The Rebellious Side of the Good Girl: A Love Story with a Delinquent

In high society, I was known as the quintessential "good girl"-the one who always followed the rules.

But my reputation took a hit when word got out that I'd paid local bullies for protection.

People mocked me behind my back, calling me brainless and claiming I was encouraging bad behavior.

Little did they know. Those same bullies would later come to my rescue.

Among them, a man with white hair sneered at me.

"The moment you paid, no one can mess with you," he said, his voice dripping with menace.

1.

One day, I found myself cornered in an alley by a group of intimidating thugs.

I looked at the group of intimidating young men in front of me, regretting not having my butler Alfred pick me up today.

I tried to stay calm, but my heart raced. The leader, a man with a scar across his face, sneered at me. "Little girl, you've come to the wrong place," he said, his voice dripping with menace.

This wasn't a secluded spot-it was broad daylight, and people were passing by.

If anyone paid attention, they would surely find something was wrong.

Yet no one seemed to notice or care.

My eyes darted to the alley entrance, hoping for a savior.

But the bright sunlight only highlighted the emptiness of the street.

The scarred man noticed my gaze and laughed.

"This girl thinks someone will come to save her," he jeered, his companions joining in.

"No one dares to meddle in our affairs."

Just as he finished speaking, a bold voice cut through the tension. "Really? I don't think so."

A group of teenagers on motorcycles roared into the alley, their hair dyed in vibrant colors-red, orange, yellow, and green.

At the front was a young man with striking white hair, his black motorcycle skidding to a stop in front of me.

Without hesitation, the white-haired boy leapt into action.

His movements were swift and precise, his fists landing with calculated force.

His friends followed suit, and soon the alley was filled with the sounds of scuffling and gasps of pain.

The scarred man and his gang were no match for them, while his bruised companion struggled to help him up.

Feeling the sting on his face, the scarred man hissed and threatened. "If I were you, I wouldn't interfere in this shit," he spat. "Just because we're short-handed today doesn't mean I'm afraid of you. Don't let me catch you next time."

The white-haired boy smirked, his confidence unshaken. "She has paid us to protect her, so she's under our care. We don't mind coming back for more."

His friends, a man dyed with green and the other one dyed yellow, chimed in, mocking the thugs. "Yeah, we are not afraid of you!"

"Bullying girls, aren't you ashamed?" added another.

Defeated, the scarred man and his gang slunk away.

2.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Seeing me still frozen in place, Brad spoke impatiently, his tone full of disdain.

But I wasn't scared stiff, just confused by the weird scene.

I was bewildered by the barrage of text messages floating in front of me.

"This stupid jerk, why be so fierce to her? It is your first time helping your future wife. You should leave a good impression, idiot! No wonder it will take you so long to win her heart!"

Another words displayed, "Melany, don't be afraid of him. He's just got a sharp tongue..."

Melany?

Were these words talking to me?

I was Melany Tim. Was the Melany the words referring to me?

I reached out to touch the words, but my hand passed through them as if they were air.

The white-haired boy-Brad-noticed my dazed expression and snapped, "Hey, scared stiff?"

I blinked, snapping back to reality. "I'm fine, thank you," I said, bowing my head slightly.

The white-haired youth, hands in his pockets, seeing that I was okay, turned to leave, muttering under his breath. "Girls are all troublesome."

I couldn't help but retort in my mind.

That was sexism!

The yellow and green-haired boys were far more familiar and casual, chatting with me as if we'd known each other for years. "Don't worry, girl," the yellow-haired one said with a grin. "Brad talks like that. He actually doesn't mean it. Don't take it to heart. Since you paid protection money, it's our duty to look out for you."

The green-haired boy chimed in, "Yeah, yeah. If you ever need anything, just let us know."

As they spoke, the floating lines of text began scrolling in front of my eyes like subtitles.

"How dare you two talk to Melany? Brad's about to lose it," one message read.

Another line showed up, "Brad must be thinking, 'Flirting with my woman? Big mistake!'"

I glanced cautiously at Brad, the white-haired leader, who stood a few feet away.

His expression was dark, but it seemed his irritation was directed more at the yellow and green-haired boys for lingering too long.

Sure enough, his voice cut through the air, sharp and impatient.

"You two still here? Planning to stick around and play Nintendo Switch or something?"

The two boys exchanged sheepish looks, muttered quick goodbyes, and hurried off. I couldn't help but notice how Brad's presence commanded respect, even among his own group.

3.

The rumors of the alley incident spread like wildfire on the school forum.

"Did you hear? Melany paid protection money to some thugs, and they actually protected her," one post read.

Another replied, "Yeah, it's wild. Paying them off really works, huh?"

But not everyone was impressed. "Still, paying protection money is so dumb. It just encourages them," someone commented.

It was through these posts that I learned more about the white-hair guy Brad Nash.

Brad was the infamous heir of a wealthy family from the neighboring school. His grades were abysmal, but unlike the typical troublemaker, he didn't skip classes or get into fights.

The whole protection money thing had been a misunderstanding. But people preferred the drama of rumors over the boring truth.

I just happened to overhear the teenage boldness.

It was just a drunken joke I'd taken too seriously.

"Hey, miss, pay some protection money, and we'll cover you through thick and thin."

The clearly tipsy yellow-haired boy had just spoken when Brad smacked him on the head.

Brad had smacked him on the head, his face flushed from drinking. "Have some shame," he'd scolded. "We don't ask a girl for money."

But before they could react, I'd handed over the exact amount of money they'd been worrying about.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to help them out.

The alcohol dulled their senses, and before they could react, I quickly fled the scene.

I'd always envied their carefree, rebellious spirit, and giving them the money felt like my own small act of defiance.

Still, it puzzled me-if Brad was from a wealthy family, why did he need money?

"Melany, Mr. Black wants to talk with you."

The call from outside interrupted my thoughts.

I put away my phone and headed to the office, noticing how strange it felt to no longer see those floating text messages since brad had left.

They'd disappeared as suddenly as they'd appeared, leaving me wondering if it had all been a vivid hallucination.

"Mr. Black, is there something you need from me?"

He was the teacher of my class, a young man known for his connections and sharp tongue, usually treated me with politeness.

But today, his gaze was cold, almost disdainful.

"Here are some documents. Help me categorize them," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm

I recognized the stack of papers-they were supposed to be handled by Rachael Fox, the class secretary.

Before I could ask why I was being given her work, there was a knock at the door.

Rachael walked in, and the teacher's demeanor shifted instantly. He stood up, all smiles, and even poured her a glass of water.

"Rachael, what brings you here? There's nothing much for you to do lately," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth.

I clutched the documents, a sense of unease creeping over me.

Rachael, however, seemed unfazed by the teacher's sudden change in attitude. She glanced at me and said, "Melany, come with me." Without waiting for a response, she led me out of the office.

I followed her, still confused.

Rachael was everything I wasn't-confident, assertive, and effortlessly genuine.

I envied her; she possessed a natural ease and authenticity that I couldn't emulate.

Both of us were top students in the class, inevitably compared by others.

People admired her for her principles and free spirit.

When they talked about me, the words "dutiful and compliant daughter" were always mentioned.

At home, I was the obedient daughter, excelling in both academics and manners, never causing them any worry.

At school, I was the obedient student in the eyes of teachers and classmates, never skipping class, never being late, always following the rules.

Paying Brad and his friends had been the most rebellious thing I'd ever done, and even that had been a small, fleeting act.

4.

"Melany, you're not your parent's daughter. I think we were switched at birth in the hospital by mistake."

I walked back to the classroom in a daze, her revelation lingering in my mind like a storm I couldn't escape.

I wasn't the Tim family's real daughter. Rachael was.

Before I could fully process the news, it spread like wildfire through the class.

That was until my dad and mom, no, until Mr. and Mrs. Tim called me home and shattered the peace I'd managed to maintain by ignoring the whispers.

The moment I stepped through the door, the heavy atmosphere hit me like a wall.

Mr. Tim sat silently in his chair, smoking, while Mrs. Tim's eyes were red and swollen.

In her arms was a girl.

The moment I stepped in, the girl in Mrs. Tim's arms looked up at me.

It was Rachael.

The moment our eyes met, I knew. Rachael looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

"Dad, Mom, is there something wrong?" Even though I tried to hide it, I couldn't conceal the obvious tremor in my voice.

I began to panic; I had always feared unexpected events.

Unfortunately, the spotlight was clearly not on me this time.

No one cared about my unease.

Mrs. Tim glanced at Mr. Tim, who remained silent, and then she explained everything to me.

It was just like Rachael had said, the drama of rightful heir and mistaken identity playing out in my life.

But unlike those stories, I wasn't the beloved fake heiress, and Rachael didn't see me as her enemy.

Instead, her gaze held a strange, almost sorrowful pity.

I was just an ordinary girl, with no extraordinary talents or courage.

When I offered to give up my room-the largest and brightest on the second floor -to Rachael, the Tims' faces lit up with approval.

It was a look I knew well.

From a young age, I'd learned that sacrificing what I loved would earn their praise.

My room was the best-lit and largest on the second floor.

Mrs. Tim tightly held Rachael's hand, instructing the servants to move her belongings into my room.

When Rachael tried to decline, Mrs. Tim smiled even wider.

"Melany has always been obedient. Rachael, don't be shy. She can stay in the room next door. You've suffered enough."

I heard her clearly, which somehow made me feel pathetic.

I forced a smile, though it felt stiff and unnatural. Mrs. Tim didn't notice, of course.

She didn't need me to be happy-she just needed me to be obedient.

5.

A few days later, the Fox family-Rachael's biological parents-came to visit.

I was in my room doing homework when their voices drifted through the door.

"We didn't expect this situation," Mrs. Fox said, her voice trembling. "But Rachael can't just return to your family. She's our daughter too."

Although the Fox family wasn't as powerful as the Tim family, they couldn't just let their daughter, whom they had raised for over a decade, be taken away.

Mrs. Tim's stance was clear; she didn't want to give up the daughter she had raised for over ten years, but she also couldn't allow her biological child to be left outside.

"Rachael is our biological child. We acknowledge the effort you've put into her all these years, and the money will be transferred to your account on time."

Mrs. Tim had always disliked people losing composure in formal settings, and Rachael's mother's reaction clearly touched a nerve. Her tone grew increasingly impatient.

Mrs. Tim had always told me, "Melany, you must be obedient. No one likes a disobedient child, as it disrupts family harmony."

So, I had always been obedient.

In any situation, I was the most rule-abiding, the most well-mannered person.

After polite facades, sometimes even I couldn't tell if my current smile was genuine or not.

The two families eventually failed to achieve consensus.

Rachael emerged from the room next door, her face showing no obvious emotion.

But I knew she had heard everything that happened in the living room.

"Melany, you don't have to force a smile if you're not happy," Rachael's voice rang out.