My name is Stella. The day before my eighteenth birthday, I received my acceptance letter to Yale University. On the day the early admission results came out, my home phone and my cell phone blew up with notifications. I sat alone in my dark bedroom for three hours. Then, I unlocked my phone and blocked every single person in a specific contact group. The group name was bluntly titled: Orbiters. Yes, in my eighteen years of life, I had never truly been in a relationship. My time and energy, apart from being buried in textbooks, were entirely dedicated to learning how to string along and manipulate these orbiters. And, of course, studying how to marry rich. I remember my freshman year. I was taking a walk by the lake with my wealthy boyfriend, Noah. He was three years older than me, but a few calculated words from me had him blushing profusely. Frustrated, he pinched my cheek and interrogated me through gritted teeth: “Stella, you’re so good at this. Just how many boyfriends have you had?” “Not a single one. Do you believe me?” I raised my eyes to look at him. Slowly, I traced his palm with my pinky finger, my gaze open and deeply affectionate. “Noah, all these years, I was only waiting for you.” I was telling the truth— Those orbiters were just practice targets. My actual romantic history was a blank slate. Young men always want to be the first conqueror of uncharted territory, and Noah was no exception. As expected, he was deeply moved by my words. He pulled me into his arms, cupped my face, and kissed me deeply, promising to treat me right for the rest of his life. He was the boyfriend I had meticulously schemed to catch, and he was also the so-called “scumbag” who cheated on me and broke my heart a year later. But he would never know that from the very beginning to the bitter end of our relationship, I was the sole puppet master. Even his infidelity was carefully orchestrated by me after I had already moved on to my next target. 1 When I was little, my mom always told me: a woman can be poor, but she must be beautiful. However, she can’t just be an empty shell; she needs brains and ambition, too. My mother was a fiercely ambitious woman. From a young age, she forced me to study relentlessly to get into a top-tier Ivy League school. And getting into an Ivy League wasn’t about securing a white-collar corporate job; it was about climbing the social ladder to find a wealthy man. In her eyes, society was cruel. Class stratification was a relay race. The ancestors and fathers who ran faster had simply secured a better starting line for their descendants. The best university in the country naturally gathered the offspring of the wealthiest, most connected, and highest-status people in the country. Only the lowest tier of gold diggers fantasized about finding true love in a nightclub. I was different. The battlefield she tailored for me was the top university in the nation. On campus, everyone dressed casually. The wealthier they were, the lower their profile. We all ate in the same dining halls and lived in the same dorms. Therefore, as a freshman, my criteria for filtering out the rich kids came down to one thing: Their hobbies. The more cash-burning the hobby, the wealthier the family. All I had to do was infiltrate the circles that hosted these expensive hobbies. It was actually quite easy—just join the right clubs. My first target was Noah, the president of the Photography Club. The first time I saw Noah was during the club’s admission interviews. I deliberately wore an off-the-shoulder top. My freshly washed, long hair draped down to my waist, creating an innocent yet alluring vibe. The interview took place in a classroom, with several upperclassmen acting as judges. When the others asked me questions, I answered fluently with a bright smile. But the moment it was his turn, I feigned nervousness and intentionally stumbled over my words. The “you are different” signal was so obvious that several upperclassmen couldn’t help but tease him: “Hey Noah, are you staring at her too fiercely?” Noah raised his eyebrows, looking a bit innocent, and asked me, “Do I look fierce?” I just tilted my head and blinked at him, remaining silent. That made him uncomfortably shift his gaze first. When the interviews ended, he stood in the center of the room talking to people. I deliberately lingered behind. When the other freshmen had mostly left, I clutched my notebook and went up to ask him questions. My notebook was filled with neat, meticulous notes of every word he had spoken. As I lowered my head and leaned in, my damp, freshly washed hair emitted a wave of crisp grapefruit scent right into his face. I had spent an entire night scrolling through his entire Twitter feed and found an old Reddit AMA he did where he mentioned his favorite fruit was grapefruit. Moreover, in a Q&A about irresistible traits in women, he had admitted his biggest weakness was a subtle, lingering fragrance. I prescribed the exact medicine he needed. Freshmen always have a halo effect. Seniors are naturally curious about the new girls. Even if my tactics were only worth a B-minus, the “freshman buff” bumped it up to an A-plus. As I was leaving, I specifically told him, “Noah, my name is Stella. You have to remember me.” My interest was expressed bluntly and passionately. Any guy with half a brain would know what to do next. Sure enough, when I woke up the next morning, I saw a friend request from Noah on Snapchat. Everything was going smoothly. I almost jumped out of bed screaming. Yet, my response to his friend request was— I left it pending. Ignored. 2 When dealing with men, I believed the most effective strategy was the carrot and the stick. A woman’s initiative can soothe a man’s ego, but satisfaction must be strictly moderated. Once he gets a taste of sweetness, you have to let him starve for a bit. Men are born hunters. Provoking them and then running away is the ultimate seduction. I intentionally ignored his friend request for days. On the third day, I received a mass text from the Photography Club secretary about our first outing. The location was Central Park. I dressed up meticulously again, wearing a trendy preppy outfit—a cropped sweater, a pleated tennis skirt, white knee-high socks showing just a sliver of thigh, and my hair in twin pigtails. Despite the sweet, innocent outfit, I didn’t carry a cute little point-and-shoot camera. Instead, I lugged a massive, incredibly heavy telephoto lens. Contrast creates shock value. Dressed like that amidst a sea of tech-bro guys, I inevitably became the center of attention. The only person giving me the cold shoulder was Noah. I glanced at him several times, but he refused to look at me. I thought he was sulking and decided to add fuel to the fire, flirting and joking with other guys right in front of him. After the photoshoot, we had a group review session. As president, he was supposed to critique the newcomers’ work. When Noah walked over to me, I obediently handed him my camera to check my settings. He didn’t move. He just stared at me with a probing gaze. After a moment, a mocking smirk touched his lips. What? What was happening? Shouldn’t he be jealous?! That look made me panic. I kept my head down, pretending to fiddle with the camera. The camera belonged to the club, and I barely knew how to use it. I accidentally pressed the wrong button, and the screen flashed to the gallery grid. In the gallery, aside from a few landscape shots, every single other picture was of Noah. I froze, my face instantly flushing crimson red. Um, yes. In order to flirt with him later, I had spent the entire morning secretly photographing him. I never expected it to be exposed right here. It was an accident, and I was genuinely, incredibly embarrassed. Noah froze too. The mocking smile on his face stiffened, turned to shock, and then transformed into pure shyness. I had spent the whole morning talking to other guys, seemingly ignoring him, but the photography guys all knew one truth: The camera lens is a person’s most honest eye. The only person I had been focusing on was him. We stared at the camera screen in silence for ten seconds. I took a deep breath before I dared to steal a glance at him. His lips were pressed tightly together, the red flush on his ears only halfway faded. He put on a cold face, expertly switched the screen back to the original menu, and began seriously critiquing my settings. When he finished, my face was still burning, and I looked dumb and dazed. Noah glanced at me and said coldly, “Phone.” I obediently pulled it out. He snatched it with a dark expression, typed in his own number, tossed it back into my arms, gently pushed my forehead, and ordered: “Add me when you get back.” Oh. I foolishly rubbed the spot on my forehead he had touched, knowing in my heart: I had already won half the battle. Regarding why I didn’t accept his friend request immediately, I deliberately called him later to earnestly explain that I had met too many people as a new student and simply missed his request in the flood of notifications. Noah just gave a faint “hmm.” A moment later, he added slowly, “Oh. You know, at the time, I thought you were playing hard to get. I was wondering if this little freshman was actually super manipulative.” Hearing that, I practically bristled like a cornered cat, panicking about how to defend myself. Thankfully, he sighed and continued, “But you’re so clumsy, you even got caught red-handed secretly taking pictures of me…” Only then did I realize he was teasing me. My reaction speed kicked in, and I immediately sounded wronged: “Noah, you actually thought I was manipulative? That’s a really serious accusation against a girl. I need compensation!” He was caught off guard by the pivot. “What kind of compensation?” I tilted my head, my sugary-sweet voice flowing through the phone right into his ear: “Just… compensate me by saying goodnight to me for a whole month, okay?” He chuckled, his voice gentle, and didn’t refuse. Everything that followed fell into place perfectly. Noah texted me every day, and before bed, he would call me for ten minutes to say goodnight. The calls naturally grew longer and longer. He was a junior, a New York native, graduated from a top prep school. His worldly knowledge and perspective were leaps and bounds ahead of mine. But my ability to control him relied on one simple weapon: lust. He treated me well. His family was wealthy, owning a luxury penthouse in Manhattan. On weekends, his parents would send a driver to pick him up. I took note of the car model, quietly researched it, and found it cost over a hundred thousand dollars. That seven-figure real estate asset was warmer than his hugs and more thrilling than his kisses. We really did share some wonderful times together. Unfortunately, reality soon dumped a bucket of ice water on my head. I realized that the finish line I believed in was merely the first step of a ten-thousand-mile marathon. Putting aside the fact that Noah might just be looking for a casual college girlfriend with no long-term plans, my growing experience and social climbing skills taught me a harsh truth: If I wanted to truly elevate my social class, a family like Noah’s—comfortably upper-middle class but nothing spectacular—was only fit to be my stepping stone. Three months into our relationship, the honeymoon phase passed, and I met Carter. Noah called him “Boss.” That day, Noah and I were holding hands on a walk when a strikingly handsome guy approached us. I couldn’t help but take a second look. Noah stopped, looking pleasantly surprised, and greeted him, “Boss!” Carter smiled at us, his gaze lightly sweeping over my face before looking at Noah. “Hey, Noah.” Our eyes met briefly as we passed each other, but I could feel that this “Boss” was far from ordinary. Sure enough, the next second, Noah lifted his chin, staring at Carter’s almost radiant back, and sighed with unprecedented admiration: “Now that is a true golden boy. Compared to his family, we’re all just regular peasants.” 3 Noah’s words were like a dark cloud blotting out all the pink bubbles in my world. I suddenly sobered up: I studied relentlessly, got into an Ivy League, and schemed my way to the top, all just to date a boy from a “regular peasant” family? Is this what I called success? I felt deeply unsatisfied. During that sleepless night, I sat in my dorm, lips pressed tightly together, staring at Carter’s Instagram profile on my laptop. Carter was the president of the Mountaineering Club. He was a senior, majoring in finance. He was refined, with a very cold aura. He was pale, with features handsome enough to be an actor—the textbook definition of a young girl’s dream guy. A man like this, you could guess with your eyes closed, had a mountain of girls chasing him. I later found out that our university’s Mountaineering Club was famous. Anyone who made a name for themselves in that club was a wealthy, powerful young elite. I blamed my own naivety—girls who really knew what they were doing would never look for rich heirs in the Photography Club; they knew to aim high at the Mountaineering Club. But Carter had a girlfriend. Her name was Valerie. She was the goddess of the Management School. Rumor had it she was a true socialite from a family of high-ranking government officials. Anyone could see they were a match made in heaven. Well, life isn’t a cheesy romance novel. I wasn’t the main character, and Valerie wasn’t the evil step-sister. If I were him, I would also choose the girlfriend whose family matched mine perfectly. I logically and dejectedly closed my laptop, telling myself to stop daydreaming. But that night, I dreamt of Carter. I dreamt that I actually became the Cinderella from the fairy tales and successfully married the prince. The next time I saw Carter was on a weekend. Noah dragged me out of bed early in the morning to go hiking in upstate New York. I agreed half-heartedly, barely throwing an outfit together, not even bothering with makeup. Yawning as I reached the campus gates, I saw the group standing next to a massive SUV—and woke up instantly. What?! Carter is here?! So we’re hiking with Carter’s group?! I immediately glared at Noah, whispering frantic complaints: “Why didn’t you tell me other people were coming? I would have dressed up!” “It’s just friends. Besides, you look beautiful without dressing up,” Noah smiled gently down at me, his finger twirling the ends of my hair. We looked intimate. I felt self-conscious and stole a glance at Carter. I saw his gaze resting on Noah’s finger and my hair, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. The next second, he looked away, opened the car door, got into the passenger seat, and said quietly, “Everyone’s here. Let’s go.” Valerie and her friends were in another car. They arrived ten minutes after us. First, I saw a Mercedes G-Wagon, and then I saw the long-legged beauty hop down from the driver’s seat. My chest instantly churned with jealousy. I knew Valerie’s photos were beautiful, but I didn’t expect her to be even more stunning in person. Her aura was impeccable. When she spoke, she was incredibly gentle. Just standing there, she was a goddess. I later learned that in Noah’s dorm, whenever Valerie’s name came up, the guys all looked dreamy-eyed. If someone got a ‘like’ from Valerie on Instagram, they’d screenshot it and brag about it for days. I had to admit, she was absolutely not the arrogant, mean girl from the novels. She was the true leading lady. She smiled generously at me, warmly took my hand, and said, “Stella, right? I’m Valerie.” In front of her, my inferiority complex made me want to sink into the floor. I had bad grades at school and very few friends. My entire freshman year, I had spent most of my time and energy trying to find a rich boyfriend. My goal was to be an accessory. And my only reason for standing here today was because I was Noah’s new girlfriend. Valerie was the center of attention everywhere she went. Everyone revolved around her. They chatted with her, joked with her, and asked her opinions. Even surrounded by admirers, she would subconsciously seek Carter’s gaze between sentences. After making eye contact, she would purse her lips in a smile before turning back to the conversation. On one hand, I tried to join the conversation; on the other, I couldn’t help but secretly record Valerie’s tone and way of speaking on my phone. A person’s background can be seen in their speech. I couldn’t have her background, but I could mimic how she spoke. It felt like if I got closer to her, I could get closer to that kind of life, and closer to… Carter. It was right then that I noticed a gaze— Carter. I stiffened. He was looking at me with a half-smile. Suddenly, he took out his phone and pointed at the ‘Recording’ icon on his screen. He knew I was recording?! My face flushed burning hot in an instant. But he acted as if nothing had happened and looked away. I was distracted for the rest of the day until I got home. Noah didn’t notice anything wrong with me. I hurriedly said goodbye to him, rushed back to my dorm, and buried my head under the covers. My heart was pounding in my ears. Only then did I dare to carefully recall the moment when we were setting up the tents. Carter had seemingly intentionally pulled me away from the group to talk to me: “I noticed you spend more time looking at Valerie than your own boyfriend,” he suddenly leaned into my ear and started the conversation. I realized then that it was just the two of us. I couldn’t help but straighten my spine, my fingertips pressing hard into the tent canvas. I lowered my eyes, refusing to look at him: “So stingy. People aren’t allowed to look at your girlfriend?” “She’s not my girlfriend.” He paused, then lowered his voice, speaking in a breathy whisper: “I don’t even like girls like her. I prefer…” He suddenly stopped. And the tips of my ears turned bright red. I didn’t dare respond to his unfinished sentence. I only knew his gaze was fixed on my right ear, which was red enough to look cooked. He stared until I couldn’t bear it anymore, then unexpectedly reached out, took off my right earring, placed it in his palm, studied it for a moment, stood up, and left me with: “Noah gave this to you, right? I like it. Confiscated.” … My heart was still racing. My ear still longed for the warmth of his fingertips. Under the covers, it felt stiflingly hot. My trembling hand touched my empty right ear. I remembered earlier in the day when Valerie asked me why I was missing an earring. I had looked panicked and clumsily explained that I accidentally lost it. When everyone started joking that the earrings Noah bought were bad quality, I secretly glanced at Carter. I saw a fiery, dark glint in his eyes. I was still naive back then, not understanding human nature. I mistakenly thought everyone’s imagination and understanding of love were identical: demanding loyalty, purity, and eternity, favoring excellence, sunshine, and positivity. But later I learned that the more people have and the more they experience, the less loyalty, purity, and eternity excite them. Even though Carter was only 22, the only things that truly interested him were— Stimulation and taboo. 4 Carter’s actions sent my imagination into overdrive. He gave me an illusion. Things I only dared to dream about suddenly had a tangible possibility in real life. Maybe the domineering CEO falling for me from the novels actually existed? I was seduced. I started wanting more. My ambition and desires expanded little by little. But he never spoke to me again. Every late night, I involuntarily searched for every piece of information about Carter, hoping to find a chance to see him again. He was like a key that could unlock the door to my desires, my future, and my everything. Carter’s class schedule, the libraries he frequented, and the Mountaineering Club’s weekly activity times could actually be dug up from the campus forums. He had too many fangirls. Girls from the economics department, other majors, and even neighboring universities were constantly trying to track him down. It’s just a pity they never practically applied the theories from their economics classes: only asymmetric information yields profit. Information that is fully known to everyone has zero value. Meaning, only the hardest-to-dig information was gold. So I started digging from other angles to find places Carter might frequent but didn’t want people to know about. For instance, I dug into his friends’ Yelp reviews, Twitter, and Reddit accounts. Finally, under a tweet from his roommate last year, I found a reply from Carter. Carter replied: “Haha, nice.” And the location tag was a niche, underground cosplay maid lounge, a half-hour subway ride from campus. As the name implies, it was a place where waitresses wore French maid outfits to satisfy the fantasies and demands of patrons. So, Carter likes this kind of stuff? I searched online and found out this lounge was hiring part-time waitresses. Because it was so far from campus, it was almost impossible to run into anyone I knew. I gritted my teeth, made up an excuse to Noah, and decided to apply. Everything went smoothly. The only thing that wasn’t smooth was that I worked there for a whole month and didn’t see a single hair on Carter’s head. I realized then that relying solely on theory wasn’t enough. The winners in this world all need that 1% of luck. Just when I was about to give up, finally, a familiar face appeared in the lounge. Carter!! I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. He seemed a bit surprised the moment he saw me. He quickly recovered, greeted the owner, and then stopped looking at me. That’s it? I felt a bit disappointed, but I absolutely couldn’t lower myself to go hit on him directly. I kept my head down and worked. Not long after, a pair of brogues approached me. He stared at the top of my head for a long time before his familiar, deep voice finally spoke: “Does Noah know?” My hands didn’t stop wiping the table. I warned myself not to panic. After building up my mental defenses, I finally looked up. I don’t know where I got the courage, but I tilted my head and answered his question with a question: “Do you want him to know?” He asked the question as Noah’s friend, teasing me about working at a maid lounge, but he didn’t expect me to drag him in as a co-conspirator. He gave me that ambiguous, half-smile again, took two steps closer, gently tapped my shoe with his toe, looked down, and asked: “Stella—that’s what Noah calls you, right? Stella, when are you here every week?” He cut straight to the chase. “Tuesdays and Thursdays.” I lifted my head entirely. Once we made eye contact, I didn’t know why, but I felt bewitched again and blurted out: “If I’m here, can I wait for you?” He smiled, the corners of his mouth curling up: “Tsk. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays you accompany Noah. Tuesdays and Thursdays belong to me. Is that how I should understand it?” My face was burning hot! I didn’t expect him to say that. I thought he was going to mock my promiscuity. I was incredibly embarrassed and was just about to argue back—when I saw Carter pinch my cheek, lean in, and whisper in my ear with an ambiguous, husky voice: “Sharing. I like it.” “…” I froze on the spot. Only then did I realize how twisted Carter was. The face of an angel, the hobbies of a devil. But I tried my best to gather my surprise and panic, desperately pretending to be worldly. I pursed my lips and forced myself to continue: “Then I… I’ll wait for you on Thursday.” He was amused by my reaction, laughed twice, and walked away. My heart was thumping, feeling like every beat was slamming against my chest. I stared at his retreating back in a panic, unable to describe my feelings: happy, surprised, relieved, scared, worried… incredibly complex and messy. I took a deep breath, pushing away the guilt towards Noah, and buried my head in wiping the ashes off the table with a rag. It was as if I was struggling to scrub away the mold slowly spreading across my soul. But the mold on Carter’s soul was definitely worse than mine. I slowly began to understand the look in his eyes when he tore off my earring during that hike—predatory and curious, his mind craving taboo. I finally realized that the thrill of a secret affair was the greatest emotional value I could provide Carter. He had had enough of those pure, excellent, and sunny girls. Having been the golden boy in the spotlight for too long, Carter liked the dark; he liked damp, hidden temptations. He also saw at a glance that I was absolutely not the open, optimistic Valerie with no secrets. I was the kind of girl who secretly recorded people, ambitious, devoid of a bottom line, and full of scheming, my heart overgrown with dark, unseeable moss. And he liked moss. His habits were also very unique: every time he came, he would treat me like I was invisible, sitting alone in a private room drinking tea, not even calling for service. After a while, he would suddenly appear behind me, gently blow on my ear, then suddenly wrap his arm around my waist, affectionately pinch my chin like a lover, and always ask one question: “Hmm? Has Noah ever done this to you?” Or: “Do you like it better when I do this to you, or when he does it?” … His hot breath sprayed against the back of my neck. And these words didn’t actually require my answer. I slowly discovered that as long as I acted shy, coy, conflicted, and guilty, while suppressing my joy and impulse… in short, exhibiting all the reactions that fit the “cheating” scenario, it would get him into character and make him full of excitement. He liked me more and more. The time we spent secretly together grew longer. He would hold me and sigh: “Stella, right now I wish I could be with you every day.” Most of the time, my mind was very clear, but sometimes, I inevitably got caught up in the act. The maids in the lounge all wore clogs, but he liked it when I took off my shoes and socks, walking barefoot on the floor of the private room, and then ordered me to run a lap around the room until my feet were covered in dust. Then, he would make me sit in front of him. He would hold my ankle and admire the soles of my feet with an almost intoxicated expression. He said a woman’s most beautiful part was her feet, and he especially loved the way a woman’s soles looked when they got dirty. Shattered beauty is a tragedy, and Carter loved all tragedies. The most thrilling time was when we were in his private room. He was rubbing the soles of my feet when suddenly voices came from outside— It was Carter’s friends, the same group from the hiking trip! My scalp instantly went numb. I instinctively tried to pull my foot back to hide. But Carter tightened his grip. We were separated from the outside by only a thin sliding door. If those people just stepped closer, opened the door, and everything was exposed, my reputation would be completely ruined. I was more worried than I had ever been. My heart was racing, I was trembling with fear, but I failed to notice Carter had leaned in close, his lips against my ear: “Stella, are you scared?” He spoke very quickly. I finally noticed his eyes—they were glinting with excitement. Only one thought remained in my head: I absolutely cannot ruin his mood. My breathing was unsteady, but I looked at him as firmly as I could and slowly shook my head. In that exact moment, Carter smirked, abruptly slid the door open, and greeted the group outside: “Hey.” I almost jumped out of my seat. The gap wasn’t wide, just enough to show Carter’s face, a sliver of my skirt, and my calf wearing a white thigh-high sock. It looked incredibly suggestive. “Want to come in and sit?” Carter raised his eyebrows, offering an invitation. I stopped breathing. My brain buzzed, thinking he was serious. Thankfully, the guys outside didn’t know Carter’s temper well enough. Being tactful, they just said hi, laughed, and walked away. The door closed again. Only when their footsteps faded did Carter lower his eyes to laugh at me: “You’re shaking like a leaf. Still not scared?” Saying that, he stood up, patted my head like he was petting a small animal, and casually left me with: “By the way, Noah was in that group just now.”
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “438318”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
