My Eight Sugar Mommies Are SistersChapter 2

On Tuesday afternoon, my second oldest sister, Isabel, sent me a message ahead of time.

"I’m giving a guest lecture at Hudson. Stopping by to sit in on your class."

I replied instantly: "It’s not on your way. Mentally, it’s not on your way."

"Denied."

The word "gentle" had absolutely nothing to do with Isabel. She wore gold-rimmed glasses, spoke with a measured pace, and possessed the emotional stability of a high-precision Swiss watch. Growing up, whenever she tutored me, her favorite line was: "The errors in your logic have fascinating layers." It almost drove me to run away from home.

At two in the afternoon, Isabel stood right outside the lecture hall. White shirt, gray trousers, holding a thick, original academic text.

On the forum, they called her "Girl #2." Some commented that she looked like a dangerous, ice-cold academic who would lock you in the library until you memorized the entire dictionary.

Just looking at her made my scalp tingle. "You saw the forum too?"

She pushed up her glasses and gave me a flat look. "So, do you plan to keep playing the martyr and let them keep dragging you?"

I muttered a correction. "Not everyone is dragging me."

"No, just a loud vocal group of idiots."

"Isabel, remember your professional ethics as an academic."

"Right now, I am not a teacher. I am your sister."

I couldn't out-argue her, so I had no choice but to lead her into the classroom. The moment she stepped through the door, the atmosphere shifted. The noisy back rows fell completely silent.

Wesley was sitting in the third row, chatting with a few guys. When he saw Isabel, his eyes lit up.

I took a seat by the window.

During the lecture, the professor asked a question about the narrative structure of Wuthering Heights. The entire class ducked their heads, pretending to be statues. I did the same.

Isabel tapped my notebook with her pen. In the next second, she raised my hand for me. I wanted to throw her out the window right then and there.

The professor beamed at me. "Oliver, let's hear your thoughts."

I had no choice but to stand up and speak for five minutes. The classroom was dead quiet.

When I finished, the professor nodded in approval. "Excellent. Write those points down and email them to me as a short essay after class."

I sat back down, gritting my teeth. "Isabel."

She casually turned a page. "Your articulation hasn't deteriorated."

"Your conscience, however, has."

She ignored me.

After class, Wesley walked over, clutching his books. His voice was soft and tentative. "Oliver, is this your friend?" He obviously knew what the forum was saying, yet he insisted on asking in front of everyone.

"No."

Wesley blinked. "Oh, is she pursuing you? She seemed very eager to help you just now."

Heads turned instantly.

Isabel closed her book and looked up. "I am his—"

I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She paused, her eyes cool behind her lenses.

Seeing my reaction, a flash of smugness crossed Wesley’s eyes. He said gently, "Oliver, I don't mean to pry into your personal life. It's just that the rumors on the forum are getting quite nasty. You should really be more careful. A guy's reputation is incredibly important."

I stared at him. "Wesley, if you care so much about reputations, you seem to have a very precise finger when it comes to liking those rumor posts."

His face went pale.

A guy next to him immediately chimed in. "Oliver, how can you talk to Wesley like that? He's just trying to look out for you."

"You're the one behaving sleazily, and you're mad that people are calling you out?"

"You're juggling eight girls like a damn shipping company. Stop acting innocent."

Isabel’s face darkened. I held her back with all my might, terrified that a single "I'm his sister" would blow my cover and freeze my bank accounts.

I grabbed my bag and walked out.

Behind me, Wesley whispered, "Forget it, guys. Don't say any more. He's probably just sensitive."

That night, a new thread popped up: Girl #2 accompanies Oliver to class, acting as his shield. Wesley’s well-meaning advice met with hostility.

Someone photoshopped my face onto an octopus, with eight tentacles holding the silhouettes of eight different women. The comment section was toxic enough to make me physically sick.

It's fine. Every single word will become evidence.