Arnold Sinclair sat on a weathered wooden bench outside the Ravenwood University library, clutching his notebook tightly against the cold breeze that cut through the campus. Around him, students dressed in designer coats and expensive scarves walked in small, lively groups. Luxury cars lined the parking lot, their sleek exteriors gleaming under the late afternoon sun. Ravenwood wasn't just a university—it was a kingdom, and its students were the heirs to corporate empires and political dynasties.
And then there was Arnold, a scholarship student who could barely afford the secondhand coat he wore.
He glanced at his watch for the third time in five minutes. Rose was late.
The thought gnawed at him, more unsettling than usual. Rose was always punctual, and when she wasn't, she'd flood his phone with apologies. But today, there was nothing—no texts, no calls. Just silence.
Finally, he saw her approaching from across the courtyard. She was dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored white coat that accentuated her auburn hair. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone path, her gait confident. Too confident, Arnold thought, feeling a faint unease in his stomach.
"Hey, Rose," he greeted with a warm smile, standing as she reached him. "I thought you might've forgotten about me."
Rose didn't return his smile. Instead, she folded her arms and stared at him with an unreadable expression.
"We need to talk, Arnold," she said, her voice crisp and businesslike.
Arnold's heart sank. Not this. Please, not this.
"Sure," he said carefully, gesturing to the bench. "Let's sit—"
"No," she interrupted, glancing around. "Here is fine. I don't want to make this longer than it needs to be."
The unease in his stomach twisted into something sharper. He tried to steady his voice. "What's going on, Rose?"
She exhaled sharply, as if she had been holding back. "Arnold, we're done."
The words hit him like a slap. For a moment, he didn't respond, hoping he'd misheard. "Done? What do you mean?"
Rose sighed, looking almost impatient. "I mean us. This... thing we've been doing. It's over. I can't keep pretending anymore."
Arnold's throat tightened. "Pretending? What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that this—you—isn't working for me anymore," she said, waving a hand toward him. "Arnold, look at yourself. You're a poor scholarship student scraping by on nothing. You're sweet, but what kind of future can you offer me? Do you think I'm going to spend my life with someone who's constantly worrying about rent and groceries?"
He stared at her, stunned. "Rose... I thought we cared about each other."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Cared about you? Arnold, let's be honest. For the past year, I've been using you—for help with my assignments, for tutoring, for whatever I needed to get through school. But Now, I don't need you anymore."
Arnold felt as though the ground had opened beneath him. He searched her face for some hint of the girl he had fallen for, the one who had laughed at his terrible jokes and held his hand during late-night study sessions. But there was nothing. Just cold, indifferent calculation.
"So... that's it?" he asked quietly. "After everything, you're just walking away?"
Rose shrugged. "It's not personal. I've been seeing someone else, by the way. Martin. You've heard of him, right? Top of his class, from a family that owns half the East Coast?"
Arnold clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had heard of Martin—a smug, entitled heir to a real estate empire. Of course it would be Martin.
"You're making a mistake," Arnold said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rose smirked. "No, Arnold. I'm making the smart choice. Goodbye."
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her figure disappearing into the crowd of Ravenwood's elite.
Arnold stood frozen, his mind racing. Whispers from passing students reached his ears—some curious, others mocking. He forced himself to move, grabbing his notebook and walking away with his head down, ignoring the stares.
That evening, Arnold sat in his tiny apartment, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. The place was barely more than a shoebox—a single room with peeling wallpaper, a sagging bed, and a kitchenette crammed into one corner.
The events of the day played over and over in his mind, each word from Rose cutting deeper than the last.
You're just a poor scholarship student.
I don't need you anymore.
Someone like me deserves more.
He clenched his jaw, his hands trembling as he gripped the edges of the table. She thought he was nothing. They all did.
A sudden knock at the door broke the silence.
Arnold frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late—too late for visitors. He hesitated, then rose and crossed the room to open the door.
Standing on the threshold was a man in a sleek black suit, his posture impeccable. His face was unreadable, his dark eyes sharp. In his gloved hand, he held a sealed envelope.
"Mr. Sinclair," the man said with a slight bow. "This is for you."
Arnold stared at him. "Who are you?"
"I am merely a messenger," the man replied. "My instructions were to deliver this to you personally. Congratulations, sir. Your family trial is complete."
Before Arnold could respond, the man turned and disappeared down the hallway, his polished shoes clicking against the floor.
Arnold looked down at the envelope in his hands. It was thick, made of fine paper, with an ornate crest embossed in gold on the front. His breath caught in his throat. He knew that crest.
The Sinclair family.
With trembling fingers, he tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter inside.
The handwriting was elegant, the words carefully chosen:
"Arnold,
The trial is over. For five years, you have lived among them, understanding their struggles, their weaknesses, and their strengths. You have endured poverty, betrayal, and hardship to prove your worth as the heir to the Sinclair legacy.
Now, it is time to return home. The world must remember who you are and what you are capable of. You are no longer a student or an outcast. You are the future of the Sinclair empire.
Come home, son. Your place awaits you.
– Victor Sinclair
Arnold set the letter down, his mind spinning. Memories flooded back—memories of a life he had left behind. The sprawling Sinclair estate, with its marble halls and endless gardens. The private tutors who had drilled him in languages, business, and diplomacy. The long, grueling lessons from his father about power and responsibility.
It all felt like a dream now, a life he had locked away the day he agreed to the trial.
He had been sixteen when his father, Victor Sinclair, had told him about the family tradition—a period of poverty training designed to teach the next heir humility and resilience. For five years, Arnold had lived as an ordinary man, stripped of his wealth and privilege, forbidden from revealing his true identity.
Now, the trial was over.
Arnold leaned back in his chair, the letter still clutched in his hand. The anger and humiliation he had felt earlier began to fade, replaced by something colder, sharper.
Rose's words echoed in his mind: You're nothing. You'll never compare.
He smiled, but it wasn't the smile of the quiet, unassuming student he had been. It was the smile of a Sinclair.
"They think I'm nothing," he murmured to himself. "They'll see."
As the night deepened, Arnold sat by the window of his apartment, staring out at the glittering city lights in the distance. His phone buzzed with notifications—texts from classmates, gossip spreading about his breakup with Rose. He ignored them.
In the corner of the room, the envelope lay on the table, the Sinclair crest catching the light.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
For years, he had hidden his true self, enduring the scorn and pity of those around him. But now, the mask was coming off.
Arnold Sinclair wasn't just a poor scholarship student. He was the heir to an empire.
And soon, the world would know it.