RUMORS Secrets, Lies & Alibis

Staff or Student? Part 1: Mistaken Identity

The administrative office looked like something out of a European palace, all mahogany paneling and brass fixtures that probably cost more than most people’s cars. I stood in line behind three other students, clutching my class schedule and trying to ignore the way my thrift store cardigan felt increasingly shabby in this temple to old money.

“Next,” called the receptionist, a woman whose pearl necklace could probably fund a small country’s education budget.

I stepped forward just as the main doors opened behind me. The sound of expensive shoes on marble echoed through the office, followed by the kind of casual laughter that only came with absolute confidence in your place in the world.

“Isabella, darling, there you are.” The voice belonged to Tiffany Chen, whose father owned half of Hong Kong’s financial district. She was flanked by Madison Rothschild and Caroline Pemberton, the holy trinity of third-generation wealth.

I turned, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t be modest.” Tiffany’s smile was sharp as a blade. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Mother said the new maid would be starting today.”

The words hit me like ice water. My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Madison stepped closer, eyeing my outfit with barely concealed disdain. “You are the new domestic staff, aren’t you? From the agency?”

“I—”

“Perfect timing.” Caroline pulled out her phone. “I need someone to clean my room before tonight’s welcome dinner. The last girl left water spots on my mirror.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. The receptionist was watching with poorly hidden amusement, and I could feel other students turning to stare. This was exactly the kind of attention I’d spent months trying to avoid.

“Actually, I’m a student here,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.

Tiffany’s eyebrows shot up. “A student? But your clothes...”

“Are perfectly adequate,” I finished, lifting my chin. “Excuse me.”

I pushed past them toward the reception desk, but the damage was done. Whispers followed in my wake, and I caught fragments: “scholarship case,” “how embarrassing,” “someone should tell her.”

“Next,” the receptionist repeated, but her tone had cooled considerably.

I handed over my paperwork with hands that only trembled slightly. Behind me, the conversation continued as if I couldn’t hear every word.

“Poor thing,” Madison’s voice dripped false sympathy. “Someone should really talk to her about appropriate attire.”

“Schedule looks fine,” the receptionist said, barely glancing at my papers. “Locker assignment is in the packet.”

I took my things and headed for the door, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere of judgment and barely concealed cruelty. But as I reached the exit, it opened again, and Alexander Calloway walked in.

He looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine—charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, platinum hair perfectly styled despite the morning wind, gray eyes that missed nothing. The entire office seemed to shift around him, conversations pausing as heads turned in his direction.

His gaze swept the room and landed on me. For a moment, something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe, or calculation. Then that trademark smirk appeared, the one that had graced a thousand tabloid photos.

“Perfect,” he said, approaching with the kind of confident stride that parted crowds. “You’re exactly what I need.”

Before I could process what was happening, he pulled an expensive leather messenger bag from his shoulder and held it out to me.

“Carry this to Advanced Chemistry. Third floor, east wing. Try not to drop it—it’s worth more than you make in a year.”

The office went dead silent. Every eye in the room was on us, watching this moment of casual humiliation with the kind of fascination usually reserved for car accidents.

I stared at the bag, then at Alexander’s face. His expression was perfectly neutral, like he was discussing the weather instead of treating me like hired help. But there was something in his eyes—a challenge, maybe, or a test.

My first instinct was to throw the bag at his perfectly styled head and watch him scramble to catch it. The image was so satisfying I could almost feel the weight of it leaving my hands. But that would cause a scene, draw more attention, create exactly the kind of drama that could unravel everything I’d worked to build.

So instead, I took the bag.

“Of course,” I said, my voice pleasant and professional. “Third floor, east wing.”

Alexander’s smirk widened. “Good girl.”

The condescension in those two words made my teeth clench, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. I turned and walked out of the office with my head high, even as I felt every stare burning into my back.

The hallway was mercifully empty, giving me a moment to breathe and process what had just happened. Alexander Calloway had just publicly humiliated me, treating me like domestic staff in front of half the school’s elite. And I’d let him.

I looked down at the messenger bag in my hands. The leather was buttery soft, probably Italian, with hardware that gleamed like real gold. Everything about it screamed money and privilege and power.

The same power I actually had, hidden beneath thrift store clothes and scholarship paperwork.