No More Your Sponsor

When the principal brought Shirley Lincoln, wearing her faded school uniform, before me, the coffee cup trembling between my fingers wobbled slightly. Warm liquid splashed onto the web of my hand, the brief sting far less sharp than the cold swelling in my chest—I had been reborn, sent back to the very day I had to decide whether to support her. "Ms. Scott, this is the student who most urgently needs sponsorship," the principal said with his usual courtesy, "Her father is bedridden with illness, her mother works odd jobs to support the family, and there's no one else to help. She will have to drop out this year without sponsorship." I looked up at Shirley Lincoln, who, just as when I first met her in my previous life, shyly lowered her head. The skin behind her ear flushed a pale red, like a delicate dodder flower feigning fragility. It was that very expression that deceived me in my past life. Upon hearing about her situation, I immediately agreed to provide financial aid. Worried she might feel burdened, I specifically said the money came from the Scott Financial Aid Fund—established by my father to support education. But later, Shirley claimed to others that I had used my influence to withhold money that was rightfully hers. I arranged for her to be in the best class, and worried she would waste time commuting, so I rented an apartment near the school for her to rest at noon. I made sure we ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, concerned she wasn't getting proper nutrition. But she turned around and told the newspaper that I was "forcibly controlling" her life. Before the college entrance exam, I was hospitalized with acute diarrhea and missed the test. Yet she performed remarkably, becoming an inspirational genius who endured hardship to succeed. Right after leaving the hospital, I went to her home to congratulate her, only for her to accuse my father of assault in front of reporters, producing so-called "diaries" and "bank transfer records" as evidence. "Mr. Scott had his daughter deliberately get close to me," she wept in front of the camera, tears streaming like pear blossoms in the rain. "The night before the college entrance examination, he took off his clothes in the study, and Quincy Scott gave me some milk, saying to help me sleep." Those words were like a bomb, instantly shattering our family. My father had been listed on the charity roll for ten years straight, yet overnight he was branded a 'scoundrel in fine clothes.' The online abuse was relentless; former laid-off employees and unknown strangers all rallied under the banner of 'ridding the people of harm,' demanding that my company be shut down. On her way to meet the lawyer about the lawsuit, Mother was struck by a large truck and never had a chance to be saved. After Mother's death, Father withered away and took his own life in the detention center—at that time, the court had not yet declared him guilty, but public opinion had already sentenced him to death. I went from being Mr. Scott's daughter to an orphan worth less than a beggar, blocked daily at the entrance to our rented room, labeled the 'daughter of a rapist.' In the end, crushed by relentless cyberbullying, I swallowed poison; as I closed my eyes, I could still see Shirley Lincoln's smiling face on the front page of the newspaper. "Ms. Scott?" The Principal, seeing I didn't respond, called out again. Shirley Lincoln lifted her head as well, her eyes shining with hope, her voice steady: "Ms. Scott, I will definitely repay you." A bitter laugh stirred within me; in the last life, she said the same thing, yet the moment she turned away, she took the five thousand dollars "grant reward" I gave her without even a word of thanks. Later, she spread rumors online that I deliberately withheld her money and forced her to study until three in the morning—but her teachers clearly told me she slept through class every day and couldn't even produce the test papers she claimed to have stayed up all night writing. "There are quite a few students at school who need help," I brought my thoughts back, my tone steady. "I can't possibly cover them all." "Besides, the school has an official financial aid fund. You can go ahead and apply." I knew well that with her current grades, she didn't even qualify for the lowest tier of the fund; otherwise, she wouldn't have had to plead with me. Shirley Lincoln's face stiffened, biting her lip as if she had been deeply wronged. "How can you speak like that?" I ignored her and turned to the principal. "She knows how to play the victim to win sympathy." “Fine,” the principal paused, turning to Shirley Lincoln, "Ms. Scott's financial aid for you is canceled. From now on, rely on your own abilities." I caught sight of Shirley Lincoln as she looked up, her eyes brimming with resentment. That flicker of hatred felt like a sharp needle, painfully piercing and unsettling. But I do not regret it. In my previous life, I personally nurtured this "poisonous flower," and she ended up destroying my family. This time, I would rather sever her hopes early than let my family be hurt again—teaching her that "if you want something, you have to earn it yourself" is far more practical than harboring a parasite by my side. Rather than figuring out how to deal with Shirley Lincoln, I want to improve myself. In my previous life, I missed the college entrance exam because of her. This time, I want to get into TH University and fulfill my parents' wishes.