dating eight girls at the same time. Someone on the Hudson University forum had posted a thread complete with over a dozen photos as evidence. Monday: a woman in a sharp black blazer delivering pastries to me at Dining Hall Three. Tuesday: a woman in gold-rimmed glasses sitting next to me in my elective class. Wednesday: a woman driving a cherry-red sports car picking me up at the campus gates. … 1 The thread title read: [Oliver Garrison’s Eight-Timing Timeline: Sweet-faced College Boy or Master Player?] Overnight, it hit over ten thousand views. “Average looks, but quite the player.” “Eight of them on rotation? How does he manage the schedule?” Wesley was the resident golden boy of the Liberal Arts department—short hair, crisp white shirts, the kind of guy who looked like he stepped out of a classic Ralph Lauren ad. The next day, he stood in front of my oldest sister, blushing. “Is anyone sitting here?” The forum was updated instantly: Girl #1 seemingly charmed by our campus golden boy. The “Girl #1” they were gossiping about was actually the youngest regional president of Garrison Properties—my oldest sister, Diana. The rest of them? Also my sisters. But our mother had set a strict family rule, and my lips were sealed. If they knew those eight “conquests” all shared the same last name, I wondered if they’d still be so smug. The day after the post blew up, Diana showed up on campus. The Garrison intelligence network was infinitely more reliable than the Hudson University Wi-Fi. At seven-thirty in the morning, while I was still playing dead under my dorm blankets, her call came through. “Oliver.” The moment she used my first name instead of a nickname, I knew I was in trouble. I pulled the duvet over my head and whispered, “I’m fine, Diana.” Diana paused on the other end for two seconds. “I saw the forum screenshots.” I sat up instantly, sleep completely vanishing. “Algorithms don’t just target college students.” Wonderful. Death by algorithm. I lowered my voice. “Leave it alone. I can handle it.” “By staying silent? That’s your handling?” “We have the family rules.” “The rule is to stop you from using the Garrison name to bully others. It’s not meant to turn you into a sitting duck.” I fell silent. She added, “Dining Hall Three. Lunch.” I bolted upright. “What are you going to do?” “Eat lunch.” “Diana, please don’t come.” “Already on my way.” The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen. Just one word echoed in my mind: Screwed. My name is Oliver Garrison, a junior majoring in English at Hudson University. To my classmates, I was just an ordinary local kid. Canvas sneakers, a battered canvas tote bag, the kind of guy who would be thrilled for hours if the cafeteria server scooped an extra spoonful of potatoes onto his plate. Nobody knew what my family actually did. And none of my classmates knew that Diana wasn’t some “sugar mommy,” but my biological older sister. To prevent us from getting spoiled and entitled, my mother, Margaret Garrison, had personally laid down the law three years ago when I started college. 1. No actively revealing your family background. 2. No using family connections for personal affairs. 3. If caught violating a rule once, cards are frozen for a month. 4. For severe offenses, cars, vacations, and travel plans are confiscated. Back then, I had asked, “What if someone bullies me?” My mother had sipped her tea slowly. “Learn to stand on your own two feet first.” I thought she was cold-blooded. But I was also terrified of having my cards frozen. So, for three years, I kept such a low profile I was practically invisible. Diana arrived right on time at noon, when Dining Hall Three was at its busiest. She wore a sharp black blazer, her coat draped over her arm, with no assistants in tow. But it didn’t matter. Some people simply don’t look like they’ve come to fight for the last portion of sweet and sour pork. The moment she stood there, the ambient noise in the cafeteria dropped a notch. Sitting in the corner, I wished I could bury my face in my rice. Diana set two boxes of pastries in front of me. “Sweet yam cakes. Mom made them.” I gritted my teeth, whispering, “You knew they were taking photos of you on the forum, and you still came to deliver this?” She sat down, her expression cool and unbothered. “Let them take photos.” “Did you do this on purpose?” “I came to see exactly who has the audacity to paint my little brother as some cheap player.” My chopsticks froze. The quiet frustration that had been building up inside me suddenly popped like a bubble, leaving a sharp, aching sting. But before I could speak, a soft voice drifted down beside us. “Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” Wesley was standing by the table, holding a tray. White shirt, dark hair, eyes bright and clear. He was looking at Diana, his cheeks slightly flushed. He didn’t look at me at all. People at the surrounding tables were already raising their phones. I realized his game instantly. He wanted to prove that even “Girl #1” on the forum would fall for his charm. Diana didn’t even look up. “Yes.” Wesley stiffened slightly, finally turning his gaze to me. He offered a sweet, gentle smile. “Oliver, do you mind if I sit next to you?” Before I could speak, Diana set the container of yam cakes on the empty seat. “This spot is taken, too.” The cafeteria went quiet for a few seconds. The smile on Wesley’s face froze. He bit his lower lip, his eyes instantly welling with tears. “My apologies. Sorry to bother you.” He turned and walked away slowly, his retreating figure looking so pitiful, as if he had been abandoned by the entire world. With acting skills like that, it’s a crime he isn’t in the drama club. Sure enough, the forum updated that night: Girl #1 coldly rejects Wesley; Oliver seemingly marks his territory on the spot. After the lights went out, I stared at those words on my phone. Diana knew. The rest of the family would know eventually. But before I decided to tear down this wall of anonymity, I wanted to endure it just one more time. I wanted to see exactly how far Wesley was willing to go. 2 On Tuesday afternoon, my second oldest sister, Isabel, sent me a message ahead of time. “I’m giving a guest lecture at Hudson. Stopping by to sit in on your class.” I replied instantly: “It’s not on your way. Mentally, it’s not on your way.” “Denied.” The word “gentle” had absolutely nothing to do with Isabel. She wore gold-rimmed glasses, spoke with a measured pace, and possessed the emotional stability of a high-precision Swiss watch. Growing up, whenever she tutored me, her favorite line was: “The errors in your logic have fascinating layers.” It almost drove me to run away from home. At two in the afternoon, Isabel stood right outside the lecture hall. White shirt, gray trousers, holding a thick, original academic text. On the forum, they called her “Girl #2.” Some commented that she looked like a dangerous, ice-cold academic who would lock you in the library until you memorized the entire dictionary. Just looking at her made my scalp tingle. “You saw the forum too?” She pushed up her glasses and gave me a flat look. “So, do you plan to keep playing the martyr and let them keep dragging you?” I muttered a correction. “Not everyone is dragging me.” “No, just a loud vocal group of idiots.” “Isabel, remember your professional ethics as an academic.” “Right now, I am not a teacher. I am your sister.” I couldn’t out-argue her, so I had no choice but to lead her into the classroom. The moment she stepped through the door, the atmosphere shifted. The noisy back rows fell completely silent. Wesley was sitting in the third row, chatting with a few guys. When he saw Isabel, his eyes lit up. I took a seat by the window. During the lecture, the professor asked a question about the narrative structure of Wuthering Heights. The entire class ducked their heads, pretending to be statues. I did the same. Isabel tapped my notebook with her pen. In the next second, she raised my hand for me. I wanted to throw her out the window right then and there. The professor beamed at me. “Oliver, let’s hear your thoughts.” I had no choice but to stand up and speak for five minutes. The classroom was dead quiet. When I finished, the professor nodded in approval. “Excellent. Write those points down and email them to me as a short essay after class.” I sat back down, gritting my teeth. “Isabel.” She casually turned a page. “Your articulation hasn’t deteriorated.” “Your conscience, however, has.” She ignored me. After class, Wesley walked over, clutching his books. His voice was soft and tentative. “Oliver, is this your friend?” He obviously knew what the forum was saying, yet he insisted on asking in front of everyone. “No.” Wesley blinked. “Oh, is she pursuing you? She seemed very eager to help you just now.” Heads turned instantly. Isabel closed her book and looked up. “I am his—” I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She paused, her eyes cool behind her lenses. Seeing my reaction, a flash of smugness crossed Wesley’s eyes. He said gently, “Oliver, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life. It’s just that the rumors on the forum are getting quite nasty. You should really be more careful. A guy’s reputation is incredibly important.” I stared at him. “Wesley, if you care so much about reputations, you seem to have a very precise finger when it comes to liking those rumor posts.” His face went pale. A guy next to him immediately chimed in. “Oliver, how can you talk to Wesley like that? He’s just trying to look out for you.” “You’re the one behaving sleazily, and you’re mad that people are calling you out?” “You’re juggling eight girls like a damn shipping company. Stop acting innocent.” Isabel’s face darkened. I held her back with all my might, terrified that a single “I’m his sister” would blow my cover and freeze my bank accounts. I grabbed my bag and walked out. Behind me, Wesley whispered, “Forget it, guys. Don’t say any more. He’s probably just sensitive.” That night, a new thread popped up: Girl #2 accompanies Oliver to class, acting as his shield. Wesley’s well-meaning advice met with hostility. Someone photoshopped my face onto an octopus, with eight tentacles holding the silhouettes of eight different women. The comment section was toxic enough to make me physically sick. It’s fine. Every single word will become evidence. 3 On Wednesday evening, my cousin Beatrice parked her cherry-red sports car right in front of the campus gates, blocking the path. “Oliver, you have three minutes. If you don’t get out here, I’m driving straight to the English department and blasting celebratory pop music.” Students were streaming in and out of the gates. The red car sat there, loud and burning like a flame. Beatrice leaned against the door, her sunglasses hooked in her collar, holding a cup of boba tea. On the forum, they called her “Girl #3.” The comments suggested she looked like she chewed up and spat out young college boys for breakfast. She swung the passenger door open. “Get in. Your mom wants me to drive you home to grab some things.” “Mom knows about the forum?” “Oh, she knows. She even asked me why I was only ranked third on your list of ‘conquests’.” I nearly squeezed my boba cup to bursting. “Can you guys please stop treating this like a joke?” Beatrice climbed back in, wearing a smug, irritating grin. I ignored her. By the time I returned to campus, things had escalated. I went to my evening class, left my backpack on my seat, and went to the restroom to wash my hands. When I returned, my backpack strap was severed. The cut was clean, clearly done with a utility knife. My textbooks were scattered all over the floor. Scribbled across the cover of my main text in thick red marker were the words: PLAYER, GET OUT. Snickers echoed through the classroom. A few guys kept their heads down, staring at their phones, but the smirks on their faces were unmistakable. Wesley sat in the front row. Turning around to see the books on the floor, his face immediately crumpled into a look of shock and deep concern. He hurried over and bent down to help me gather them. “Oliver, are you okay? Who would do something like this?” I placed my hand firmly over the book, staring up at him. “Don’t touch it.” Wesley’s hand froze in midair. His eyes filled with tears instantly. “I was only trying to help.” I let out a cold laugh. “Every time someone does something to me, you just happen to be standing right there. Every time someone drags me, you’re the one playing the victim. Don’t you get tired of the act?” Wesley’s tears spilled over. “I don’t understand why you hate me so much. Yes, I liked the post, but I never told anyone to bully you! You can’t just blame me for everything just because people happen to side with me.” The people around him immediately leaped to his defense. “Don’t cry, Wesley.” “Oliver, that’s enough out of you.” “Just because he doesn’t have your mysterious sugar mommies backing him up doesn’t mean you get to drag him through the mud.” Hearing the phrase “doesn’t have backing,” I suddenly wanted to laugh. They truly had no idea. Not a single person in this room knew who I actually was. To them, I was just some low-life juggling eight women, unable to explain my relationships. They believed they were on the side of justice, which made them feel entirely righteous in hurling the most venomous insults. That night, I returned to my dorm to find my bed soaked. Sweet boba milk tea had been poured all over my comforter, pillow, and sheets. The cloying, sugary scent was nauseating. I gathered up my sheets and carried them to the washroom. Under the cold tap, the milk tea ran into the drain in a sticky, murky stream. I knelt by the sink, scrubbing the fabric over and over again. Not yet. It’s not time. I would wait until they played every single card they had. Keeping a cool head and letting the line run long before reeling in the catch was a trait encoded into the Garrison DNA. 4 On Thursday morning, I was targeted in the library. A full cup of iced Americano was dumped over my head from the upper balcony. The cold liquid hit the crown of my head, dripping down my hair, neck, and soaking my white shirt. I froze from the sheer chill of it. “Wake-up call for the player.” “Time to sober up, lover boy.” I didn’t say a word. I simply turned and walked to the restroom. The reflection staring back at me was pathetic. My shirt was stained a dark, messy brown, my hair was plastered to my forehead, and my eyes were rimmed with a redness I couldn’t hide. My phone buzzed. It was my third oldest sister, Valerie. She was a lead detective with the city’s police department. Growing up, I feared her the most. One look from Valerie felt like a full-blown interrogation, capable of making you confess to stealing cookies from the jar years ago. I picked up. “Valerie.” Her voice was low and commanding. “Have you been crying? Don’t lie to me.” I bit my lip. “Just spilled some coffee.” She paused. “You need to understand something, Oliver. Endurance doesn’t mean lying down and letting people walk all over you.” The tears I had been holding back nearly spilled over. That afternoon, my academic advisor, Mr. Henderson, called me into his office. “Oliver, this situation has blown up completely. Do you have any idea how badly this reflects on our department?” “If you hadn’t kept these inappropriate involvements with external women so public, none of this gossip would have started.” I let out a dry laugh. “So, being secretly photographed, photoshopped, and publicly harassed is my fault?” His tone turned icy. “Tomorrow afternoon, Wesley is going to make a public statement in front of the library. I expect you to be there to clarify everything.” “Clarify what?” “Acknowledge your lack of appropriate boundaries with these women, and apologize to Wesley for dragging him into this mess.” I thought I had misheard him. “I need to apologize to him?” “He is under immense academic and social stress because of this. He came to my office yesterday in tears. Liking a post is not the same as fabricating a rumor. Meanwhile, your refusal to offer any explanation has only allowed these rumors to fester.” A fire flared in my chest. “Mr. Henderson, have you even dared to investigate who actually made that post?” “The university will conduct its own inquiry, but right now, you need to cooperate to quiet the public outcry.” “And your way of quieting it is making me bow my head?” Mr. Henderson slammed his pen onto the desk. “Oliver, don’t think that just because you associate with some wealthy women outside of school, you’re above our regulations. If you continue with this attitude, the department will seriously consider disciplinary action.” “Fine. Tomorrow afternoon at three, in front of the library. I’ll be there.” The moment I stepped out of his office, an announcement thread had already been posted on the forum. The comments were practically throwing a party. “Can’t wait to watch the player’s downfall.” “Will his eight sugar mommies show up to rescue him?” “Wesley is finally standing up for himself.” Standing at the end of the corridor, I pulled out my phone and texted Diana: “Tomorrow at three. Hudson Library.” Diana replied within seconds: “Are you ready?” I stared out the window. The sky was heavy and dark, holding back a storm. I typed back: “Tell everyone to come.” The family group chat exploded. Isabel: “Rescheduling my lectures.” Valerie: “The chain of evidence is complete and secured.” Beatrice: “The red ride is washed and ready.” Caroline: “Bringing my medical kit.” Rebecca: “Wrapping up my project review early.” Natalie: “Should I wear my team jacket to show some muscle?” Charlotte: “I’ll be there at three sharp.” Finally, our mother, Margaret, sent a single text: “The family rules are meant to keep you from bullying others, not to make you a victim of bullies.” Staring at the screen, a lump formed in my throat. I was done holding back. Let my eight sisters line up at the campus gates. We were going to shatter this lie once and for all. 5 The next afternoon, the plaza in front of the library was packed. The tree-lined boulevard of Hudson University was choked with students. People were standing on the steps, the edges of the planters, and beneath the streetlamps, all holding up their phones, waiting for the show. Wesley stood right in the center of the crowd. Crisp white shirt, perfectly styled hair, eyes red-rimmed. He had chosen his spot brilliantly. Behind him rose the white marble pillars of the library, with dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. He stood there like the tragic, noble protagonist of an indie film, misunderstood but brave. Mr. Henderson stood beside him, looking solemn and severe. When I arrived, the crowd parted automatically. Whispers broke out. “He actually showed up.” “Where are his eight girls? None of them came today?” “It’s a trainwreck. Who would want to be seen with him now?” I walked to the base of the steps and stopped. Looking down at me, Wesley’s eyes pooled with tears. “Oliver, I truly never wanted things to go this far.” His voice was soft, but pitched perfectly to carry through the quiet plaza. “I admit I liked those posts. But I was just shocked. I never had any malicious intent.” “You’ve always believed I had it out for you, but I’m only standing here today because I want you to be honest. Who are those women to you, really?” The crowd instantly erupted. “Explain yourself!” “Are those eight actually your girlfriends?” “Don’t play dumb!” Mr. Henderson lowered his voice, warning me, “Oliver, mind your attitude. Speak clearly and honestly, and the department might still show some leniency.” I gave him a long look. “Mr. Henderson, I hope you maintain that same firm resolve in a few minutes.” He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t answer. Because from the direction of the main gates, the first powerful growl of an engine had just echoed through the air.
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