Chapter 5: Partnership and Betrayal

The next noon, carrying a fruit basket bought with all my money, I rang Autumn’s doorbell.

I’d spent my last dime on the prettiest oranges I could find. My hands were sweaty on the handle.

“Come in.” Autumn, in white casual wear, opened the door. She looked less cold than yesterday, a bit gentler.

Her apartment smelled like fresh laundry and citrus. I tried not to track mud on the floor.

“Sorry to bother you.” I stepped inside.

Half an hour later, I passed Streamly’s official test with full marks, then racked my brains to write a 500-word appeal essay.

I sweated over every word, trying to sound sincere but not desperate.

The next moment—ding!

Unban notification arrived.

I whooped so loud I scared her cat off the windowsill.

I gave Autumn a grateful smile, “Thanks, bro. Next time, dinner’s on me.”

I blurted it out, then remembered… her real gender.

Autumn didn’t mind. “We’re adults, don’t be fake. You can repay me now.”

She winked, and I felt a jolt of nervousness. What did she mean?

I looked around the empty room… How?

Autumn pointed to the kitchen: “There’s the kitchen, go ahead.”

Relief flooded me. Cooking, I could handle.

So it was cooking.

“What do you want to eat?” I rolled up my sleeves.

I tried to sound confident, but I hoped she’d pick something simple.

“Just make some home-style dishes.”

She shrugged, trusting me to work my magic.

Half an hour later, I served three dishes and a soup.

The kitchen smelled like home, with the warm aroma of mac and cheese and a bubbling pot of chicken noodle soup. I set the table, proud of my handiwork.

Just as I finished setting the table, the door unlocked.

“Autumn, this is?” Autumn’s mom looked at us, eyes shining.

She had the same sharp eyes as Autumn, but her smile was warmer.

Autumn’s voice was helpless. “This is my high school classmate, here for help.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mom just beamed.

“High school classmate, wonderful.” Autumn’s mom beamed.

She patted my arm, already sizing me up like a potential son-in-law.

“Young man, how old are you? Married yet?”

I nearly dropped my fork. I glanced at Autumn for help.

“Mom!” Autumn interrupted, putting roast chicken in her bowl. “Eat, your favorite.”

She tried to redirect, but her mom was relentless.

But her mom persisted, “Tyler, do you have a girlfriend?”

I shoveled mashed potatoes, eyes pleading to Autumn.

But Autumn ignored me.

She focused on her food, leaving me to fend for myself.

Can’t ignore elders, so I braced myself: “No.”

Her mom’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in, ready for the next round of questions.

Autumn’s mom was delighted, and kept asking, “What do you do for work now?”

I tried to sound proud. “Streamer,” I answered honestly.

“Streamer…” Her tone suddenly changed, her attitude noticeably colder.

She pursed her lips, the air in the room shifting. I felt the chill.

I was puzzled. What’s wrong with being a streamer?

I glanced at Autumn, but she just shook her head, as if to say, “Let it go.”

I didn’t ask, but the meal was tasteless for all three of us.

We ate in silence, the clink of silverware loud in the quiet apartment.

After saying goodbye to Autumn, I returned home to continue my streaming career.

The drive back felt longer than usual. I replayed the dinner conversation in my head, wondering if I’d said something wrong.

To avoid misunderstandings and attract viewers, I made a transformation video before every stream.

I put effort into my looks, my outfits, even the ring light and camera angles. Presentation was everything.

My followers quickly rose from hundreds to tens of thousands. Many people clicked into my live room, but—

I watched the numbers with a mix of pride and anxiety. Something still wasn’t clicking.

There was a fatal problem: Most viewers stayed less than three minutes. Most fans and passersby left within thirty seconds.

They came for the spectacle, but didn’t stick around for the substance.

Simply put, I couldn’t keep people watching.

Although I was already better than most new streamers and fruit sellers, daily sales of 100–300 pounds were still a bit lackluster.

It was enough to get by, but not enough to change our lives.

As I pondered how to break this deadlock, Autumn suddenly called to meet.

Her texts were always short and to the point. “Come over. Need to talk.”

As soon as I sat down at her place, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

She had that look in her eye—the one she got before acing a test or winning a debate.

“I’ll solve your orange sales problem, on the condition that you pretend to be my boyfriend to get my mom off my back.”

I almost spit out my coffee. “You serious?”

Turns out her mom was pressuring her to get married, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

The whole thing sounded like a sitcom plot, but she was dead serious.

I asked how she’d help me with sales. She smiled, “Don’t forget what I do?”

She tapped her phone, as if that explained everything.

I shook my head. “Ban review, but…” Most people avoid that job.

I didn’t finish, but she understood.

She grinned, “Exactly. The essence of my job is dealing with content creators. I have good relationships with some big influencers.”

She paused, making sure I was paying attention.

“But—” she added seriously, “I can help you connect, but your oranges have to be top quality.”

I patted my chest. “Don’t worry, our oranges are the best.”

I pulled out a box. “Picked last night, brought you a box to try.”

She tasted and rated them ‘not bad.’

She nodded, but I could tell she was impressed.

Our partnership was officially established.

We shook on it, both a little nervous, but excited.

But things never go as planned. Neither of us expected—I went viral.

I was exposed online!

Thousands of netizens DM’d to curse me!

It started with a big order two days ago: a customer ordered 1,000 pounds of oranges.

I’d never had an order that big. My hands shook as I packed the boxes.

Because it was my first big order, I double-checked with the buyer, especially the quantity.

I messaged them three times, making sure I hadn’t misunderstood.

They said it was for employee gifts, and requested 20 pounds per box.

Sounded legit—who doesn’t like oranges?

After confirming it wasn’t a mistake, I agreed, and since we had a ‘buy five pounds, get one free’ promo, I gave them 200 pounds extra.

I figured a little generosity would go a long way.

I never expected that these 1,200 pounds of oranges would land me on the trending list.

A video titled ‘Female streamer failed at selling sex, now sells rotten goods’ went viral on Streamly.

My heart dropped when I saw the thumbnail. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

I clicked the video—screenshots from my previous streaming accident.

There I was, dress slipping, oranges rolling. It was mortifying.

A red-faced man tearfully claimed he bought over a thousand pounds of oranges from my stream, but half arrived rotten, and when he asked for a refund, I insulted him.

He sounded convincing—too convincing. The chat logs looked real, but I knew they weren’t mine.

With photos and supposed chat logs I’d never seen, it all looked like solid evidence.

My DMs exploded—vicious, crude, filthy, unimaginable language poured in like a flood.

I’d never seen so much hate in one place. My phone felt radioactive.

Old friends I hadn’t heard from in years messaged, all my group chats @’d me, my phone rang nonstop, and previous orange orders were cancelled.

I watched the video over and over. I’d never seen the man, and the oranges shipped were picked fresh that day.

I replayed the footage, trying to spot anything I missed.

If oranges naturally spoiled, the video’s situation was impossible. Only two possibilities:

First, shipping switched the goods.

Second, the buyer was framing me.

Either way, to prove my innocence, I needed video of packing and shipping to show the oranges left my place in good condition.

I raced through the house, looking for anything that could help. My mind spun.

Realizing this actually relieved me.

Because we already had security cameras at home—originally for theft prevention, facing the yard—unexpectedly providing evidence for this ‘accident.’

I’d always grumbled about those cameras, but now they were my saving grace.

As I was retrieving the footage, a call came in.

“Autumn, you—”

Before I could finish, Autumn quickly said, “Check your followers for someone named ‘FruitFan69.’ Any conflicts?”

Her tone was urgent. My stomach twisted.

‘FruitFan69’?

A bad memory flashed in my mind.

Since my account was unbanned, I got DMs daily from ‘FruitFan69.’

Messages included but weren’t limited to:

‘You there?’

‘Can you wear that outfit again? I’ve got cash, can tip you daily.’

‘I like your type, must be really flexible…’

‘By the way, love black stockings (wink)(wink), wear them next time.’

I’d ignored him at first, but he got creepier every day.

Annoyed, I blocked him, cursing before I did.

What did I say?

Oh, right.

‘Can’t even afford two pounds of oranges, get lost!’

I hit send and blocked him, feeling a little guilty but mostly relieved.

For arrogant creeps like that, you just have to hit their pride hard and not give them a chance to retort—they’ll go crazy on their own.

I’d seen enough trolls to know how this played out.

“What happened?” Autumn’s voice came again.

“He was harassing me.”

There was silence on the other end.

I realized Autumn wouldn’t mention someone unrelated to the online uproar.

So I asked, “Is ‘FruitFan69’ the 1,000-pound orange buyer?”

“Streamly’s backend shows the accounts ‘BigSpenderUSA’ and ‘FruitFan69’ are linked, and ‘BigSpenderUSA’ was just registered.”

My jaw clenched. The whole thing was a setup.

The truth became clear. I compared the chat screenshots from the rumor video with my chats with ‘FruitFan69.’

Sure enough, both had the same line: ‘Can’t even afford oranges, get lost.’

The evidence was right there, hiding in plain sight.