Too Rich to Be Real

Too Rich Too be real

If Regal Heights Academy were a country, its national anthem would be:

"Money Talks… and You Better Speak Fluent."

Fave had been at the school for barely five hours, and she’d already discovered:

The vending machines took credit cards (not coins).

There were three types of uniforms: regular, gym, and i********:-worthy.

And worst of all… she had committed the ultimate social crime: ankle socks on “no-visible-socks” day.

Tragic. Just tragic.

And just when she thought her embarrassment level had reached maximum, they walked in.

---

The Queen Bees.

Four girls in matching blazers, coordinated hair flips, and expressions like they were allergic to public transport. Their heels echoed off the marble like warning sirens.

At the center?

Zaria Wellington.

Daughter of a governor. Ex-child actress. Current queen of pretty much everything. Her ponytail was tight enough to hold secrets.

Zaria stopped in front of Fave like she’d found an expired can of beans in a Gucci fridge.

“You’re Bernard’s daughter?” she asked slowly, her gaze dragging from Fave’s shoes (basic) to her Dora backpack (unforgivable).

“I was this morning,” Fave replied cheerfully.

The girls blinked.

Another girl whispered, “That bag is giving… orphan chic.”

Fave smiled. “Thanks! It’s vintage Dora. Very rare.”

Zaria didn’t laugh.

“You’ll sit with us at lunch,” she said, like it was a punishment.

“Is that an invitation or a threat?” Fave asked.

“Both.”

---

Lunch at Regal Heights looked like a luxury restaurant had a baby with a reality show.

Glass tables. Sparkling cutlery. Food arranged like art. Sparkling water served like wine.

Zaria waved Fave over like a queen addressing her peasants. Everyone turned to stare. Phones clicked. Gossip traveled faster than Wi-Fi.

Fave sat cautiously at the Queen Bee table, nearly knocking over a glass of terrifying green juice.

Zaria raised an eyebrow. “You eat… carbs?”

Fave grinned. “I also breathe oxygen. Wild, right?”

Someone across the table snorted.

Zaria studied her. “I heard your grandma raised you. That’s… cute. Like a low-budget Netflix series.”

Fave nodded. “Yeah. We didn’t have a pool, but we had pepper soup. Priorities.”

Another girl choked on her juice.

Zaria’s fake-smile twitched.

“This school changes people,” she said. “Let’s see how long you last, Kitchen Girl.”

Fave leaned back in her chair, calm as ever.

“Let’s see how long you last before you ask me for a recipe.”

Touché.

---

After school, Fave escaped to the library — aka her emotional support building.

It had three floors, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and a mysterious smell of “book and peace.” She curled up in a reading pod shaped like a floating egg and tried to forget how many people had looked at her like she was a museum exhibit.

Then came a voice:

“Mind if I sit?”

She looked up.

Enter: Tobi.

Tall. Slightly awkward. Bright-eyed. Smiling like he didn’t belong here either.

“I’m Tobi,” he said. “Tobi Adebayo. My parents are in tech. We just moved here from London.”

London? Well, that explained the accent — and the extra wattage on his smile.

“I’m Fave,” she replied. “My parents are rich and mildly disappointed in me.”

He laughed. “Same energy.”

They talked — books, school, Lagos traffic. He was funny, quick, normal. A breath of fresh air in a building full of perfume and pressure.

“You’re not like the others,” she said.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he replied.

But something felt… off.

His shoes were pristine but slightly off-brand. His accent kept slipping. His tablet had a sticker that said “Property of Royal Heights Public School.”

Fave narrowed her eyes.

“So, Tobi… what part of London exactly?”

“Hackney,” he said.

“Hackney-hackney or hustle-for-generator Hackney?”

He paused. Then laughed — hard.

“Okay, fine,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m not rich. My dad’s a mechanic. My mum sells ankara online. I used a fake scholarship form. Please don’t rat me out.”

Fave blinked. Then started laughing too.

“You? Faking rich? While I’m out here rich but looking like a budget disaster?”

Tobi grinned. “Match made in misfit heaven.”

The librarian hissed at them to be quiet. They both mouthed sorry and giggled like kids who’d just broken a royal vase.

---

Later that night, Fave lay in bed beneath a chandelier the size of a satellite.

She stared at the ceiling and smiled.

Zaria could glare all she wanted. The school could whisper behind her back.

But now she had something better than popularity.

She had a secret.

And she had Tobi.

Let the rich kids play their games.

The kitchen girl was just getting started.