They Said I Spent 80,000, I Had 800 Chapter 06

They Said I Spent 80,000, I Had 800 Chapter 06

Mom immediately had the secretary contact the bank to freeze every asset under Kaysen’s name.

Dad dialed the lawyer and said he was filing a police report.

Kaysen dropped to his knees, begging at first.

“Dad, please! I’ll pay it back. I’ll write an IOU, I swear.”

No one listened to him.

He scrambled up and lunged to snatch Dad’s phone, but Dad dodged out of the way.

I tried to step back, but Kaysen’s elbow swung backward, striking me square in the chest.

I slammed into the coffee table behind me, sending glass cups shattering across the floor.

Mom screamed.

I collapsed onto the floor, a sharp, burning agony searing through my chest.

“Oaklee, are you okay?”

Dad crouched down to help me up.

Kaysen shot me a glance, turned, and sprinted out the door.

I was rushed to the hospital.

The impact triggered a relapse, sending my stomach into hemorrhaging once more. The doctor

insisted on immediate hospitalization.

Dad stepped outside the ER to make calls, while Mom sat beside my bed, holding my hand tightly,

repeating, “I’m so sorry, sweetie. We were too late.”

I stared at the IV needle in the back of my hand, staying silent.

That night, Kaysen fled straight to Nikki’s apartment, assuming it was a safe haven where someone

was waiting for him.

Instead, the moment Nikki heard his accounts were frozen, she packed her bags overnight, cleaned out the cash and jewelry he had stashed in her apartment, and vanished without a trace.

Sitting in that empty apartment until midnight, Kaysen spammed my phone with messages.

[Do you have any idea what you’ve done?]

[You ruined this family! Are you happy now?]

[I’ll post every single thing about those part–time jobs of yours everywhere–see if you can still stay at Brookfield after that!]

[Fine. You forced my hand!]

I read the texts and locked my screen without replying.

The next morning, the photo of me wiping tables at the cafeteria surfaced on the university forum.

The caption read: [Brookfield fake heiress plays poor for sympathy–gets allowance, still works

campus jobs.]

Some called me a clout chaser; others said it was disgusting.

The post was forwarded to several group chats, and people even leaked my student ID number.

Direct messages started flooding in, filled with vile, unbearable abuse.

I didn’t reply to a single one. I stood at the window.

Mom and Dad rushed into the hospital that morning.

The moment Mom saw me, tears welled in her eyes.

“Oaklee, I’m so sorry. This is too much for you to carry alone. We should have been there.”

Dad said, “Step back from there, Oaklee. Screenshot the post and send it to me–I’ll handle it.”

The forum post was still active, with comments refreshing every second.

I dimmed my screen brightness and stared at the delete key.

I hovered my finger over it, hesitated for a long moment, and ultimately chose not to press it.