Why Are You So Pretentious?

Serena spun on her heel, leaving Kaelen and his ridiculous trap behind on the sunlit concrete. She needed to focus. The freshman orientation loomed ahead, a mandatory event that required her full attention. She navigated the bustling campus pathways, the chatter of excited students washing over her, pushing the morning's frustrations to the back of her mind.

She pushed open the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall. The cavernous room buzzed with the frantic energy of new students eager to carve out their social hierarchies. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glare over the tiered seating.

At the very front, occupying the center stage of the room's attention, stood Marcella.

Marcella wore a sickeningly bright smile, the kind plastered on specifically for an audience. She had positioned herself perfectly, ensuring anyone who walked through the main doors would immediately see her. A sleek, beautifully wrapped rectangular box rested in her hands. Tissue paper spilled elegantly over the edges, whispering of high-end luxury.

As Serena descended the carpeted steps, Marcella’s eyes locked onto her. The smile widened, stretching tight across her pristine features.

"Sis!" Marcella announced. Her voice carried, pitched deliberately to slice through the ambient chatter. It was a loud, theatrical broadcast meant for the entire room. "Over here!"

Serena paused, her expression hardening. She closed the remaining distance, stopping a few feet away.

Marcella thrust the box forward, presenting it like a priceless artifact. "I bought a short Chanel dress specifically for you," she declared, her tone dripping with manufactured generosity. She made sure every syllable echoed off the acoustic panels. "You can wear it at the freshman orientation this afternoon. You're going to love it!"

The effect was instantaneous. The surrounding classmates, already buzzing on the free coffee Marcella had doled out earlier, swarmed closer. They clustered around the box, their eyes wide with fabricated awe and genuine greed.

"Oh my god, is that the latest season?" one girl gasped, leaning in to inspect the pristine white fabric nestled in the box.

"I saw that in Vogue last month!" another chimed in, practically drooling over the logo. "It costs upwards of ten thousand dollars. Marcella, you are literally an angel to your sister."

"Most people spend months on a waitlist just to touch something like that. It’s a limited edition. You are so lucky, Serena."

The sycophantic chorus rose, a wave of unsolicited praise lapping at Marcella’s feet. Marcella soaked it in, her chest puffing slightly with the validation.

But Serena didn't look at the crowd. She kept her gaze fixed on Marcella. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. A fleeting, deeply sinister look flashed in Marcella’s eyes—a dark, venomous gleam of anticipation. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by that sickeningly sweet smile.

Serena lowered her gaze to the garment. The delicate white fabric rested innocently in the box. The cut was elegant, the material soft.

She stood frozen. Ice flooded her veins, chilling her to the bone.

She knew this dress.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow, dragging her back into the tragic echoes of her previous life. In that past timeline, she had stood in this exact spot. She had felt a surge of profound gratitude. She had foolishly believed the Voss family, and Marcella by extension, held some shred of genuine affection for her. She had accepted this exact gift with trembling hands, eager to fit in, eager to please the spoiled daughter she had stepped aside for.

She had worn it to the crowded orientation. The fit was snug, tailored to perfection. Or so it seemed.

Every step she took that afternoon had been a ticking time bomb. The seams, she later realized, had been deliberately and expertly tampered with. The threads were scored, weakened to the precise breaking point. Right in the middle of the massive auditorium, surrounded by hundreds of peers, the fabric gave way. It didn't just tear; it unraveled. The back split open, the side panels detached, and the garment slid from her shoulders.

The cold air hitting her bare skin. The gasps. The cruel, mocking laughter erupting from the student body. She had stood there, nearly naked, exposed to the glaring lights and staring eyes, her dignity shattered on the auditorium floor. A massive public humiliation that branded her as a trashy, attention-seeking joke for the rest of her college career. A random classmate had to throw a jacket over her shivering, sobbing form just so she could flee.

And Marcella? Marcella had found her later, weeping crocodile tears, feigning complete ignorance. Marcella had blamed the manufacturing quality, blamed the maids for not checking the threads, played the innocent victim whose generous gift was ruined. And the naive, old Serena—blinded by a misplaced sense of debt to the Voss parents—had forgiven her.

Serena stared coldly at the delicate fabric. Her jaw clenched. The memory tasted like ash in her mouth.

Not this time.

The silence stretched, heavy and palpable. The whispering classmates began to notice Serena's lack of gratitude. They exchanged confused, judgmental glances.

Serena reached out. Her fingers brushed the tissue paper. She lifted the box from Marcella's waiting hands.

Marcella’s eyes sparkled with hidden triumph. "It's going to look stunning on you, sis," she urged softly, though loud enough for the front row to catch. "I specifically chose this for your big debut."

Serena sneered. Her voice broke the silence, dripping with ice and lacking a single ounce of warmth. "You bought it specifically for me?" She let the words hang, mocking the cadence of Marcella's fake sweetness. "I think it's a trap you meticulously designed just for me."

The collective gasp from the crowd was genuine this time. Marcella’s smile faltered, her perfectly practiced expression cracking.

"What?" Marcella blinked, her voice trembling slightly as she prepared to play dumb. "Sis, I don't... I don't understand what you're saying. Why would you say something so cruel?"

"You don't understand?" Serena stepped closer, invading Marcella's personal space. The imposing aura she projected made several onlookers take an involuntary step back.

Before Marcella could act offended, Serena reached into the box. She bypassed the delicate lace trim and gripped the thick seams along the back of the dress. She held the fabric firmly in her hands.

With a seemingly gentle tug, she pulled her hands apart.

RIIIIIIP.

The loud tearing sound echoed through the lecture hall like a gunshot. The sabotaged seams surrendered instantly. The sturdy Chanel fabric split down the middle with zero resistance, unraveling in her hands into two useless pieces of cloth. The threads hung loose, cleanly severed in advance.

The crowd went dead silent. Jaws dropped. Eyes bulged. The pristine luxury garment was now a shredded rag.

It was undeniable proof. Taking even a few steps in that dress would have ruined it, leaving the wearer exposed.

Serena didn't blink. She balled up the torn, defective garment and threw it aggressively back into the box. The crumpled silk hit the cardboard with a dull thud.

She glared fiercely at the stunned girl before her. The ice in her gaze could have frozen hell over.

"Such a filthy thing is an absolute eyesore to me," Serena spat, her voice ringing out crisp and clear. "Marcella Voss, I absolutely don't want to have anything to do with you. Stop acting. And don't treat me like a fool!"

Marcella stood paralyzed. Her mind raced frantically. How? How did she know? The sabotage was perfect. The threads were sliced from the inside. Nobody could have seen it without inspecting the inner lining. If the country bumpkin hadn't touched it, she would have worn it and ruined her reputation forever! Marcella’s chest heaved as panic set in. Her carefully plotted sabotage had just been effortlessly exposed in front of a live audience.

Survival instinct kicked in. Marcella rapidly shifted her tactics.

Her knees buckled. She collapsed heavily into the plastic chair behind her and burst into loud, theatrical tears.

"How could this happen?!" Marcella wailed. The tears flowed instantly, loud and dramatic. Her shoulders shook with manufactured sobs. "I didn't know! I swear I didn't know! I spent so much time picking it out for you! I had nothing but good, pure intentions! Why is the manufacturing quality so terrible? The store promised me it was perfect!"

She looked up, her face a mask of tragic betrayal. "Sis, please don't misjudge me! I would never hurt you! It's just a defective dress, please believe me!"

The wailing acted like a siren call to the gullible classmates. These students had already been heavily manipulated by Marcella's earlier lies, her sweet demeanor, and her free gourmet coffee. They saw a wealthy, generous girl weeping over a misunderstood gesture, and a cold, ungrateful recipient standing over her.

Predictably, they rushed to the weeping girl’s defense, forming a protective barrier around the chair.

"Hey, Serena Sterling, you have gone way too far!" a girl with sharp features snapped, pointing an accusing finger. "Marcella has been nothing but nice to you since we got here!"

"Seriously!" a guy chimed in, puffing out his chest. "You lived comfortably in her home for years. She never held your background against you. She buys you a ten-thousand-dollar dress out of the goodness of her heart, and you viciously attack her over a simple manufacturing error? You are so paranoid!"

"She’s just malicious," another whispered loudly. "Utterly heartless. Who treats their generous sister like that?"

Malicious. Paranoid. Heartless.

The exact same toxic labels. The exact same groupthink. Serena stood amidst the onslaught of angry voices, feeling the familiar weight of their blind self-righteousness pressing down on her. In her past life, these very words had successfully ruined her reputation. They had isolated her, cornered her into submission, and forced her to swallow her pride just to survive the social warfare.

She was fed up. She absolutely refused to tolerate their blind self-righteousness for another second.

"What right do any of you have to criticize me?"

Serena’s voice wasn't a scream, but it cracked like a whip. It sliced through the clamor, sharp and dangerous. She snapped her gaze toward the crowd. Her cold, piercing stare swept mercilessly over the angry faces, locking onto each person who had spoken.

The sheer force of her glare silenced them instantly. The outrage died in their throats.

"You want to talk about heartless?" Serena sneered, taking a slow step forward. The crowd instinctively parted. "You're only blindly sticking up for Marcella because you think you can benefit from her wealth. You look at her designer bags and her bank account, and you salivate."

"That's not—" the sharp-featured girl started to sputter.

"Shut up," Serena commanded, her tone brooking no argument. "I'm talking. You pretend you're defending a poor, misunderstood victim, but you're just pathetic dogs groveling at Marcella's stinky feet. You want her scraps. You want her connections. Don't mask your greed as moral superiority. It’s disgusting."

The classmates flushed red, anger and embarrassment warring on their faces, but Serena's imposing aura pinned them in place. They opened their mouths to protest, to defend their shattered egos, but no words came out.

Serena didn't stop. She raised her voice, ensuring her next words reached every corner of the lecture hall.

"Let me make this perfectly clear, since you all seem so invested in my personal life," Serena declared publicly. She pointed a steady finger at the weeping girl in the chair. "I am not related to Marcella Voss by blood. In any way, shape, or form. I owe her absolutely nothing."

Marcella’s sobs hitched, her eyes darting up nervously.

"Any debt I have," Serena continued, her voice ringing with finality, "is solely to Mr. and Mrs. Voss for raising me. That debt does not transfer to the spoiled biological daughter. I already willingly stepped aside when she returned to claim her place. I gave up the room, the status, the comfort. I am done."

Marcella lowered her hands. The theatrical tears continued to stream down her face, but in the dark depths of her heart, a twisted satisfaction bloomed. Keep going, Marcella thought viciously. Scream and yell. Show them all how unhinged you are. You're only successfully destroying your own reputation with this aggressive outburst. You're isolating yourself on day one!

Masking her glee, Marcella whimpered loud enough for the back rows to hear. "Sis... please don't be angry. If I made a mistake, I'll fix it. I just want us to have a good, peaceful relationship. We're sisters... please don't do this..."

She reached a trembling hand out, begging for sympathy, looking like a battered saint facing a tyrant.

Serena simply looked down at her. Her eyes held no anger, only pure, unadulterated ice. The kind of cold that came from a soul that had died and returned, stripped of all naive illusions.

"I already said that we're not related to each other," Serena stated slowly and deliberately, enunciating each word so they landed like heavy stones. "You keep calling me 'sis'. Why are you so unbelievably pretentious?"

Marcella flinched, the hand dropping to her lap.

"Absolutely everything coming out of your mouth is toxic trash," Serena finished, turning away from the pathetic display. She adjusted her small purse on her shoulder, her posture straight and unbroken. She cast one final, sweeping look of disgust over the stunned crowd and the ruined dress in the box. "I'm afraid we're going to need a lot more trash cans in this school if this goes on."

The silence that followed her declaration was deafening. The lecture hall, previously humming with the eager anticipation of hundreds of incoming freshmen, felt like a vacuum. Serena stood at the epicenter of the shockwave she had just unleashed. She didn't fidget. She didn't look away. She owned the space, her spine forged from steel, refusing to bow to the social pressure that had crushed her in a past life.

She watched the micro-expressions on the faces of her peers. The sharp-featured girl who had led the charge against her now stared at the floor, her cheeks burning with a deep, humiliating crimson. The boy who had puffed his chest out earlier shuffled his feet, suddenly finding the acoustic tiles on the ceiling fascinating. Serena's brutal assessment had stripped away their righteous veneer, exposing the naked opportunism underneath. They hated her for it, but the truth of her words paralyzed them. No one dared to cross the invisible line she had drawn in the carpet.

Marcella, still slumped in the chair, maintained her weeping facade, but the muscles in her neck were tight with strain. The plan had backfired spectacularly, yet she clung to the hope that Serena's harshness would alienate the entire class. Marcella kept her face buried in her hands, peeking through the gaps in her manicured fingers. She expected Serena to storm out, to run away from the heavy, judgmental atmosphere. She expected the typical flight response of a cornered animal.

But Serena didn't move an inch. She remained grounded, her presence dominating the front of the room. The ruined white Chanel dress lay crumpled in the box on the desk, a silent testament to the malice masked as sisterly love. The torn seams were clearly visible under the harsh fluorescent lighting, the jagged edges of the thick fabric proving the impossibility of a simple manufacturing error. Anyone with eyes could see the threads had been cleanly sliced, a deliberate sabotage waiting to spring.

Serena let her gaze linger on the ruined garment one last time. In her past life, the fabric had felt like a second skin before it betrayed her, exposing her vulnerability to a room full of strangers. Now, it just looked like exactly what it was: cheap manipulation dressed up in an expensive label.

She felt a profound sense of liberation wash over her. The heavy chains of obligation, the suffocating need to appease the Voss family out of gratitude, shattered into a million pieces. She owed them her life for raising her, yes, but she did not owe them her dignity. She did not owe this venomous girl a punching bag.

The air in the room felt thick, charged with the residual electricity of the confrontation. The students in the upper tiers of the lecture hall exchanged frantic, wide-eyed whispers, the gossip already taking root. They had expected a boring prelude to the freshman orientation. Instead, they had front-row seats to a brutal, unapologetic severing of family ties.

"Are we done here?" Serena asked the room at large. Her voice was calm now, devoid of the previous heat, returning to that chilling, baseline ice. "Because if you're finished performing, I'd like to sit down and prepare for the actual orientation. Some of us are here to learn, not to play high school drama games."

She didn't wait for a response. She didn't need one.

With deliberate, unhurried movements, Serena turned her back on Marcella and the cluster of silent sycophants. She walked up the aisle, the crowd instinctively parting to give her a wide berth. Nobody wanted to catch her eye. Nobody wanted to be the next target of her razor-sharp tongue.

She selected an empty seat three rows back, right in the center of the auditorium. She sat down, placed her purse on the small fold-out desk, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. She looked straight ahead at the empty podium, the picture of perfect composure.

Down at the front, Marcella’s fake sobs slowly tapered off into pathetic, wet sniffles. The show was over, and the lead actress had been left stranded on stage. The classmates who had rallied around her now looked uncomfortable, shifting their weight and slowly inching away, eager to distance themselves from the radioactive fallout.

The toxic trash had been called out, and Serena was more than ready for whatever came next.