears still slipped down. My hometown is in a small town more than a thousand kilometers away, and with my busy studies, I can only go back once every six months. Mom had already posted on her Twitter, saying she'd make my favorite dishes. Dad also said he'd take me to stroll down the old street we used to visit when I was little. This ticket carries half a month of my anticipation and the heartfelt care from my parents. I carefully saved a screenshot of the ticket info and triple-checked the train number and time before I dared to close my laptop. The next morning, I tucked my phone into my pocket and walked briskly to find Mathew Lutz. He's my boyfriend; we've been together almost two years. I wanted him to be the first person who can share my joy. He lived in a rented room right across from the school. When I pushed the door open, he was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. The screen was lit up, showing a chat with someone. Hearing the noise, he looked up at me with a faint expression—no trace of his usual smile. "I canceled your ticket." After saying that, he lowered his head and kept scrolling, as if it were no big deal. The phone in my hand slipped and dropped with a snap onto the floor. The tempered glass cracked with a long, jagged line—like my heart shattering in an instant. I knelt down to pick up the phone. My fingertips brushed the cold screen, and only then did I realize my hands were trembling. "What did you say?" My voice trembled, and even breathing felt difficult. Mathew finally put down his phone and looked up at me, his eyes showing no hint of apology—actually, there was a flicker of impatience: "Abby's in a bad mood, since she's homesick and couldn't get a high-speed rail ticket home." "I saw your ticket was perfectly timed, so I gave it to her." Abby is his junior in the computer science department, lately always coming to Mathew with excuses like, "I can't solve this programming problem" or "I don't understand the paper format." Last time I went to his rented room, I saw Abby sitting right next to him, their heads close together, both focused on the computer screen. When I asked, Mathew said I was being petty and that Abby was just an immature junior; he told me not to overthink it. Looking back now, I realize I was the fool deceiving only myself. I clenched my fists, my nails digging painfully into my palms, waking me just enough to say, "What about me? I also want to go home on that day. My parents are waiting for me." "What else can you do?" Mathew frowned, leaned back on the sofa, his tone growing even more impatient, "Keep trying—aren't there still some standing tickets left?" "It's just seven or eight hours, right? You can handle it; it'll be over soon." I froze, like my blood had suddenly turned to ice. He clearly knows I get motion sickness—that bus rides make me so sick I end up vomiting everywhere. Last time, our club went to the countryside; in just half an hour, I threw up three times. It's impossible for me to stand in a crowded train for eight hours. "No, I won't do that." I gritted my teeth and spoke each word deliberately. It was the first time in two years I'd ever said "no" to him. Back then, no matter what he asked—even if it was waking up at dawn to buy him breakfast or helping with his course papers—I never said "no". But this time, I don't want to compromise anymore. I pulled out my backup phone from my bag — it was a birthday gift from Dad last year, and I rarely use it because I'm afraid Mathew might think I'm wasting money. I dialed Dad's number, and after two rings, he answered. "Molly? Why are you calling at this hour? Is something wrong?" Dad's voice was gentle, laced with familiar concern. My nose tingled, and tears started falling again. "Daddy, I want to go home tomorrow, but... the high-speed rail ticket I grabbed was canceled by Mathew. He gave it to someone else." There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then Dad's calm voice came through: "Don't worry, Molly, it's okay." "Stay at school. I'll ask Dr Ward to send a private jet to pick you up. It'll be there early tomorrow morning." After hanging up, I looked up and met Mathew's gaze. His expression completely changed—from impatience to anger. He suddenly stood up, pointed at me, and said, "Molly, are you serious?" "It's just one high-speed rail ticket, and you cry to your dad? Do you really think having some money at home makes you so special?" "So vain and fragile! Why did I never realize you were like this before?" His words were like knives, stabbing straight into my heart. The guy who used to wait for me after class, holding an umbrella on rainy days, the one who once said he'd take care of me for a lifetime, but now, over a single ticket, describes me as a douchebag. I looked at his twisted face and suddenly felt like he was a stranger—so unfamiliar, it scared me. "Tell Abby to give me back the ticket, and I'll pretend none of this ever happened." I forced my voice to stay steady, not wanting to lose it in front of him. "No way!" Mathew said firmly, "The ticket's already with Abby. She's leaving tomorrow." "Either you go grab a standing ticket yourself, or don't come home at all!" After saying that, he shoved me aside, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door as he left. The door slammed with a bang, shaking the pictures on the wall until they fell. I stood there, looking at the mess on the floor and my phone with its cracked screen in my hand, finally unable to hold back the tears. They fell in heavy drops onto the ground.