Revenge is My Love Language novel Chapter 150

Helen’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Didn’t you promise me yourself?”

Her face darkened abruptly. “Wait—don’t tell me you didn’t buy it!”

Anastasia leaned back against the table behind her, arms folded across her chest, eyeing Helen with a cool, mocking smile that was hard to read.

“Do you even know how much that necklace costs?”

Helen shifted uncomfortably at the mention, then huffed, “Of course I know. Five grand. That’s practically pocket change for you!”

She straightened, voice growing self-righteous. “Are you really so stingy? If you can’t even spare that, I have to wonder if you actually consider me a friend.”

Anastasia’s striking eyes turned frosty, her smile sharpening. “Oh? Then tell me—what did you give me for my birthday?”

Helen froze, caught off guard.

Anastasia almost laughed at Helen’s guilty expression.

They’d known each other for years, but Helen’s birthday gifts had never been worth more than twenty dollars—if that. Anastasia had never minded; she knew Helen had grown up in foster care, that money was tight, and as long as there was some thought behind the gift, she didn’t care about the price.

But Helen never even bothered to put in any effort.

Last time, she’d snatched a random hourglass from the campus gift shop—didn’t even bother to pick a color, and it ended up being purple, Anastasia’s least favorite. She’d been so stupid back then, so desperate for this so-called friendship that she’d cherished that useless trinket as if it were something special.

Helen’s expression soured. “How can you compare us? You’re the rich girl; I grew up in foster homes—I don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

“If you look down on me and don’t want to be friends, just say so. No need for all this roundabout humiliation.”

The same old script.

The old Anastasia would have panicked at this. But now? Perfect.

“You’re right. I don’t want to be friends with someone who treats me like an ATM. Is that direct enough for you?”

Helen’s face cracked, eyes wide in disbelief as if she’d misheard.

Anastasia smiled. “There you go. Now you’ll never have to worry about my so-called ‘humiliations’ again.”

With that, she turned away and went back to packing her things.

Helen just stood there, dumbfounded.

What the—how could this happen? And what about her necklace?!

At Kingsbridge University, most dorm rooms housed four people, but 517 was an exception—just Anastasia and Helen.

It hadn’t always been like this. Back in freshman year, others had shared the room, but after Penelope visited a few times, rumors about Anastasia had spread until only Helen was willing to room with her.

Back then, Anastasia had been so grateful, saw Helen as her closest friend.

Looking back now, it was laughable.

When she finished packing, Anastasia checked the time, went to grab a meal in the dining hall, and then headed toward the lecture building.

Helen, seething and anxious, watched Anastasia leave without a word—not even a glance back. Her pride flared, but in the end, she couldn’t let go of her “cash cow” so easily. Besides, she still hadn’t gotten that necklace.

She hurried after Anastasia.

Everyone sat back down, any urge to approach her evaporating into awkward silence.

If that’s Anastasia, forget it…

Anastasia could feel the isolation from her classmates. Who knew what stories Penelope had been spreading?

In her past life, she’d felt wronged—she’d done nothing, so why did everyone hate her? She’d even thought of asking someone directly, but Penelope had always egged her on: “Why should you be the one to apologize? You did nothing wrong. Why put up with this?”

So a year passed, and she’d never really connected with anyone in her class.

This time around, Anastasia planned to change many things—but making friends? She couldn’t care less anymore. She’d rather save her energy for someone who actually mattered. Her husband, for example.

What was he doing now? Did he miss her?

Chin propped on her hand, her thoughts drifted, a soft, unguarded smile playing at her lips.

Across the aisle, someone sneaked a glance. Even if they disliked Anastasia, they had to admit—she was beautiful, just sitting there lost in thought, like a painting come to life.

Suddenly, a scornful snort broke the silence.

“So what if she’s pretty? She’s still an airhead. I have no idea how someone like her even got into Kingsbridge.”

Anastasia snapped out of her reverie and turned to the speaker—a girl she recognized as the department’s resident “it girl,” Sandra Jones.

She remembered Sandra—Penelope’s close friend, and someone who’d always disliked her.

Anastasia stood up, walked over, arms folded, looking down at Sandra from above. Even without trying, she exuded a quiet authority that reminded people of Harrison.