The Billionaire They Bullied

On my first day at St. Clair University, my roommate Lysandra laughed at me in French.

Wrapped in designer logos, she called me a nobody who did not even recognize luxury perfume.

She thought I could not understand her.

She was wrong. French was my first language.

I was also Iris Russell, the hidden heir to the Russell Group.

But I kept that to myself.

Then Lysandra set me up at a Michelin-starred restaurant. With the manager's help, she placed a fake $450,000 bill in front of me and demanded humiliating photos to erase the debt.

They expected me to break.

Instead, I opened my phone and started a livestream.

By the time Lysandra learned who I was, the whole internet had seen her trap.

Iris's POV

When I pushed open the dorm room door, three girls were already inside.

Orange Hermès boxes were stacked across the floor, and Louis Vuitton suitcases filled most of the room. The only empty bed sat by the window, like they'd saved it for whoever came last.

The blonde in the middle wore a Chanel jacket and held an iced coffee. Her eyes moved from my gray hoodie down to my canvas sneakers, and her smile went flat.

"Oh." One brow lifted. "Our full-ride scholarship roommate is here."

The other two laughed.

I stepped around the boxes and set my duffel on the empty bed.

My name was Iris Russell. I had closets full of gowns, jewelry, and designer bags. But I'd come to St. Clair to spend four quiet years studying, so I'd packed only the basics. No one here needed to know I was the heir to the Russell Group.

"I'm Lysandra." The blonde walked over and lifted her chin instead of offering her hand. "That's Brittany, that's Jessica. And you are...?"

"Iris."

"Where are you from?"

"Ohio."

"Ohio." She repeated it like it was a punchline, then glanced at Brittany. "Didn't your cousin go to school out there?"

"Yeah." Brittany smiled. "She said the only entertainment was watching corn grow."

Jessica laughed.

I said nothing and started unpacking.

Brittany drifted over and picked up the small glass jar of face cream on my desk—no label, no logo. She turned it over, wrinkling her nose. "What brand is this?"

"It doesn't have a label."

"It doesn't have a label?" She handed it to Jessica.

"So this is what you use on your face?" Jessica asked.

"It works for me."

Jessica unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Her face twisted. "Oh my God. What is that smell?"

Lysandra took the jar, raised it to her nose, then switched to French. "It smells like poverty."

Brittany laughed into her hand.

My hands stilled for half a second.

French was one of my native languages. I'd grown up in Swiss boarding schools where six were required. Lysandra spoke it with a thick New York accent, and her verb tenses were a mess. It was a real effort not to laugh.

Instead, I looked up and blinked. "Sorry—was that Spanish?"

"Oh, that was French." She smiled. "We were just goofing around, don't worry about it. It's totally fine if you didn't catch it."

"Oh. Got it."

I took the jar and set it back on my desk. The cream had been custom-made for me by a private lab in Switzerland. One jar cost as much as four years of tuition.

When I didn't react, her smile tightened.

For the next few hours she barely stopped talking—Michelin restaurants, private shopping, couture fittings, ski trips to Aspen. After every story her eyes flicked to me, waiting for me to squirm.

I kept unpacking.

By the time I'd lined my books on the shelf, Lysandra looked irritated that she'd gotten nothing. She shot Brittany a look.

"Iris," Brittany said, suddenly warm, "do you want to use some of my skincare? I brought a full La Mer set—like, the whole collection." She nodded at my jar. "That stuff you're using... are you sure it's okay?"

"It's fine."

"Yeah, but—"

"Thanks, Brittany. Really. I'm good."

Her smile held a beat too long, then slipped. She turned to Lysandra and muttered in French: "She's doing it on purpose, right? Acting like she's too good for us."

Lysandra glanced at me, and her expression softened. She sat on the edge of my bed. "Don't mind Brittany. She's just intense. She likes making friends."

I said nothing.

"But seriously, Iris—you came all the way from Ohio. You don't know anyone yet." Her voice went gentle. "If you need anything, just let us know. That's what roommates are for, right?"

Her expression was warm. Her eyes weren't.

"Thanks," I said.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a gold-embossed invitation. "Oh, actually—" She waved it between her fingers. "Alpha House is throwing a welcome party tonight. Upperclassmen, alumni, professors—they'll all be there."

Jessica smirked from across the room.

"You don't have to sit here alone on your first night," Lysandra said. "Come with us. It'll be fun. You can meet people, get a feel for how things work around here."

In French, Jessica murmured, "Bring her. She'll be our entertainment for the night."

Brittany already had her phone out, thumbing at the screen, ready to document whatever came next.

Every word, every smile, every glance had been planned. She thought I couldn't understand them. She thought I'd be grateful. And she thought that once she got me to that party, I'd be the joke of the night.

I smiled. "Sure. Thanks for the invitation, Lysandra."

Her eyes lit up. "Great. This is going to be so fun."

"Oh," I said. "I'm sure it will be."