Sweet Little Parasites

1 It was the week before Halloween when I accidentally discovered the truth: all five of my suitemates were first-generation, low-income students attending our elite private university on full-ride, need-based scholarships. In my previous life, terrified of bruising their fragile pride, I had gently suggested we pool our living expenses. I became their silent benefactor, bleeding thousands of dollars a month out of my own trust fund so they could seamlessly blend into a world of overpriced matcha lattes, Sephora hauls, and weekend Uber rides downtown. Their gratitude had been a masterclass in deception. Behind my back, they orchestrated a viral TikTok and Reddit campaign, posting a multi-part exposé accusing me of embezzling their Pell Grants and work-study checks to fund my designer bag collection. I couldn't outrun the algorithm. Doxxed, swarmed by rabid internet mobs, and entirely abandoned, the cyberbullying drove me into a suffocating darkness until my heart simply gave out. Now, I blinked, the harsh blue light of my iPhone screen grounding me. I was sitting on my plush duvet, staring at the suite’s iMessage group chat. I had just typed out the fateful message: Why don't we just merge our grocery and spending funds for the semester? I can manage it. Three rapid-fire bubbles popped up. “Omg thank you Harper, you’re literally the best!” “You’re a lifesaver, babes.” I didn’t breathe. I just pressed my thumb to the screen and hit Undo Send. Then, I opened Venmo and generated a single, itemized request link. I dropped it into the chat. “Never mind the shared fund idea,” I typed, my thumbs steady. “My parents just filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Accounts are frozen. I’m completely cut off.” I let that sit for a heartbeat before adding: “All those times you guys had me cover your DoorDash, the concert tickets, and the Glossier runs—I need you to Venmo me back today. The total is $3,200.” The group chat went graveyard silent. From the bed across the room, Sienna Brooks’s voice drifted out, muffled behind her privacy curtain. "Blair... maybe we should just let it go? She never actually asked us to pay her back before..." Blair Davis’s voice snapped back, sharp and frigid from the opposite corner. "Her family is broke, Sienna. If we don’t ignore this now, she’s going to be mooching off us for the rest of the year." Madison Clark poked her head out from beneath her duvet, her lips pulling into a slight, irritated pout. "Harper, you gave us that stuff voluntarily. You can’t just retroactively bill us because your dad messed up his portfolio. That’s kind of tacky." I set my phone face down on the mattress. I looked straight at her, the memory of her typing out death threats in my past life flashing behind my eyes. "The Le Labo perfume you dragged to the counter last week, swearing you’d pay me back when your campus job paid out? Was that a voluntary gift, Madison?" Madison’s neck flushed violently red. She ducked back under her covers without a word. Sienna immediately tried to play peacekeeper. "Hey, guys, come on. We’re suite-mates. We’re sisters. Let’s not let money ruin the vibe..." I let out a low, dry laugh. "Sisters? What kind of sister ghosts a three-thousand-dollar debt?" Blair ripped her curtain back, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto me. "Harper, this is a sick joke, right? We’re at a private university in New England. Tuition is eighty grand a year. Your dad runs a hedge fund. You don't just 'go bankrupt' overnight." "I'm not joking," I said, my voice eerily calm. "The firm is under federal investigation. Assets are seized. I need this cash to cover my housing for the spring semester. Send it now." The remaining two suitemates peeked out. Sienna’s face had completely hardened, the sweet-girl facade dropping. "Wait, Harper, what does your family's financial ruin have to do with us?" I met Sienna’s glare head-on. "Last month at Nordstrom, you pitched a fit over those Golden Goose sneakers until I put them on my Amex. You swore you’d pay me back after your babysitting gig. Did I force those onto your feet?" Sienna choked on her words, her face burning. Sensing the shift, Blair climbed down from her lofted bed and crossed the room, stopping right beside my desk. She placed a gentle, patronizing hand on her hip. "Harper, look. I know you’re spiraling because you’ve hit rock bottom, but you can’t take your trauma out on us." I ignored her textbook gaslighting. Instead, I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a heavy-duty brass padlock I’d picked up from the hardware store. Right in front of them, I walked over to my custom wardrobe trunk—the one I usually left wide open, overflowing with La Mer skincare, Celine bags, and Cartier jewelry—snapped it shut, and locked it tight. Sienna shrieked. "What the hell, Harper? Are you locking up your stuff? You think we’re thieves?" I slipped the brass key into the pocket of my sweatpants. "I’m broke, remember? Everything goes on The RealReal tonight to recoup my losses." Blair bit her lower lip, forcing a sheen of tears into her eyes. "You really are treating us like criminals. After everything we’ve been through?" Looking at her manufactured heartbreak, I almost laughed. "If that Venmo request isn't fulfilled by midnight, I’m printing out the itemized receipts and pinning them to the bulletin board in the lobby. Good luck with your sorority rushes." Grabbing my shower caddy, I walked out of the room, leaving them suffocating in their own panic. The next morning, I walked into my 9 AM lecture to find a pathetic bouquet of dried flowers and an iced Americano sitting on my desk. Tucked into the cup sleeve was a handwritten note: Drink up, beautiful. Come home with me tonight. Sienna, who was sitting a few rows back, practically yelled so the whole hall could hear. "Oh wow! The bankrupt princess still has sugar daddies lining up!" Madison giggled into her hand. I didn't even break my stride. I picked up the flowers and the coffee and dropped them straight into the trash can at the back of the room. Seeing this, Blair instantly slipped on her martyr mask. "Harper, don’t be mad at them for joking around. Honestly, the grad student who sent that is a really nice guy. With your family’s... situation now, you really can’t afford to be so stuck-up." I slowly turned around, pinning Blair beneath a dead-eyed stare. "Blair, if you think he's such a catch, why don't you go home with him tonight?" The faux-sympathy froze on her face. By noon, the dining hall was packed. I had just set my tray down at an empty corner table when a guy in a faded flannel and thick, wire-rimmed glasses stormed over and slammed his hand flat onto my table, rattling my silverware. "What the hell is your problem, Harper?" I looked up. It was Connor Hayes, a notoriously creepy grad student and a teaching assistant for the Econ department—the "really nice guy" Blair had mentioned. "I don't know you," I said flatly. Connor sneered. He unzipped his messenger bag and yanked out a meticulously folded sheet of printer paper, smoothing it out right next to my salad. "Drop the amnesia act," he snarled. "Look at this spreadsheet. Every single line item is money I’ve spent on you." He swallowed hard, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as if trying to summon the alpha-male energy he so desperately lacked. "Included in this is the $500 I sent for your mother’s hospital co-pay. You promised you were coming home with me for Thanksgiving to meet my family." I frowned, glancing down at the Excel sheet. It was broken down into the most unhinged categories I had ever seen. [Good Morning/Goodnight text fees: Calculated at $5/day = $150] [Girlfriend Emotional Labor (Discord): Calculated at $20/hour = $800] [Trophy Wife Retainer / Emergency Fund transfer: $500] Connor tapped his index finger violently against the bottom row. "It is there in black and white. I have invested exactly $1,450 into our relationship!" The commotion had already drawn a crowd. Students at neighboring tables paused their conversations, drifting closer with their trays to watch the trainwreck. I looked at him like he was a clinical specimen. "I don’t even have your phone number. Where are you getting good morning texts? And who exactly did you transfer money to?" Connor whipped out his phone and shoved the screen inches from my face. "Still trying to gaslight me? Look! Is this your profile picture? Is this your voice?" On his screen was a Discord chat log. The profile picture was a selfie I had taken a week ago. The text history was nauseatingly cloying. [Daddy, I saw the cutest Prada wallet today, but I'm just a few hundred short... please? 🥺] Then he hit play on an audio message. The voice was breathy and unnaturally high-pitched. It made my stomach turn, but what made my fists clench under the table was scrolling slightly higher up the chat. There, sitting on his screen, were intimate, private photos of me in my dorm room, wearing a sheer silk slip dress. They were photos I had snapped strictly to send to my mother to ask about the fit. The temperature in my veins dropped to absolute zero. "Where did you get those photos?" I demanded, my voice dangerously low. Connor pulled his phone back, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Scared now? I know exactly what you are. I see girls like you on podcasts all the time. High-maintenance gold diggers. You’re going to Venmo me $2,000 right now to cover my emotional damages, or I’m nuking your reputation on every app on this campus." I stood up. I picked up my half-full bowl of tomato bisque. Without a flicker of hesitation, I threw it directly into his chest. "Show me forged chat logs with stolen photos again, and I’m calling the police," I said. Connor let out a visceral scream as the soup soaked his flannel. He raised his hand, fully intending to strike me across the face. Right on cue, Blair shoved her way through the crowd, throwing her arms around Connor’s elbow. "Connor, wait! Don’t hit her!" She turned back to me, gripping my wrist like a vice. "Harper, just apologize to him! Please!" She looked around at the crowd, her voice dripping with calculated desperation. "I know your dad is going to federal prison and you’re desperate for cash, but you can’t just catfish people and use them as your personal ATM!" The whispers swept through the dining hall like a wildfire. "Wait, she's broke?" "She's running a sugar-baby scam?" I ripped my arm out of Blair’s grip. "Blair, what exactly are you claiming I did?" She took a theatrical step back, covering her mouth in mock horror. "Harper, I literally walked into the room and saw you sending him voice notes. How can you lie? Connor works so hard for his stipend. Just give the poor guy his money back!" Standing on the edge of the crowd, Madison tugged nervously at Blair’s sweater. "Blair, stop..." Blair yanked her arm away, hissing, "Am I wrong? You literally saw his phone. We all know what she did." Emboldened by his "witness," Connor’s chest puffed out. "You hear that? Even your own roommates are disgusted by you! If you don't pay me back with interest by tonight, I swear to God, Harper, you're finished." I looked at the two of them—the pathetic incel and the venomous roommate—performing their little play. I grabbed a napkin, slowly wiped the splash of soup from my thumb, and offered Blair a razor-thin smile. "Okay," I whispered. "Finish me." I dropped the napkin on Connor's shoes and walked out of the dining hall. That night, Connor went nuclear. He posted a massive, 3,000-word manifesto on the college’s anonymous confessional app, Reddit, and TikTok. He attached the stolen photos of me in my silk pajamas, alongside screenshots of the agonizingly fake chats. Within an hour, I was the undisputed villain of the university. My name was dragged through the mud in every group chat. I didn’t log on. I didn’t defend myself. I let them build their pyre. Early the next morning, I was just finishing my skincare routine when a massive commotion erupted outside my window. I walked to the dorm balcony and looked down. The main entrance of the building was entirely blockaded by a crowd. Standing in the epicenter was a man in a loud designer polo, slicked-back hair, and a prominent gut. He held a bright red megaphone. Flanking him were a couple of wannabe-crypto-bro muscle guys and, unsurprisingly, Connor. I recognized the man with the megaphone instantly. Vince Rossi. He was a sleazy, C-list podcaster who made his living streaming "Alpha Male Grindset" content and degrading women on TikTok Live. Vince raised the megaphone. "Harper Kensington! You in there?!" His voice echoed off the brick walls. "You swindled me out of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar business investment! If you don't come down here and face the music, nobody is leaving this building!" The student crowd gasped. "Twenty-five grand?" "Is she running a cartel in there?" I stepped back inside and slid the glass door shut. Immediately, my phone began vibrating violently against the desk. It was Dean Carter, the Dean of Students. The moment I answered, he was already screaming. "Miss Kensington! Do you have any idea what you've done? You have dragged this university’s prestige through the gutter!" "Dean Carter," I said smoothly. "I didn't do any of—" "I do not care about your excuses!" he barked. "There is a man with financial records and chat logs holding our courtyard hostage! The admissions office is getting bombarded with calls, and the Board of Trustees is furious! You will march downstairs, right this second. You will apologize, you will pay him back, and you will make this go away, or you are expelled by noon!" Click. I stared at the Call Ended screen, a cold smirk touching the corner of my mouth. Behind me, the suite door was ajar. I could hear the hushed, frantic whispers of my five suitemates lingering in the hallway. I stood silently in the shadow of the doorframe and listened to them giggling. The sheer malice of it made my blood roar, but my mind was utterly, terrifyingly clear. The chanting outside was getting ugly. I knew Vince Rossi was live-streaming this. "Listen up, chat," I could hear him yelling through the megaphone. "Today, your boy Vince is giving you a free masterclass in reality. I'm gonna show you exactly how to break down a low-value gold digger and establish a high-value matrix!" Footsteps thundered into our suite. Blair, flanked by the other four girls, burst into my room. Without hesitation, Blair lunged forward and grabbed my arm. "Harper, you have to go down there! You’re making all of us look guilty by association!" Sienna and Madison flanked my other side, physically clamping down on my wrists. They practically dragged me out of my room, shoving me toward the stairwell. Sienna’s hands were shaking, her voice trembling with mock concern. "Harper, just confess! The guy said if you sign a repayment deal, he won't call the feds..." Madison wouldn't even meet my eyes. "We don't have a choice, Harper. Just go." I didn’t fight them. I let them push me all the way to the courtyard. As soon as I cleared the double doors, Vince’s eyes lit up like a predator spotting wounded prey. He shoved his smartphone, mounted on a stabilizer gimbal, directly into my face. "There she is, chat! Look closely. Pretty face, but a rotten core." He snapped his fingers, and one of his muscle-bros slapped a thick, stapled contract onto a folding table they’d set up. Vince leaned in, dropping his voice to a predatory murmur meant only for me and the mic. "Harper. You scammed me out of twenty-five large. But I'm a businessman. You sign this NDA and an independent contractor agreement to work as a 'VIP hospitality liaison' at my clubs for the next three years, and we call it even." The crowd murmured. Indentured servitude. Escorting. Blair grabbed a pen from the table and aggressively pressed it into my palm. Her fingernails dug painfully into my skin as she hissed in my ear. "Take the deal, Harper. Your dad is broke. You're ruined anyway. This is Vince giving you a lifeline. Just sign it!" Connor was bouncing on his heels nearby, practically frothing at the mouth. "Sign it! It’s exactly what a scammer like you deserves!" To seal the coffin for his livestream, Vince pulled out an iPad and hit play on a video. It was me—or rather, my body in the stolen silk pajamas, face obscured by a surgical mask, illuminated by dim dorm lighting. The voice-changer whined through the speakers. "Oh, Vince, baby, I'm just so stressed about my tuition. If you invest in me now, I promise you'll get a massive return on investment when we meet..." The vitriol in the TikTok live chat must have been blinding. The courtyard erupted into boos and jeers. Blair’s hands pushed down heavily on my shoulders, forcing me toward the paper. "Sign it, Harper." Just as the tip of the pen grazed the signature line, I stopped. I let the pen drop. And then, I started to laugh. It wasn't a nervous laugh. It was loud, crystalline, and completely unhinged. Vince scowled, backing up an inch. "What’s so funny? You lose your mind?" I casually reached into my sweatpants pocket and pulled out my iPhone. I walked right past Vince, ignoring him entirely, and stepped directly in front of his high-def streaming microphone. My voice rang out, sharp and perfectly articulated, carrying to the thousands of viewers watching live. "I'm laughing because watching a bunch of bottom-feeders talk about 'matrices' and 'business logic' is genuinely the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen." I turned slowly, locking my eyes onto Blair. She was pale, but trying to maintain her defensive stance. "Blair," I said, my voice echoing off the brick walls. "Did you five really think that just because my dad supposedly went bankrupt, you could frame me for federal wire fraud and walk away clean?" "What are you talking about?" Blair spat, her eyes darting nervously. "Don't try to flip this on me!" "I let you borrow my iPad two months ago," I said calmly. "You told me you lost it." Blair’s eyelid twitched. "I did lose it!" I raised my phone, unlocking it with a tap. "Right. But there's one minor flaw in your business model, Blair." I stared her down, enunciating every syllable. "Apple ecosystem. Everything tied to that Apple ID—the camera roll, the hidden folders, the Notes app, the iCloud Drive—it all syncs automatically to my phone." Blair’s pupils dilated to the size of dimes. A guttural, animalistic sound ripped from her throat as she lunged at me, clawing desperately for my phone. "Give me that! You lying bitch, give it to me!"