THE BILLIONAIRE’S BICYCLE: A TALE OF TWO FRAUDS

The summer sun in City S didn’t care about your net worth. It beat down on the prestigious S University campus with a democratic ferocity, soaking the backs of both the scholarship students and the heirs of industrial empires.

I, Chu Diep, stood by the bike rack, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead. I was wearing a uniform shirt so thin and washed-out that it was practically translucent—the kind of garment that screamed “financial struggle.” Next to me was a bicycle that looked like it had been salvaged from a scrap heap, its paint peeling in sad, jagged flakes.

I let out a long, dramatic sigh for the benefit of any onlookers. This was not the life I was born for. As the sole heiress to the Chu Group—a multi-billion dollar empire of luxury resorts and hotels—I should have been stepping out of a chauffeured Maybach SUV, my heels clicking on the pavement. Instead, I was here, pretending to be a “poverty-stricken student overcoming adversity.”

“Remember, Diep Er,” my father’s voice echoed in my mind, “A poor man isn’t scary. What’s scary is a man who falls in love with your bank account instead of your soul. Find someone who is willing to peddle a bike with you.”

I looked down at the rock-hard seat of my bicycle and grimaced. My father was a romantic; I was just a girl with a very sore backside. What he didn’t mention was that this “old” bike was actually a custom-made, hand-crafted masterpiece from Italy, worth 100,000 yuan. It was engineered to look like junk while riding like a dream.

As I pushed my “clunker” toward the registration hall, a shrill, familiar voice pierced the air.

“Oh my god, Chu Diep? Are you seriously still riding that thing from middle school?”

It was Tieu Linh, my former classmate and current roommate. She was the embodiment of “New Money” ostentation: a designer dress, a limited-edition handbag, and a bright pink Louis Vuitton suitcase that glowed like a radioactive flamingo.

I forced a shy, awkward smile and hitched my frayed canvas backpack higher on my shoulder. “High school, actually. My dad says frugality is the foundation of a nation, Linh Linh. I’m even saving on my phone bill—I didn’t buy a 4G data plan this month.”

Tieu Linh covered her mouth, laughing with a mix of pity and superiority. “You’re such a character. Look, they’re hiring student volunteers to unload luggage. You should sign up—you get a free lunch voucher.”

My eyes “lit up” with desperate hope. “Really? Free lunch? Thank you so much, Tieu Linh! I’m going right now!”

I scurried away, suppressing a smirk. Phase one of the “Poor Girl” mission: Complete.

The volunteer station for “Heavy and Oversized Cargo” was a nightmare of sweat and dust. I was struggling to lift a massive cardboard box—acting out a scene of fragile strength—when I accidentally bumped into someone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I gasped, letting the box slip.

A pair of strong arms caught it before it hit the ground. I looked up and froze. The guy was tall, with a clean-cut haircut and the kind of scholarly, calm handsomeness you see in vintage movies. He wore a plain white t-shirt and khaki pants that were slightly frayed at the hems. He looked exactly like a hardworking student from a rural province.

“No harm done,” he said. His voice was deep, steady, and unexpectedly warm. “Let me help you with that.”

He lifted the heavy crate as if it were filled with feathers. “You’re a freshman, right? You don’t look like you’re used to this kind of manual labor.”

“I’m learning,” I replied, wiping my brow. “I’m Chu Diep, Economic Tourism major. I just signed up for the free lunch.”

He chuckled, a sound that made my heart do a tiny, traitorous flip. He extended a hand—his palm was calloused, the perfect “working man’s” hand. “I’m Nguy Hao, Construction Engineering. I’m also here for the… uh… financial opportunities.”

“What do your parents do?” I asked, trying to sound casually curious while my inner gold-standard-radar was screaming.

Nguy Hao hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing around. “My father… he’s a lobster farmer. Well, he was. High-end lobsters. But the last season was a disaster. Total bankruptcy.”

I almost choked. A lobster farmer? I’d heard “coal miner” and “street food vendor” before, but “bankrupt lobster farmer” was creative. I gave him my most sympathetic look. “I understand. My parents run a small second-hand shop. It’s a risky business. We’re basically in the same boat.”

He smiled, and for a moment, it felt like we were the only two “poor” people in a sea of spoiled brats.

Over the next few weeks, Nguy Hao and I became inseparable. We were the “Poverty Couple” of S University. We scoured the cafeteria for the cheapest rice-and-gravy sets and walked three miles to the grocery store just to save two yuan on bus fare.

One evening, as we sat in our respective dorms—well, we were actually sharing a smuggled electric kettle to cook 5-yuan instant noodles—Nguy Hao looked at me with sudden intensity.

“Diep Diep, I have a business idea.” He lowered his voice. “This school is full of rich kids who throw away perfectly good textbooks and electronics every semester. We could start a recycling and resale system. I’ll build the management software, and you handle the procurement and sales.”

My business instincts, sharpened by years of listening to board meetings through keyholes, roared to life. “That’s brilliant! But where’s the capital?”

Nguy Hao looked sheepish. “I have 100 yuan in savings.”

“I have 200!” I lied, purposefully low-balling my “emergency” fund.

“300 yuan total. Not enough for a shop,” he mused. “But I know a security guard in the underground parking lot. He’ll let us use a small, unused corner for free.”

I was genuinely touched. A guy this handsome and smart was willing to work in a damp parking lot just to help us start a business. It was perfect. We called it “Project Fresh Wind.”

Secretly, I used my “connections.” I contacted the procurement managers of Chu Group’s local hotels and told them to “donate” high-quality, slightly used furniture and linens to a specific charity—which I then “bought” for pennies. Meanwhile, Nguy Hao built a logistics app that was suspiciously sophisticated for a “poor student.” It was smooth, bug-free, and handled inventory like a dream.

Project Fresh Wind took off. It turns out even rich students love a good deal, especially when it’s framed as “vintage” or “eco-friendly.”

But success breeds enemies. One afternoon, Tieu Linh showed up at our parking lot corner with a group of “Elite” students.

“Chu Diep, really? This is your little empire?” Tieu Linh sneered, waving a hand at a pile of sorted textbooks. “You’re ruining the aesthetic of the VIP parking zone. This place is for Ferraris, not your stinky old trash.”

“Tieu Linh,” Nguy Hao stepped forward, his face turning cold.

“Oh, look! The hero comes to save his damsel in distress,” Tieu Linh laughed. “Don’t you know my father is the Head of the Parents’ Council? I can have this ‘project’ evicted with one phone call.”

“You don’t have that authority,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. The “poor girl” act was momentarily eclipsed by the “Heiress” shadow. “Nguy Hao and I signed a formal lease agreement with the University Property Management.”

I pulled out a document with a bright red seal. It was a contract drafted by the Chu Group’s top attorneys, airtight and terrifyingly legal.

Tieu Linh snatched it, her face turning pale. “A 50,000 yuan annual lease? Where did you get that kind of money?”

“I… I used all my New Year’s lucky money since I was five!” I lied without blinking.

“And you, Nguy Hao?” She turned to him. “The lobster boy?”

Nguy Hao didn’t flinch. “My father managed to sell a rare batch of ‘Blue Lobsters.’ He invested his last cent in me.”

Tieu Linh stomped away, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. The storm was coming.

A week later, Nguy Hao started acting strange. He stopped eating instant noodles with me. He claimed he took a “night shift” at a construction site and was often unreachable.

One night, curiosity got the better of me. I followed him.

He pedaled his old bike through the city, but he didn’t stop at a construction site. He stopped in front of a gleaming skyscraper: the headquarters of Hai Thien Group, the largest architecture and construction firm in the country—and the Chu Group’s fiercest rival.

I hid behind a pillar, my heart hammering. Nguy Hao didn’t go to the worker’s entrance. He went into the VIP elevator.

Thirty minutes later, he emerged. He wasn’t wearing his frayed t-shirt. He was dressed in a tailored Italian suit, draped in a charcoal wool overcoat that cost more than my “expensive” bike. He pulled out a phone—not the cracked-screen model he used with me, but the latest titanium flagship.

He spoke into it with an air of absolute authority. “Yes, Father. The resort design for Hainan Island needs to be modified. I’ve emailed the blueprints. No, I’m not coming home yet. I’m managing Project Fresh Wind. A few hundred thousand yuan is a small price to pay to learn how to build a business from scratch.”

I froze. Hainan Island? Hai Thien Group?

Nguy Hao wasn’t the son of a bankrupt lobster farmer. He was the Sixth Young Master of the Nguy family. He was my rival. He was a fraud.

Rage, mixed with a bizarre sense of hilarity, surged through me. I pedaled my 100,000-yuan bike directly toward him.

“NGUY HAO!” I screamed.

He jumped, nearly dropping his phone. He frantically tried to zip his overcoat to hide the suit. “Diep Diep? What are you doing here?”

I pointed a finger at his chest. “Lobster farmer? You lied to me! Your father is the Chairman of Hai Thien!”

Nguy Hao went rigid. The “poor student” mask shattered, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze of a CEO. “You… you followed me?”

“I followed a liar!” I shouted, though my voice wavered. “What happened to our ‘poverty-stricken’ friendship?”

He sighed, a long, weary sound. “And what about you, Chu Diep? Or should I say, the Heiress of the Chu Group?”

The air left my lungs. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot,” he said, stepping closer. “That bike? It’s a hand-crafted Bianchi, signed by the designer. My father waited three years to get one. And your ‘burlap’ backpack? It’s woven from synthetic diamond fibers. It costs more than Tieu Linh’s entire wardrobe.”

I felt like the ground had vanished. “So… you knew?”

“From day one,” he smirked. “I wanted to see how long you could live on 5-yuan noodles before you broke.”

“You jerk!” I swung my backpack at him. “I ate those noodles for you!”

“And I went to a ‘construction site’ just to file blueprints for a multi-million dollar hotel!” he countered. “We are both terrible people, Diep Diep.”

We stood there in the shadow of his father’s tower—two billionaires in disguise, caught in each other’s lies.

“So, what now?” I asked, crossing my arms. We were sitting in the most exclusive French restaurant in City S. We had both ditched the rags. I was in silk; he was in the suit he’d tried to hide.

“We have two options,” Nguy Hao said, cutting his Wagyu steak with precision. “We can go back to being rivals. My father is currently trying to outbid yours for the Yunnan Resort project, you know.”

“I know,” I replied. “And I know you were using Project Fresh Wind to gather data on our logistics.”

He didn’t even look guilty. “Guilty as charged. But there’s a second option.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. His grip was firm, no longer calloused but steady. “We stay ‘poor’ during the day. We keep the bike and the noodles. We let Tieu Linh feel superior. But at night, we run Project Fresh Wind into a billion-dollar tech platform. We use it to disrupt our parents’ old-fashioned businesses.”

“A secret alliance?” I mused. “Against our own families?”

“Think of it as a merger,” he whispered. “If they find out, we just get married and consolidate the market. It’s the ultimate hostile takeover.”

I felt my face heat up. “Is that a business proposal or a marriage proposal?”

“Both,” he grinned. “But on one condition: my shop gets the prime location in your Yunnan resort.”

“Deal,” I laughed.

The next morning, we were back at the university. We were standing in the cafeteria line at 1:55 PM, waiting for the “50% off” end-of-lunch specials.

“Diep Diep, look! There’s one piece of fatty pork left,” Nguy Hao said, his voice back to its shy, timid tone. “Shall we split it?”

“Oh, Hao Hao, you’re so thoughtful!” I chirped.

Tieu Linh walked past us, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “You two are pathetic. I wouldn’t feed that pork to my dog.”

Under the table, Nguy Hao squeezed my hand.

Little did she know, that morning we had just authorized a 20-million-yuan expansion of our “trash” business, and we were currently deciding which European city to buy for our honeymoon.

Our love was like my bicycle: it looked like a wreck to the world, but underneath the rust, it was the most expensive thing in the city.