My Billionaire Brother Broke My Gold-Digging Ex

Ever since we were kids, I've always been my brother Logan's sidekick. Getting him water, carrying his gear bag after practice. I loved every second of it. Later, he got into an Ivy League university, and I skipped a couple of grades just to catch up. I even joined the same varsity football team as him. On move-in day, Logan showed up at the dorm with eight private security guards. Our teammates stared at him like he was a god. Meanwhile, I was down on my knees on the floor, assembling his gaming chair. Only Tristan Miller gave me a sneering, knowing smirk. "Bro, you're not his roommate. You're basically Logan Vance's lapdog." I just smiled and didn't say a word. That afternoon, Logan tossed me his brand-new Rolex. "Chafes my wrist when I throw the ball. You wear it." I caught the watch with a grin right as Tristan walked past the doorway. A few days later, Logan went to California for the championship series. After practice, only Tristan and I were left in the locker room. "Hey, Flynn. Do you know what the guys call you behind your back?" "Logan's lapdog." Honestly, do these idiots look at the locker nameplates every single day and never notice that both Logan's jersey and mine have a giant "Vance" printed on the back? I took the Rolex Logan gave me out of my locker and let out a dry laugh. "Tristan, you've been holding that in for a while, haven't you?" "What, you want the watch too? Too bad you can't afford it." Tristan's face instantly flushed bright red. He took half a step back. It was a calculated flinch. Like he'd been hit where it hurt, but also an exaggerated performance of the innocent victim. Serena pushed the locker room door open and walked in. She was the campus darling, and she was also my girlfriend. Apparently, she caught my very last sentence. She hurried over to Tristan's side, shielding him behind her. Her voice was dripping with pure disappointment. "Flynn Vance! I never thought you were this kind of person." I tilted my head. "What kind of person am I?" She spat out each word. "Since when did you become so arrogant and toxic?" "Tristan's family is poor. You're rubbing money in his face? Do you even have a conscience?" She looked at me with sheer disgust in her eyes. I froze. Arrogant and toxic? My mind flashed back to a year ago, the day Serena cornered me in the stadium tunnel. I had just come off the field, my jersey soaked in sweat. She had two of her sorority sisters cheering her on as she blocked my path on the concrete stairs. She lifted her chin. "Flynn Vance, be my boyfriend." I paused for three seconds and asked her why. She laughed, completely straightforward. "You're the easiest guy on the eyes here." "You've got a bright smile. It makes people feel good." It was that simple. Back then, I thought she was cool, honest, bold, and real. Yet one year later, that exact same face was looking at me like I was a piece of trash. Fine. Tristan lowered his head, making his voice sound soft and perfectly reasonable. "Serena, don't blame Flynn." "He just grew up poor and insecure. Someone tossed him an expensive watch, so of course he wants to show off. It's normal." "I might be broke, but at least I know what dignity means." His voice grew quieter, the last words barely audible. Serena's savior complex kicked into overdrive. Her eyes were practically melting with sympathy. She reached out and patted his shoulder. "Tristan, don't say that. At least you're not like some people who love being someone else's dog." "You play amazing football, and you leave everything on the field." "And even though you don't come from money, your GPA is top-tier. The professors all say you have a limitless future." "You're ten thousand times better than spineless cowards." As she spoke, she shot a dismissive, patronizing glance at me. The commotion started drawing other teammates over. Someone recognized the Rolex in my hand. "Isn't that Logan Vance's errand boy? Why is he wearing a Rolex?" "Man, somebody throws him a bone, and he actually thinks he's rich." "Keep it down, guys. You kick a dog, you gotta answer to the owner." "His owner is out of state for a game. Right now, he's just a stray." The whispers came at me one after another, perfectly coordinated. Not too loud, but just loud enough for me to hear every word. Some covered their mouths and chuckled. Others looked me up and down like I was cheap merchandise. Serena stood right there, soaking up all the gossip, without uttering a single word in my defense. Her gaze was identical to theirs: cold, condescending, and disdainful. Tristan stood behind her with his head down, pretending to hide. Yet I saw it clearly, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The smirk of a hunter watching his prey take the bait. Suddenly, I felt like laughing. It was just a Rolex. I had a whole drawer of them back home. I just hated unnecessary drama. I didn't want special treatment, so I never flaunted my family's wealth, which made everyone assume I was just Logan's lackey. Logan felt bad for me, so he insisted on dragging me into his suite so he could look after me. I took a deep breath. "I wear whatever watch I want to wear." "What the hell does that have to do with you guys?" Unexpectedly, that line struck a raw nerve. Tristan snapped his head up, his voice cracking into a sudden screech."Flynn Vance! Who gave you the right to talk to me like that?!" He thrust his chin forward, but his expression had shifted completely. The timid helplessness was gone, replaced by a venomous, calculating edge. "Yeah, I'm poor! My family doesn't have money, and I never even touched a Rolex growing up!" "But no matter how broke I am, I don't get down on my knees and beg!" "What else can you do besides sucking up to rich trust-fund babies? You failed three classes last semester! Do you even deserve to call yourself a man?" "Do you know what my GPA is? Number one in the department!" When he said those last words, an unmistakable arrogance dripped from his tone, as if he had finally ripped off his poor-victim mask to reveal the fangs underneath. The eyes of everyone around us pierced into me like needles. I let out an angry laugh. I hadn't even bothered taking a swing at him, and he was already this worked up? I took a step forward, looking down at him. "Tristan, which eye saw that I couldn't afford this myself?" Tristan's lips parted, but before he could speak, Serena cut in with a sharp, cold scoff. Her face was dripping with impatience. She crossed her arms, staring at me like I was a bad joke. "Flynn, who are you trying to fool?" "Others might not know your situation, but do you think I don't?" "You rotate through the same three cheap hoodies, you always order the cheapest meal at the dining hall, and last month you spent twenty minutes stressing over a fifty-dollar phone bill!" "At least Tristan is genuine. He's sweeping every scholarship, and the faculty loves him." "What do you have? You're literally ranked at the bottom of our major. You don't even have basic self-respect. Since when did being a billionaire's footstool become something to be proud of?" She threw her hands up in utter disgust. "A luxury watch on your wrist is nothing more than a fake." "Using someone else's handouts to humiliate Tristan? Don't you feel pathetic?" She turned back to glance at Tristan, her eyes radiating that saintly 'look how well I treat you' glow. Tristan seized the moment, pushing his taped-up glasses up his nose and murmuring softly. "Serena, leave it..." "He might be a loser, but he still has an ego." It sounded like he was defending me, but he had just branded the word "loser" right across my forehead. Muffled chuckles rippled through the locker room. A sharp, dull ache jabbed straight into my chest. Last month was Serena's birthday. She had sent me an Instagram post of someone's boyfriend buying them a limited-edition designer lipstick vault, pairing it with a bunch of pleading, starry-eyed emojis. I wanted to buy her something meaningful with money I earned with my own two hands. So I took shifts at the boba shop right by campus, standing on my feet for eight hours straight until my ankles were too swollen to slide into my sneakers. I tutored high school kids, riding the bus for two hours back and forth until my throat burned from talking. Finally, I scraped together enough. Yet on the day she opened the box, she barely glanced at the lipstick vault before rushing out the door to go shopping with her sorority sisters. Maybe she didn't even remember that gift at all. I drew in a long breath, forcing the bitter sting down into my gut. "Are you done?" I stared straight into Serena's eyes, pacing every syllable. "Whether I can afford it or not is my business. None of this has anything to do with either of you." "Excuse me." I turned on my heel and walked away. The crowd parted automatically. I had only taken two steps when Serena's voice came chasing after me. Her tone was flared with rage, like someone had stomped on her pride. Footsteps hurried behind me, and she grabbed my arm with a harsh yank. "Flynn Vance, stop right there!" "Tristan was nice enough to let me talk sense into you. You don't appreciate it, and now you're giving me an attitude?!" I ripped my arm out of her grip. The fury on her face exploded. "Apologize to Tristan right now, and give that watch back to Logan!" Give it back? It belongs to my family in the first place. Who the hell am I supposed to give it back to? I didn't utter a word. I turned around and kept walking. Behind me, Serena's screech rose an octave, sounding like she had just been slapped across the face in broad daylight. "Flynn Vance! If you walk away right now, we are done!" The quiet murmuring in the hallway vanished instantly. Everyone held their breath, waiting for me to turn around, crumble, and beg. My footsteps paused for half a second. Then, without looking back, I took the next step forward.Back at the dorm, I pulled the washbasin out from under the bed. Logan was flying back the day after tomorrow, and his sheets needed to be washed fresh. I stripped his fitted sheet, soaked it in water, poured in detergent, and squatted down to scrub. Cold, fragrant suds bubbled over the back of my hands. The door swung open. Tristan walked in, holding a bundle of dirty socks and boxers. Seeing me scrubbing sheets on the floor, the corner of his mouth twitched into a smug grin. He walked up to me, let his hands drop, and dumped the foul pile straight into my washbasin. Dirty suds splashed all over my face. I snapped my head up. "What do you think you're doing?" Tristan stood over me with his arms crossed, his chin cocked high. Behind the cracked lens of his glasses, his eyes were colder than I'd ever seen them. "Washing sheets, washing boxers. It's all laundry." "Since you're already scrubbing, wash mine too." "Isn't serving people what you do best anyway?" "We're roommates. Why play favorites?" His lips curled with vicious satisfaction. "What, think it's gross? You literally lick Logan Vance's boots, but washing a pair of boxers for me is beneath you?" "Figures. A lapdog is still a lapdog. Only knows how to lick rich men's feet. A poor guy isn't even worthy of you washing his socks, right?" He hammered on the word "poor," wielding his poverty like a poisoned dagger. I stood up slowly, wiping the suds from my hands onto my sweatpants. Then I glanced down at the foul-smelling pile in the water. I reached in, fished it out, walked right up to his chest, and shoved the soaking wet mass straight into his arms. "Wash your own crap." I turned back and squatted down to scrub Logan's sheets again. The dripping wet fabric soaked right through Tristan's shirt. He stood frozen for a second. Then his voice spiked, screeching like nails down a chalkboard. "Flynn Vance! What is your problem?!" "Looking down on me because I'm broke, huh? You only wash stuff for the rich?!" "Fine! Go keep kissing your billionaire master's ass! Let's see how far that gets you in life!" His chest heaved violently, his eyes behind that cracked lens glaring at me like a cornered viper. I ignored him completely. Our other dormmates finally spoke up. "Come on, Tristan, that's disgusting. Flynn isn't your maid." "Seriously, man. Why would anyone wash your underwear?" Tristan's face flashed from pale to furious red. He bit his lip, slammed the laundry back onto the floor, and stormed out of the suite. The door slammed shut with a deafening bang. About twenty minutes later. My phone buzzed three times in my pocket. I pulled it out. Messages from an unknown number. "Flynn, do you really have to be such a bully?" "Would it kill you to help him do laundry? Don't you know his hand is injured?" Buzz. "Flynn, I never realized you were this cold-blooded." "You won't even help with a tiny favor. I am so deeply disappointed in you." Buzz. "What kind of man are you? Tristan might be poor, but at least he knows how to be grateful. What about you? What can you do besides riding someone else's coattails?" Buzz. "I must have been blind to ever date you. Look at how amazing Tristan is, while you just coast through life like a loser. How do you even have the nerve to wear that watch?" I stared at the wall of text on my screen and burst out laughing. She would never know that Tristan's "injured hand" was just a Band-Aid slapped over skin that wasn't even cut. She would never know the sick smirk Tristan had when he dumped his dirty underwear into my basin right in front of everyone. All she knew was that her precious "Tristan" was a poor, hardworking angel, and I was a spineless parasite. I opened the thread and typed out a reply. "If you're that eager to wash his dirty boxers, come over and do it yourself. I won't stop you." "Also, we broke up. You don't have the right to be disappointed in me." "Whether I'm a real man or not is none of your damn business." Sent. Then I pulled up my contacts and shoved the number straight into my block list. The screen faded to black. I went back to scrubbing the sheets.The next morning, my phone buzzed me awake, vibrating more than a dozen times in a row. Groggily, I tapped the screen. My teammate had spammed me with messages, topped by a link. The headline read. "EXPOSED: The Truth Behind Logan Vance's Dorm Room Lapdog" My sleep vanished instantly. I clicked the link. It was posted on the anonymous campus forum at 3:00 AM. "Remember that guy Flynn Vance who follows Logan Vance around like a lost puppy, acting like his personal butler since day one?" "You think they're just roommates? Don't be naive." "He's literally the Vance family's live-in dog. Basically a servant." "What kind of service? If you know, you know~" Below that was a bulleted list of my so-called "crimes" since the semester started. "This guy only cares about latching onto the wealthy and looks down on anyone from a normal background. Having classes with someone like this makes me sick." At the very bottom of the thread was an anonymous comment claiming to be an "insider". "I'm his roommate. He never speaks to the rest of us in the dorm because he thinks we're too poor. With Logan Vance backing him up, why would he care about us?" That tone, that exact phrasing. I'd recognize it anywhere. The post had already blown up, sitting at the very top of the trending board with endless comments. "Makes sense. No normal dude would be that submissive unless he practiced it in bed." "People like him disgust me. Acting superior just because he's a rich guy's pet." "Wait, isn't he Serena Hughes's boyfriend? A spineless loser pulled a campus queen? LMAO." "Lowest GPA in the department, carrying bags for billionaires every day. How does he even look in the mirror?" Someone deliberately tagged an account. I clicked on it. It was Serena's handle. She had replied directly under the tag. "We broke up. Thanks everyone." "He was the one chasing me and begging all along. He has zero character, no backbone, and his grades are an absolute disaster. I cut my losses early." Scores of comments liked her reply, praising her for "dodging a bullet." Then someone asked, "So what's the deal between you and Tristan?" She replied with a shy emoji and wrote. "Tristan might not come from money, but he is genuinely exceptional. Top student, great morals, and unbreakable pride. A million times better than people who survive on handouts." "Spineless." "Disaster." "Practiced in bed." "Unbreakable pride." "Exceptional." "Great morals." I stared at those contrasting phrases for a long time. Whatever. I locked my phone and sat on the edge of the mattress, gazing blankly out the window at the dreary morning fog. Before I could even process it, my phone rang. It was the Dean of Student Affairs. "Flynn Vance. Get down to my office. Right now." Dean Sullivan spun the thick stack of papers around and shoved it across her mahogany desk. It was a printout of the forum thread, with dozens of vile comments highlighted in bright yellow ink. Dean Sullivan frowned, tapping her manicured fingernail against the paper. "The entire university is talking about this." "Flaunting wealth, toxic elitism, and harassing poor students. It reflects horribly on our institution. The department head is already asking questions." "Here is what's going to happen: you will issue a formal apology to Tristan Miller, and we can put this matter behind us." I rolled the word around on my tongue. "Apologize?" "He threw his dirty underwear into my laundry basin. He spread slanderous lies on the campus board and incited a witch hunt against me." "And you want me to apologize to him?" Dean Sullivan's expression darkened. "With that attitude, are you trying to escalate this further?" I stood up, the legs of the chair screeching sharply against the tile floor. "Dean Sullivan, you don't need to stress yourself over this." "When my parents arrive, you can discuss it directly with them." Her eyebrows knotted even tighter. "I'd love to see what kind of parents raised such an entitled brat!" I met her gaze, every syllable steady and deliberate. "Arthur Vance. Dean Sullivan, would you like me to dial his personal line for you?" The pen slipped from Dean Sullivan's fingers, clattering onto the glass desk. Her lips parted, and she frantically flipped open the executive donor registry on her computer, stopping dead on a single name. Her face drained from crimson to ash-white, then settled into an expression of sheer terror. "You're... Arthur Vance's son?" "Why on earth didn't you say so earlier?!"