Chapter 3: Rachel Sinclair, Walking ATM

College just made me hustle harder—until I met Rachel Sinclair. She was next-level rich, the kind of girl who made it rain without even noticing. A genius in the art department, daughter of a real estate mogul. When I first saw her, her shoes probably cost more than my whole month’s rent. I tried not to stare.

We met because I was president of the student conduct board, and it was the twelfth time I’d caught her skipping class.

Her advisor glared at the attendance sheet, muttering, "So what if she’s rich? Well, kid, you don’t have to help her fudge the records."

After the advisor left, I just kept logging her absences. Before Christmas break, she finally tracked me down.

She wanted to know what was going on. I answered with a sigh, "Rachel, I don’t really have a choice."

She lounged on the couch, rolling her eyes. "Figure it out. That’s what you’re good at, right?"

Later, I actually did find a way for her. I helped her clean up the mess, got her back on the attendance sheet, problem solved.

She seemed pleased—and seeing how broke I was, she tossed me a gold pendant. I turned the pendant over in my palm, feeling its weight. Five grand, just like that. My stomach twisted—grateful, embarrassed, and a little sick.

I thanked her, then started texting her good morning and good night, like a loyal sidekick.

One day, Rachel asked if I wanted to date her. My heart skipped. I replied, "Do you not like me messaging you? Then I won’t message anymore."

She didn’t answer right away. After a long pause, she finally replied: "Your name is Noah Grant, right?"

"Yes" (I tossed in a cat emoji.)

"You know Derek, right?"

"I know."

"He failed a class..."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Derek again. Of course.

"Got it, I’ll ask about it in the next couple of days."

"Okay, thanks."

Rachel truly lived up to her rich girl image—she even Venmoed me five hundred bucks. I took it, no hesitation, and sent back a thank you sticker.

Maybe because I took so much money from her at the start, later, when we dated, the thing she said most was, "You’re just with me for my money."

She always said it like a joke, but her eyes never laughed. I just shrugged, pretending it didn’t sting.

I never explained. Born to chase money, I took every Venmo she sent. I wasn’t worthy of her anyway—an orphan with nothing. I needed to earn as much as I could, right?

Sometimes I’d remember what my foster dad used to say—"You got grit, kid, but don’t forget who you are." Guess I never did. Even if it meant smiling while I took the cash.