Gold Digger

When I was in primary school, I was already a professional sidekick.

My desk mate was rich. Not “his lunchbox had imported biscuits” rich, but “his driver waited outside the school gate” rich. Every day, I ran errands for my little young master. I bought him drinks, carried his books, saved his seat, and once, at his solemn request, escorted him all the way to the bathroom.

Five dollars per job.

At that age, most children collected stickers or pencil sharpeners. I collected cash. By the time my classmates were still arguing over whose turn it was to use the good eraser, my piggy bank was already full enough to rattle like a tiny treasure chest.

Then my young master transferred schools.

Fortunately, he had left behind a loyal servant with savings. With the money I had earned from him, I made it through the rest of primary school.

By Year Five, I had started my second business.

During lunch, I would sneak out to the little shop near the school and buy a big bag of snacks. During the afternoon break, I resold them to my classmates at a markup. Children did not understand money. They understood sugar, salt, bright packaging, and the thrill of having something other people wanted.

The person who bought the most from me was a girl named Jenny.

Jenny was fair-skinned, soft-spoken, and terrifyingly rich. Her pocket money was several hundred dollars a day. At the time, I could not understand her way of thinking. Every break, she bought dozens of dollars’ worth of snacks from me, but she barely ate any of them. She handed them out to everyone else instead, smiling as if she were scattering flower petals.

Soon, the wrappers would be everywhere.

Then Jenny would turn to me and say, “Sophia, can you clean this up?”

Twenty dollars.

Of course I could.

Back then, I followed her around diligently, taking care of everything she did not want to touch. Other students still thought money was just something adults handed over when asked. I already knew better. Money was food. Money was school supplies. Money was not having to beg.

On my best days, I earned a hundred dollars.

Student money was much easier to earn than adult money. Children had not suffered yet, so they did not know what money was worth.

I did.

I had no parents. I grew up in an orphanage. While other children were thinking about cartoons, birthday parties, and who had the nicest pencil case, I was always thinking about one thing:

How do I make more money?

Later, at university, I continued working hard for money.

I took every paid role I could find. I delivered documents, helped organise events, filled in forms, supervised attendance, and did all the invisible little jobs no one else wanted. I worked tirelessly until I met Christopher.

Christopher was different.

Christopher was a gift from heaven. More accurately, he was a gift from a wealthy real estate family, which was close enough.

He was a second-year art major, talented, handsome, and famously unreliable. He was also the only son of his family, which explained the way he spent money: casually, violently, and without the slightest respect for arithmetic.

At the time, I was the president of the disciplinary committee. It was a paid position, of course.

The first time I noticed Christopher, it was because he skipped class.

The second time, too.

By the twelfth time, even his counsellor could not ignore it anymore. Looking at the attendance list, she became furious.

“What, does being rich make him special? Don’t help him delete his name from the records.”

Since the counsellor had spoken, I naturally said nothing. Every day, I continued marking Christopher absent with great honesty and professional enthusiasm.

Finally, before the holiday break, the young master came to find me.

He sat on the sofa opposite me, long legs stretched out, his expression impatient.

“What’s going on with my attendance?”

I answered carefully, “You’ve missed too many classes. I’m afraid you may not pass this semester. And I can’t do anything about it.”

“If you can’t do anything,” he said, looking at me, “then find a way.”

I looked at him.

He looked back at me.

At that moment, I understood something very important.

This person was not asking for help. He was creating employment.

So I found a way.

Over the next few days, I accompanied the young master to see his professor, his counsellor, and finally the dean. We made several trips. I prepared documents, explained the situation, gathered proof of his related internship experience, and smiled until my face nearly froze.

In the end, the faculty agreed to take his internship experience into consideration, and the problem was solved.

Christopher was very satisfied with my service.

Perhaps because he was pleased, or perhaps because he had finally noticed how poor I looked, he casually took off the gold bracelet on his wrist and gave it to me.

“Here.”

I stared at it.

An eight-thousand-dollar bracelet.

My respect for the young master immediately rose to its highest possible level.

From then on, I began running errands for him. I showed him absolute loyalty. Every morning and evening, I sent him greetings on WhatsApp.

Good morning, young master.

Good night, young master.

May your wealth last forever.

One day, Christopher suddenly asked me, “Do you want to pursue me?”

I stared at the message for three full seconds.

Then I replied cautiously, “Do you not like me greeting you? If you don’t like it, I won’t do it anymore.”

He did not respond for a long time.

Finally, a new message appeared.

“Your name is Sophia, right?”

I sent back: “Yes.” Then I added a cute cat emoji.

“You know Aria, the campus beauty, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“She failed one subject this semester, but she’s only missing one point.”

“Got it. I’ll help ask about it in the next couple of days.”

“Thanks.”

As expected, Christopher was the most qualified young master I had ever served.

After I helped solve Aria’s problem, he immediately sent me a $500 transfer.

I accepted it and sent him a thank-you emoji with both hands raised.

Maybe it was because I accepted too much money from Christopher in the beginning, but later, when we started dating, the thing he said to me most often was:

“Sophie, can you stop being so materialistic?”

I never explained myself.

After all, I was materialistic.

Every cent he gave me, I accepted. From the beginning, I was not interested in him as a person.

So how did I end up with Christopher?

It started with Aria.

Actually, Aria and I had quite a bit of history. We went to the same high school, and later, we were admitted to the same university. But after university started, our majors were completely different, so we rarely kept in touch.

When we ran into each other, we would smile and say hello. That was all.

Then one night, very late, Christopher called me.

“Do you have a vehicle?” he asked.

“I do.”

He said he had been drinking and could not drive. Then he casually sent me a transfer and asked me to pick him up.

In the middle of the night, I rode my old electric bike to collect him.

When Christopher saw it, he froze for a moment. Then he laughed.

“This is my first time riding an electric bike.”

“Should I help you call a taxi?” I asked.

“No need. Taxis are uncomfortable.” He stepped closer and looked at the bike with great interest. “This is fine. I can get some fresh air.”

So I picked up the young master.

Before we even reached the university, he started getting emotional.

“She rejected me,” he muttered.

The night wind blew past us. His voice sounded muffled and pitiful.

“My first time confessing to a girl, and she rejected me.”

I did not know what to say.

Christopher became quieter and quieter. Then, after a while, his arms wrapped around my waist, and his forehead rested against my back.

He had fallen asleep.

I froze.

I had only been paid to pick him up. Being hugged should have cost extra.

When we reached the dormitory building, I stopped the bike and tried to wake him.

Christopher opened his eyes slowly. He looked at me, still drunk, still upset, and still very rich.

Then he took out his phone.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed.

A transfer notification appeared on the screen.

Five thousand dollars.

The note said: Be my girlfriend.

I gritted my teeth.

Then I accepted it.

When Christopher saw that I had accepted the money, he smiled, shoved his phone into his pocket, and walked happily into the dormitory building.

I stood there in the cold wind for a long time.

Only then did I realise the truth.

The young master had not confessed to me at all.

He had just been rejected by Aria and wanted to use me to make himself feel better.

I looked down at the balance in my account.

The more I looked, the happier I became.

That night, I went to bed feeling peaceful and content.