Sorry, Ex: I Am The Real Billionaire Heiress!

Jillian Bridges POV:

I bent down to grab the crushed plastic water bottles scattered across the university gym hallway and shoved them into my heavy black trash bag. A sour stench of stale sweat hit my nose, making my stomach turn and my brows furrow.

I'd picked up every extra work-study shift I could get to cover the rest of my tuition and save for the new phone my boyfriend, Dalvin Bird, kept asking for. He'd sent me the link three times this week. I was still using a phone with a cracked screen.

The thin plastic straps dug into my raw fingers as I clenched my jaw and dragged the heavy load toward the recycling cart by the stairwell. My legs felt like lead after a six-hour work-study shift.

Suddenly, a limited-edition basketball sneaker slammed down onto the edge of the bag. The abrupt resistance yanked my arm backward, throwing me off balance until I stumbled forward and nearly hit the floor.

I caught myself against the wall and looked up. Kraig Torres, the star linebacker of the varsity football team and the richest bully in the Alpha Zeta fraternity, stood over me with an arrogant smirk while his frat brothers snickered behind him.

Kraig shoved his hands into his varsity jacket pockets and looked down his nose at me.

"Yo, trash girl, you're blocking my way."

I took a slow breath to push down the heat rising in my chest, silently let go of the knot, and tried to slide the bag against the baseboards to avoid a scene.

Kraig didn't let me off. He flicked the toe of his shoe hard, kicking the bag completely open and sending dozens of empty bottles clattering across the tile floor.

"Oops, my foot slipped."

He shrugged without a trace of apology, and his crew immediately burst into loud, echoing laughter.

I balled my hands into tight fists until my nails bit into my palms, forced another deep breath into my lungs, and crouched down to gather the rolling plastic.

Before my fingers touched the first bottle, a wet, foul-smelling wad of fabric slapped straight across my cheek and dropped between my shoes, leaving a smear of mud on my skin.

I looked down at the pair of mud-caked, sweat-soaked football socks Kraig had just peeled off. The rancid odor made my throat tighten.

"Since you love picking up garbage so much, go to the locker room and take the rest of my dirty gear to the laundry room."

Kraig's voice carried an order that expected zero pushback from a scholarship kid like me.

I ground my back teeth together, stood up straight, and locked my cold eyes on his face.

"That's the janitor's job, not mine."

Kraig stepped right into my personal space, his dark eyes narrowing with malice.

"A broke charity case like you only goes to this school because of financial aid handouts. Letting you run my errands is doing you a favor. Don't push your luck."

I needed the meager work-study paycheck to cover my rent this month. Swallowing the bile in my throat, I bent down, picked up the filthy socks, and walked away toward the locker rooms at the dark end of the corridor.

The fluorescent lights at the far end of the hall flickered dimly, and the exhaust fan hummed a low, monotonous tune. I sped up, wanting nothing more than to dump the laundry and clock out.

As I passed the private VIP locker room, I noticed the heavy wooden door was left slightly ajar. Breathless gasps and high-pitched moans drifted through the crack.

I moved to walk past quickly, but a familiar, low male voice froze my feet to the floor like wet cement.

"Dalvin, take it easy... What if your trash-picker girlfriend walks in and catches us?"

The woman's voice dripped with teasing arrogance.

"Don't bring up that buzzkill. She isn't even worthy of wiping your shoes. Every time I touch her, I feel like her poverty is rubbing off on me."

Dalvin Bird's reply poured over my head like a bucket of ice water, chilling me to the bone.

My blood turned cold, and Kraig's dirty socks slipped from my numb, trembling fingers onto the floor.

I turned my head stiffly and peered through the narrow gap in the door. In the dim light, two tangled bodies pressed against the lockers made my eyes burn.

By the entrance lay a pair of diamond-encrusted stilettos that belonged to Delina Workman, the most spoiled trust-fund heiress on campus.

And the man pressing her against the wall-wearing the custom jersey I had worked three months of night shifts to buy for his birthday-was Dalvin, my boyfriend of two years.

"So when are you finally dumping her?"

Delina giggled, wrapping her manicured arms around Dalvin's neck.

"As soon as she finishes getting me that faculty recommendation letter for the grant this semester, she's completely useless to me."

Dalvin's cold words echoed in the quiet hallway. An invisible hand squeezed my heart so hard I couldn't draw a breath, and every memory of skipping meals and pulling all-nighters to write his term papers shattered into dust.

Rage and humiliation boiled inside my chest, burning away my last shred of restraint.

I took half a step back, the ache in my eyes hardening into pure ice.

Without a second of hesitation, I raised my foot and kicked the half-open wooden door with everything I had.