After the Heiress Reveals Her Identity

In River City in September, the wind carried a sweet scent of osmanthus.
I was walking along the tree-lined path, holding the books I had just borrowed from the library.
Suddenly, a figure came rushing toward me with the wind.
My books scattered across the ground, and I instinctively crouched down to pick them up.
“Sorry, sorry! I’m in a hurry.”
A clear voice rang above me, edged with urgency.
I looked up and found myself caught in a pair of bright eyes.
The boy wore a blue basketball jersey, sweat beads at his temple, sunlight filtering through the leaves casting dappled shadows across his face.
He is Yale Jones, the star player on the school’s basketball team, carrying a halo wherever he goes.
I used to watch him only from afar, standing at the edge of the crowd by the court.
“It’s nothing.” I said softly, continuing to gather the books.
He crouched down too, helping me pick up the scattered books one by one.
Our fingertips accidentally brushed, and I quickly pulled my hand back as if burned.
He handed me the last book with a smile and said, “I’m Yale Jones. What’s your name?”
“Cindy Lincoln.” I gave the name I had prepared to say long ago.
This was my third year hiding my true identity.
As the only daughter of the Lincoln family, River City’s most prestigious household, I was supposed to grow up surrounded by wealth and luxury.
But I was tired of my family’s constraints and insisted on living as an ordinary student, wanting to truly experience real campus life.
My father couldn’t argue with me and eventually gave in, only sending a covert guard to watch over me quietly.
I rented a place in an old neighborhood near the school, wore the simplest clothes, and squeezed onto the bus every day to get to and from class.
Yale Jones didn’t know any of this; he just thought I was a regular girl from a modest family.
From that day on, we started crossing paths more and more.
After practice, he would take a detour just to walk me back to my rented apartment.
He’d share the most fragrant braised pork from the cafeteria with me.
He would quietly bring me a cup of warm milk whenever I stayed up late studying.
His gentleness was like a soft spring rain, slowly soaking into my heart.
That Christmas in my sophomore year, he confessed to me on the basketball court.
In the swirling snow, he held a simple bouquet of roses, his eyes full of sincerity.
“Cindy Lincoln, I like you. Will you be my girlfriend?”
I looked at his nose, bright red from the cold, and nodded firmly.
We became the most ordinary couple on campus.
We’d go to the study room together, wander through the night market, and watch the stars on the playground.
He never asked about my past, and I carefully guarded my secrets.
I thought this kind of happiness would last forever.
On graduation day, Yale Jones took my hand and told me he wanted us to live together.
“Cindy, from now on, let’s be together and build a home of our own.”
I agreed with all my heart.
For him, I completely cut off most of my ties with my family.
I refused all the living expenses my father sent.
I found a simple clerical job and squeezed into a tiny apartment of less than fifty square meters with him.
Every day after work, I’d tie on an apron and cook hot meals for him.
He would wrap his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder, and say, “Cindy, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Those days were simple and sweet.
I thought I had made the right choice.
I believed love could overcome everything, including my identity and his family background.
Days like those lasted ten years.
In that decade, Yale Jones grew from a shy student into the owner of a small company.
And I stayed by his side as the ‘ordinary’ Cindy Lincoln.
I thought we would marry soon and have everything he once promised me.
Until the day a strange middle-aged woman found me.