By this time, Jasmine had finished changing and stepped out. She was wearing the same casual blazer she had before, paired with a pair of deep charcoal-gray ankle-length pants that draped elegantly, stopping just above her slender, alabaster ankles. On her feet were the small brown leather shoes Grayson had helped her pick out earlier.
She glowed with a subtle radiance, every movement suffused with quiet confidence. Even so, Jasmine still felt a bit uncertain. After all, she'd grown used to being a Cinderella, blending into the background.
"Do I look okay?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a hint of self-doubt.
"You look… really beautiful," Grayson murmured, staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. Though he stood next to her, he seemed momentarily lost in her presence.
The two of them left NovaMart and started heading back to campus. Grayson had planned to hail a cab, but Jasmine insisted they take the bus instead. "Taxis cost too much. Let's just take the bus. Besides, I'll pay you back for last time, so don't worry about it."
Grayson simply smiled at her and didn't protest. If she wanted to pay him back, he figured he'd eventually refuse whatever she offered. For now, he was content to let her think she could settle the bill.
As they waited at the bus stop, a dark-colored Passat rolled by. Through the slightly tinted window, someone's eyes narrowed, focusing on Grayson and Jasmine. The person inside sneered quietly to himself. Ha, Grayson, you think you're so cool, huh? Compare yourself to me? This time, you must have blown through all your winnings—too broke to even catch a cab. Pathetic. Let's see what you're going to do once this party's over. Who's going to buy fancy clothes for that country girl of yours then? When you get dumped, don't worry—I'll be there to "console" you, hah.
Meanwhile, Grayson and Jasmine boarded the bus at the end of the line and rode toward the campus entrance. Grayson had been planning to swing by a grocery store so Jasmine could pick up household items. After all, she'd just moved into the new villa, and she needed things like laundry detergent, soap, and other everyday necessities. But just as they got on campus, Grayson's phone buzzed in his pocket.
"Hello? Grandpa Jenkins?" Grayson answered.
"Young Master Grayson," Grandpa Jenkins's voice crackled through the line. "Hawthorne University is hosting a gala tonight in the main hall of The Evergreen Commons at Willow Ridge. Attendees will include students from affluent families and some of the university's wealthiest heirs. The family would very much like for you to attend."
"Ugh, I really don't want to go," Grayson replied truthfully. He couldn't stand events like that—too many people showing off, especially those from privileged backgrounds. He'd rather swallow broken glass than spend an evening listening to them brag about their expensive watches and designer bags.
"But Young Master," Grandpa Jenkins pressed, "this is part of the family's evaluation. You can't skip it."
Grayson rolled his eyes at the open line but kept his tone neutral. "Fine. Just count me as failing this time, then."
"Young Master Grayson, you—" Jenkins began.
He trailed off, exasperated. Jenkins had basically raised Grayson. He knew better than anyone how different Grayson was from the rest of the family's second-generation heirs. The Jenkinses had been a prominent family in this country for over two centuries, and with that legacy came a detailed system of family rules and an old-fashioned education regimen. As part of that upbringing, each heir was required to undergo a period of identity concealment and simulated poverty—a "humbling trial," if you will.
Most of the other heirs complained endlessly, desperate to end the trial, sometimes even begging the family elders to lift the requirement. Only Young Master Grayson seemed unfazed—he accepted it with a goofy grin, almost as if he enjoyed it. He never acted as though the experience was a burden, which only baffled Jenkins further.
Moreover, the family's annual evaluation was no joke. It would determine where each member fit into the future—who would inherit which titles or responsibilities. Yet Grayson remained completely nonchalant.
"Look, Grandpa Jenkins," Grayson said, cutting him off gently but firmly. "I'll go. But don't expect me to care about any of this."
"Ha," Grandpa Jenkins sighed, relieved. "Very well, Young Master Grayson. The invitation has been sent to your phone already. Oh, and one more thing—guests may bring a female companion. Would you like me to find someone with refined manners and noble bearing to accompany you?"
Grayson glanced at Jasmine, standing at his side in her new outfit. The answer was obvious. He ended the call.
"Come on, Jasmine," he said, taking her hand and leading her away. "I want to take you somewhere."
As they walked, Grayson couldn't help but smile inwardly. The timing was perfect: Jasmine had just changed into her new outfit when he got Grandpa Jenkins's call. She looked exquisite—exactly the kind of partner he needed to bring to the gala.
The Evergreen Commons at Willow Ridge, Hawthorne University
The Evergreen Commons at Willow Ridge was one of Hawthorne's event centers, a modern building on the edge of campus. Its ground floor featured a huge hall that could accommodate over a thousand people for banquets, lectures, or performances. Tonight's gala would take place in that very hall.
At the entrance, security guards stood by, checking invitations and text messages. Only those who had received the official invite on their phones or had a printed invitation could enter. A long line of well-dressed students waited patiently, glancing at their watches and chatting quietly. Nearly everyone wore crisp suits, designer dresses, or at least designer accessories—name-brand heels, expensive leather loafers, or gold-plated watches. Clearly, these were the ones from comfortably well-off families, the next generation of alumni heirs.
When Grayson and Jasmine arrived, many in line turned to stare. Jasmine was dressed head-to-toe in a sleek, fashionable outfit—her gray blazer and tailored trousers hugged her figure just right. Her brown leather shoes had a subtle shine, and her ankle-length pants revealed a slender ankle and sculpted calf that spoke of grace and confidence. She looked like she'd stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. Grayson, by contrast, wore a plain white button-down shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of scuffed sneakers that had seen better days.
"Whoa, check that out. Are those two a couple?" one student whispered to another.
"Damn, the girl's obviously from a rich family, but that guy? Total loser," someone else scoffed.
"I mean, she's a proper trust-fund princess…and he looks like he just crawled up out of some farm. How did she even end up with that country bumpkin?" a third student sneered.
"I'm actually sick to my stomach right now," added another, her face twisted in disgust.
As they passed through security—Grayson flashing Grandpa Jenkins's digital invitation, Jasmine showing hers—they heard snippets of gossip. Every time someone recognized Jasmine, they whispered, "Isn't that Jasmine Ramirez? She grew up in that dirt-poor family from our hometown." Or they recognized Grayson's name and muttered, "Isn't that the Jenkins heir? I heard his family is loaded."
Despite the noise around them, Jasmine walked with her head held high, though her heart fluttered. Grayson offered her his arm, and she looped hers through his. They made their way into the spacious hall together.
Inside, nearly every seat was already taken. The walls were draped with elegant navy-and-gold fabric that matched the university's colors. Rows of round tables, each with white tablecloths and centerpieces of fresh seasonal flowers, stretched to the back of the room. On each table, platters of hors d'oeuvres—tiny quiches, shrimp cocktails, smoked salmon canapés—were arranged meticulously. Crystal water glasses and polished silverware gleamed under the soft, warm lighting. Several staff members in black attire bustled around, making final checks to the audio equipment on the stage: a microphone stand, a grand piano off to one side, and a podium with the school emblem on it.
Grayson and Jasmine took a seat at one of the tables near the front. The moment Grayson sat down, he slumped in the chair, relief washing over his face. Jasmine picked up a single shrimp cocktail and took a bite, letting the cool, tangy flavor settle on her tongue. She'd never tasted such fancy food before, and for a moment, she felt as though she were in a dream.
Grayson leaned over and whispered, "See, Jasmine, this part is worth it. Free food."
She smiled at him, her eyes bright. "It's delicious. I've never had anything like this."
They hadn't been seated for more than a minute when a fashionable-looking girl in a sky-blue cocktail dress slid into the chair next to Jasmine. She glanced discreetly at Jasmine's designer outfit—clearly Véra Calisé—and gasped.
"Wait… you're… Jasmine Ramirez?" the girl asked, eyes wide.
"Sylvia Marigold Voss? You're here too?" Jasmine said with genuine pleasure. Seeing a familiar face in a sea of strangers eased her nerves.
Sylvia, however, didn't share Jasmine's warmth. She stared at the fabric of Jasmine's blazer, ran her fingers across its smooth lapel, and her eyes widened with barely concealed envy.
"This… this is Véra Calisé?" Sylvia repeated, her voice laced with disbelief.
"Yeah," Jasmine replied with an innocent smile. "Do you like it?"
Sylvia forced a polite laugh. "It's… really beautiful."
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, her gaze flicking between Jasmine and Grayson as suspicion crept in. Although she was related to Jasmine (they were from the same small hometown), she had never expected to see Jasmine dressed like this.
"Did you buy it yourself?" Sylvia pressed, carefully watching Jasmine's hands.
"No," Jasmine said, shrugging. "A friend gave it to me."
Grayson noticed that ever since Jasmine had put on the outfit, she seemed even happier than before. She smiled more readily, her laughter came more easily, and each time he looked at her, his heart warmed. Buying this for her had definitely been the right decision.
"Oh," Sylvia said, nodding, but inwardly her jealousy grew. Véra Calisé garments didn't come cheap—one piece could easily cost over a thousand dollars. For a girl from a modest, poverty-stricken family like Jasmine's to own such luxury, it meant her "friend" had to be extremely wealthy.
Sylvia's eyes flicked toward Grayson. "Is this friend here tonight?"
"Uh… yes, right there," Jasmine said, leaning toward Grayson.
Sylvia's jaw dropped. She twisted in her seat to stare at him. This was the shabby-looking boy with scuffed sneakers and faded jeans? It was impossible—she had walked straight past them earlier without giving him a second thought.
Grayson smiled politely at Sylvia. He recognized her from town and from some classes they'd attended together in the past, but he didn't exchange any more than a casual greeting. In contrast, Sylvia's social circle had always been the "in crowd," the campus elites. She'd never expected that her old friend Jasmine would be dating someone like Grayson.
Jasmine took a deep breath and introduced them earnestly. "Grayson, this is my hometown friend Sylvia—she's in the Economics School. We met at a classmates' reunion. We're from the same small town."
"Hello," Grayson said, offering his hand politely.
Sylvia looked at his worn sneakers, then his plain shirt, and frowned. Something about his composed manner caught her off guard. She tried to maintain a polite smile, but suspicion was written all over her face.
Before she could ask another question, a familiar voice rang out from behind Grayson. "Hey, isn't that Tanner Caldwell over there?" it said.
Grayson turned his head and saw a boy strolling toward them, wearing a glittery denim jacket, overpriced harem pants, and enough gold chains to blind someone. His fancy shoes shone under the ballroom lights. Grayson recognized him instantly from Lexi's live stream: Tanner "PranksterKingpin" Caldwell, the rich kid who had publicly humiliated Grayson a few weeks ago. He was flanked by his usual sycophantic sidekicks, Ryder Cole Delgado and Finn Wilder—both of whom were in Grayson's project group at school.
"Babe, you're finally here," Sylvia cooed as she practically jumped into Tanner's arms, pressing a cheek against his and planting a theatrical kiss on his cheek. She wrapped her arms around his neck, as if to prove their closeness to the entire room.
Tanner ruffled Sylvia's hair and lowered himself into the empty chair beside her. He leaned back with an exaggerated stretch and casually said to the crowd, "This loser is Grayson Cole—he's in our class. Probably the poorest student you could ever meet. Just look at him: he's probably been wearing those same clothes since he popped out of his mom's womb. His clothes are dirtier and more ragged than the rags we use to clean our dorm rooms."
Sylvia let out an overly dramatic laugh as Ryder and Finn echoed Tanner's insults. Everyone around them turned to look, some grinning, others sneering. The laughter felt like an eruption of pleasure at someone else's expense.
Sylvia leaned toward Tanner and pretended to whisper, "You're so funny, babe."
On the inside, however, Sylvia was overjoyed. She'd been seething ever since Jasmine walked in wearing something more expensive than her own dress. Now that she thought Grayson was nothing but a rube playing rich, Sylvia's jealousy erupted into cruel vindication. Jasmine—this poor girl from her same hometown—had been pretending to be something she wasn't. Sylvia silently reveled in her triumph.
Ryder chimed in with a mocking grin aimed at Grayson. "Hey, did you know this kid literally scavenges for trash on campus? One time, we saw him hauling a huge black garbage bag into class during management studies. He was carrying it like it was a treasure. And he kept lugging it around even after class!"
The table erupted in raucous laughter. Sylvia's face contorted in delight as she laughed so hard she became slightly breathless. She wiped a tear from her eye, still gasping for air.
Then Sylvia turned her venomous gaze on Jasmine. She leaned forward, as if confiding in her, but speaking loud enough for at least half the ballroom to hear. "But you see what I'm saying, Jasmine? This guy isn't rich at all. How could he possibly afford to buy you that expensive outfit? If I had to guess, that money was probably made in some shady way. If anything goes wrong, what are you going to do? Do you even know what you're getting into?"
She lowered her voice as if she were sharing a genuine warning, but the cruelty in her tone was obvious. Jasmine's cheeks went pale, shock and hurt flooding her eyes.
Sylvia's voice dripped with false concern as she continued, "Think about it: he's so broke, yet he's spending so much on you. Sure, he might say he loves you, but what does he really want? Is it you—or just the image of you in fancy clothes? You know, Jasmine, with your family's situation—everyone in town knows how poor you are—your mother worked so hard to send you to college. Shouldn't you be focusing on your studies instead of chasing this idea of a lavish lifestyle? You're better than that. You could be doing anything: building a career, making your mother proud. Why are you wasting your time playing dress-up at a fancy party?"
At this point, Sylvia's tone softened into faux pity. She leaned in, lowering her voice to make it seem conspiratorial. "Listen, honey, I know you come from a poor family. No shame in that. But pride is one thing—vanity is another. Just because you finally get to wear something shiny and new doesn't mean you should let a guy like him pay for it. A rich guy—if you could even find one who's real—would treat you differently. But you're stuck with someone pretending to be more than he is. It's pathetic, Jasmine, and I hate to see you humiliated."
She sighed loudly, as though the weight of Jasmine's "mistake" was a burden for her to bear. A few eavesdroppers around the table murmured in agreement, nodding as though they shared Sylvia's disdain.
Jasmine sat frozen, unable to find her voice. Tears welled up; her cheeks drained of color. For a moment, it felt like the entire room had shrunk, focusing solely on her humiliation. Grayson reached across and placed a gentle hand on her elbow, squeezing it supportively. But he didn't say a word—he simply sat back, knowing that words might only intensify Sylvia's mocking. Yet his silence also felt like abandonment to Jasmine in that moment of savage cruelty.
Suddenly, an electric crackle rang out from the stage's PA system. The microphone squealed briefly, and the laughter in the hall died down significantly. Heads turned in the direction of the podium as the hall's murmur tapered off into expectant silence.
"Welcome, students, faculty, and esteemed guests," announced the host, stepping up to the microphone. His voice echoed clearly throughout the room. "Tonight's gala celebrates something very close to our hearts: it's the Appreciation Gala for the recent charity drive our university hosted in support of children in impoverished regions."
As the host spoke, Jasmine blinked back her tears. Her gaze flickered between Grayson—who offered her a reassuring nod—and the stage. The tension in her chest began to loosen. Though she still felt raw from Sylvia's words, she reminded herself that she belonged here just as much as anyone else. She had come tonight with Grayson because he wanted her by his side. And now, surrounded by her peers and enveloped by polite applause from strangers, she summoned the strength to hold her head high once again.
Grayson shifted in his seat to get a better view of the stage, pulling Jasmine's chair in a little closer so she could rest her hand on his knee. She let her fingers settle there, thankful for his quiet support.
For one moment, the entire hall was filled not by ridicule, but by a sense of collective purpose—people here to celebrate generosity and kindness, rather than mock someone's supposedly "lowly" appearance. And in that moment, Jasmine felt a spark of hope, determined not to let Sylvia's cruelty overshadow the genuine warmth of the evening.