Sorry, Ex: I Am The Real Billionaire Heiress!

n Brid

niversity gym hallway and shoved them into my heavy black trash bag. A sour

ion and save for the new phone my boyfriend, Dalvin Bird, kept asking for. He'd sen

jaw and dragged the heavy load toward the recycling cart by the s

edge of the bag. The abrupt resistance yanked my arm backward, thro

of the varsity football team and the richest bully in the Alpha Zeta fraternity,

his varsity jacket pockets a

rl, you're bl

my chest, silently let go of the knot, and tried to s

e hard, kicking the bag completely open and sending do

y foot s

ology, and his crew immediately b

into my palms, forced another deep breath into my lu

elling wad of fabric slapped straight across my cheek and

t-soaked football socks Kraig had just peele

ch, go to the locker room and take the r

that expected zero pushback f

er, stood up straight, and lo

janitor's jo

y personal space, his dark

l because of financial aid handouts. Letting you run m

llowing the bile in my throat, I bent down, picked up the filthy socks,

ly, and the exhaust fan hummed a low, monotonous tune. I sped u

heavy wooden door was left slightly ajar. Breathless

a familiar, low male voice froze m

if your trash-picker girlfri

e dripped with t

rthy of wiping your shoes. Every time I touch he

r my head like a bucket of ice

dirty socks slipped from my numb

row gap in the door. In the dim light, two tangled

ed stilettos that belonged to Delina Workman,

tom jersey I had worked three months of night shifts to b

you finally

ing her manicured arm

ulty recommendation letter for the grant thi

d my heart so hard I couldn't draw a breath, and every memory of skipping

inside my chest, burning awa

, the ache in my eyes h

ised my foot and kicked the half-ope