Bullying by the Billionaire’s Daughter

The true Sterling heiress came home.
As the familys long-standing impostor, things got awkward, fast.
So I packed my bags that night and moved back to the godforsaken, 18th-tier town where I was supposed to have been born.
I transferred to the local high school.
Staring down at my designer coat, now ruined by a splash of milk tea, I let out a soft sigh. I pulled up the purchase history on my phone and displayed my payment QR code.
"Seven thousand five hundred dollars. Pay up."
1.
Emma Sterling was home.
I was still in my silk pajamas, sleepily making my way downstairs, when I saw hera girl who was the spitting image of my mother.
She stood there in a washed-out blouse, flanked by my parents. My brother, who was studying abroad, had already texted saying he couldn't wait to fly back.
I paused on the staircase, my eyes meeting Emma's across the foyer. We both offered a smile that was polite, but dripping with mutual awkwardness.
Id always known I wasnt their biological daughter. The Sterlings weren't fools; our blood types didn't even match. But since they could never find Emma, they had kept me and raised me as their own. I treated them like my real parents, and they showered me with the love and affection a daughter deserves.
But all those years, the search for Emma never stopped. And now, finally, she was home.
Looking at the scene of their family reunion below, I was genuinely happy for them.
That evening, I went to the study to talk with my parents. Emma's adoptive parentsmy biological oneshad died in a car accident years ago. They had been poor, but they had given Emma the best life they could. The baby swap had been a tragic hospital error.
My parents insisted I stay. "This house is more than big enough for a hundred daughters," my father had said.
But I shook my head. "That's really up to Emma, isn't it? If I were in her shoes, I wouldn't want the girl who took my place hanging around."
"Besides," I added, "I've lived her life for long enough. She deserves to come home without any complications. And honestly, I want to see the place where my real parents lived."
My mother sighed, her hand resting on my shoulder.
I gave her a comforting hug. "It's just for a year. I'm a junior now. I'll definitely come back to the Capital for college," I whispered. "If Emma doesn't mind by then, I'll come home."
They finally, silently, agreed.
So that night, I dragged eight suitcases out of the Sterling mansion.
I wasn't some noble martyr, leaving with only the clothes on my back. I took everything that was mine: my belongings, the allowance I'd saved for years, and a generous sum for tuition and living expenses my adoptive parents gave me before I left.
I promptly rented a small, standalone villa in the best part of town. Since I was still a minor, I brought Mr. Evans, my favorite of the household staff, with me. He handled all the tedious paperwork for the lease and my school enrollment.
Lying in my new bed, I felt surprisingly optimistic as I mapped out a rough plan for my future. I sent my parents a quick text to let them know I was safe, and then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
2.
Clearwater High was the only decent school in this small town, a place untouched by airports or high-speed rail.
I followed the dean of students down the hallway, my designer heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. It was break time, and eyes from every direction shot toward me. In a school this small, gossip travels faster than light.
By the time I sat down, my new deskmate was already staring. "Where are you from? Why aren't you in uniform? Is that stuff you're wearing real?" she fired off, her words tumbling out in a rush that sounded almost aggressive.
Before I could answer, the homeroom teachers voice cut through the noise, his accent thick as he called me to the front of the class for an introduction.
I walked to the blackboard and, with a practiced, polite smile, wrote my name: Isabelle Sterling.
"Hi, everyone. I'm Isabelle Sterling. I just transferred from Capital Prep. It's nice to meet you all."
The classroom erupted in whispers.
"The Capital? No way."
"Damn, she looks loaded. We should totally try to hang with her."
"It's gotta be fake. If she were that rich, she'd be in the honors class, not with us losers."
"She's kinda pretty, I guess. Is that makeup? There's something about her I just don't like."
I let my gaze drift lazily across the room, spotting the few faces I was looking for. Satisfied, I returned to my seat.
The show, I thought, was about to begin.
3.
First period was English.
I rested my chin on my hand, bored, as I scanned the textbook. For me, English was practically a second native language, thanks to the world-class education the Sterlings had provided. High school level stuff was a joke.
A flicker of concern crossed my mind. I wondered how Emma was adjusting to life at the mansion.
My thoughts were interrupted when my deskmate shot to her feet and began reading a passage from the textbook. I snapped back to reality, realizing the teacher was calling on students. This girl, the one whod interrogated me, was now reading aloud.
I glanced at the name on her book. Leah.
Leah read loudly and correctly, earning a nod of approval from the teacher, who then asked her to lead the class in reading the passage together.
A small smile touched her lips, bringing a bit of life to her pale, sallow cheeks. She held her book up, shooting me a quick, triumphant glance. It was a look of pure, smug pride.
She began reading again, and the rest of the class followed along in a disorganized mumble. The other students' voices quickly faded into a low hum, but Leahs remained loud and forceful.
Even though, to my ears, her pronunciation was painfully clumsy.
At one particularly bad mispronunciation, a small laugh escaped me. I didn't make a sound or even look at her; I just kept my head propped on my hand, my eyes on the book, as the corner of my mouth turned up.
But Leah, who must have been watching me the whole time, suddenly stopped. "Isabelle Sterling!" she barked. "Why aren't you reading?"
I frowned. Plenty of others weren't reading, but shed singled me out. I looked up at her. Behind her glasses, her dark eyes were fixed on me, her sallow face contorted in an ugly sneer.
The teacher chimed in. "New student, you need to participate. Why don't you read this section for us?"
My smile widened. Without even looking at the book, I recited the entire passage in fluent, unaccented American English.
A slow, creeping silence fell over the classroom. Even the teacher just stood there, his mouth slightly agape, at a loss for words.
When I finished, I shrugged and looked directly at Leah. "The reason I wasn't reading along is because my pronunciation was better in kindergarten than yours is now."
Leahs face flushed a deep, mottled red. She bit her lip, unable to meet my eyes.
Just then, the bell rang, and the teacher, visibly relieved, dismissed the class.
A moment later, a clique of girls with over-styled bangs and uniform cherry-red lipstick sauntered over to my desk. The leader, sucking on a lollipop, gave me a syrupy-sweet smile. "So, hey, what's a girl like you doing at a school like this?"
I kept my eyes on my book. "Felt like a change of scenery."
The girl made a 'tsk' sound and jabbed my shoulder with her finger. "Don't play coy with me."
My patience snapped. I smacked her hand away. I'd taken taekwondo for years, and the force of the blow left a bright red mark on the back of her hand.
"What the hell! Are you looking for a fight?" she shrieked, and her little posse moved in, ready to shove me.
I pulled a scalpel from my pocket, spun it between my fingers, and stopped the blade a centimeter from her eye.
She let out a terrified scream. Her friends, and even Leah nearby, scrambled backward, afraid Id actually slice them.
I retracted the scalpel, a cryptic smile playing on my lips as I gave the girl a slow, deliberate head-to-toe look. Her expression soured with every inch my eyes traveled. I'd navigated the cutthroat social circles of the elite for years; dealing with a low-level wannabe like her was child's play. A single, contemptuous glance was all it took to shatter their fragile confidence.
I fanned the air in front of my face with a look of disgust. "You reek of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. Stay away from me, you're making me nauseous."
The whole class was watching, and at my words, a wave of laughter broke out.
"Oh my god, that was brutal. Did you see Brooke's face?"
"Is anyone gonna be able to handle this new girl?"
"Not gonna lie, watching her put Brooke in her place was pretty satisfying, hahaha."
"Shh, you know Brooke's gonna get her back for this. Just wait"
So her name was Brooke.
I met her furious gaze, taking in every ounce of hatred and rage in her eyes.
So, what have you got, Brooke? I thought.
Show me.
4.
The next few days were relatively quiet.
My little display seemed to have spooked both Brooke and Leah. Leah no longer tried to talk to me, though I noticed she would sneak glances at the advanced prep books I used in class and then show up the next day with the exact same ones. She started mimicking my study habitsor lack thereof. When I worked on my own material instead of listening to the lecture, so did she.
The truth was, Id been privately tutored by the best in every subject since I was a child. The curriculum here was painfully slow for me, so I worked ahead. This method worked for me, but for Leah, it was academic suicide. Not that I felt any obligation to warn her.
I shook my head, deciding to ignore her, and headed downstairs to grab a coffee from the convenience store. Since my uniform hadn't arrived yet, I was still in my own clothestoday, a Louis Vuitton coat. The stares followed me all the way down the hall, but I walked on as if I didn't notice.
I didn't even make it to the store. A group blocked my path. It was Brooke and her friends, plus a few guys with bleached-blond hair who looked like they were trying way too hard.
Brooke stood with her arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. This part of the campus was shielded by a grove of trees and a dilapidated sports equipment shed. The perfect spot for an ambush.
She smirked. "I told you not to mess with me. Get it now?"
One of the guys grabbed my coat, trying to drag me somewhere more secluded. I was surprised by their brazenness, but it made a sick kind of sense. In a backwater town like this, a little bit of local influence and the shield of being a minor meant they could get away with almost anything. Their victims were usually kids from working-class families, too busy or powerless to fight back effectively.
I looked at the boy holding me. His hair was a matted yellow mess, and the stench of cigarettes coming off him was nauseating.
I wrenched my arm free and slapped him across the face.
Crack!
The sound was sharp and loud in the quiet clearing. Everyone froze, stunned that I would dare to fight back.
Brooke's face contorted with fury. She started screaming a torrent of local slang I couldn't understand, her eyes, framed by cheap colored contacts, boring into me. Realizing she probably couldn't win a physical fight, she snatched a milk tea from one of her friends and hurled it at me.
I dodged, but most of the sticky liquid splattered across my coat.
I looked down at the ruined fabric. With a small sigh, I pulled out my phone, brought up the digital receipt, and held out my QR code.
"Seven thousand five hundred dollars. Pay up."
I heard a collective gasp. A flicker of panic crossed Brooke's face before she masked it with bravado.
"You think I'm gonna pay? In your dreams," she spat. "What are you gonna do about it?"
The boy I'd slapped was already moving, pulling out a small knife and waving it threateningly in my direction.
I wasn't an idiot. I spun around and ran.
At the same time, a group of figures in blue uniforms came running toward me.
The police.
The moment Id seen the ambush forming, I had discreetly texted 911 from my pocket.
An officer saw the kid with the knife lunging at me. In seconds, they had him pinned, his arms twisted behind his back. The sight sent the rest of the wannabe gangsters scattering, which, in front of the police, was a spectacularly bad idea.
An hour later, the entire group was lined up at the police station.
The whole affair was a massive scandal. A fleet of police cars descending on the high school and hauling away a dozen students was not good for the school's reputation. The principal and several deans rushed over.
Brooke was sobbing into her phone, talking to her parents. From what I could piece together, her father was some kind of minor local official.
It all clicked. No wonder she was so arrogant.
When Brooke's father arrived, he shot me a dark look before pulling the police officers aside. A few minutes later, one of the officers came back to me, looking apologetic. He explained that since Brooke and her friends hadn't caused me any "substantial harm," they could only be given a verbal warning. The boy with the knife was a minor and his "assault" was unsuccessful, so the most he'd get was a couple of days in juvenile detention.
I heard the principal let out a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was one of his students getting jail time and tarnishing the school's name.
I looked at the scene before me: Brooke, now smirking triumphantly; her father, glowering at me; the principal and my homeroom teacher, just wanting to smooth things over
So this is the world Emma lived in for seventeen years.
It must have been so hard, little sister.
It's okay, I thought, a quiet promise forming in my mind. It's okay now. Every bit of suffering they put you through, I'll pay them back for it, piece by piece.

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