Chapter 2

My fingers found the hard bump through my uniform pocket, and the knot in my stomach finally loosened.

The underground hacker forum had delivered. Twelve hours since I'd hit "confirm order" on my burner phone, and the listening device I'd retrieved at midnight was ready.

Sharp whistle blasts drifted from the PE class outside. Feigning cramps, I'd excused myself and now stood alone in the empty locker room.

I took a deep breath and approached Natalie's locker.

In my past life, I'd stumbled upon her combination—Dylan's birthday.

The irony was sickening. My stepsister used my boyfriend's birthday as her passcode, and I hadn't understood what that meant until I died.

Click. The lock gave way.

Her sickly-sweet perfume hit me immediately.

I pulled the fingernail-sized chip from my pocket, peeled off the backing, and pressed it inside the ventilation slot at the top of the locker.

Perfectly concealed—unless someone stuck their head inside and looked straight up, they'd never spot it.

I closed the locker, wiped away any fingerprints, my heart hammering.

Back in class, I slipped one earbud in, my hair hiding it completely.

Third period was study hall. Static crackled, then the sound of a locker opening.

"Are you crazy? Here?" Natalie's voice, breathless and excited.

"What are you scared of? That bookworm's still in the library killing herself over her thesis." Dylan's voice, followed by nauseating kissing sounds and rustling fabric.

I stared at my calculus textbook, knuckles white around my pen, forcing down the nausea.

"Dylan, are you sure you can get her USB drive tonight?"

Natalie gasped out her words. "Stanford's final review is next week. If I can't submit a killer Capstone to cover my midterm grades, they'll yank my acceptance. Gideon will kill me."

"Relax, babe." Dylan's laugh was cold. "That idiot doesn't suspect a thing. I'll borrow her computer, copy the files—takes seconds. By the time she realizes it's gone, no time to rewrite."

"But... what if she accuses me of plagiarism?"

"With what proof? You submit first, it's yours. I'll testify I saw her copying you. Who believes a psycho when her own boyfriend testifies against her?"

Every word landed like a blade. I took a deep breath, my lips curling into an icy smile.

Want to steal my thesis? Fine. I'll hand-deliver it myself.

After school, I opened my laptop. My paper, "Analysis of Receptor Mutations in Neurotransmitters Under Extreme Stress Conditions," had been finished for weeks, encrypted and backed up to the cloud.

Now, I needed to prepare them a "special edition."

I created a new document, copied the original text, and began making careful modifications.

I kept the core arguments intact but subtly altered several crucial data points in the cited charts and graphs.

More devastatingly, I fabricated three nonexistent journal articles in the references. The author names were cobbled from Latin words, their initials spelling out: Charlotte.

I also embedded tiny white anti-plagiarism characters in the paragraph breaks and reference list.

Once uploaded to Turnitin, the system would flag the fabricated data and citations, then highlight the hidden text—"Original Author: Charlotte."

I named the file "Stanford_Review_Submission_CONFIDENTIAL.docx" and placed it center on my desktop.

At eight o'clock, Dylan knocked right on schedule.

"Charlotte, you busy?" He walked in with cut fruit, his smile easy and warm as ever.

"Just finished my thesis. I'm exhausted." I rubbed my temples, giving him a weak, dependent smile. "Thank God you're here, Dylan. I don't know how I'd get through this without you."

"Have some fruit and rest a bit. Hey, my computer just crashed—can I borrow yours to look something up? Just a few minutes." He gestured toward my laptop on the desk.

The lie was almost insulting in how transparent it was. But I nodded obediently. "Sure, go ahead. I'm going to take a shower anyway."

I grabbed my change of clothes and walked into the bathroom. After closing the door, I didn't turn on the water. Instead, I pressed my ear against the door, listening to the sounds outside.

The mouse clicks were rapid and greedy. In less than two minutes, the USB removal notification chimed.

"Done," Dylan muttered under his breath.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me didn't look frightened at all.

In my past life, I'd trusted this fake relationship too much, and it had cost me everything. This time, I'd make sure they choked on every last bit of it.

At dinner, the atmosphere around the long dining table was eerily quiet.

Gideon sat at the head, elegantly cutting the steak on his plate. He suddenly looked up, his gaze sharp as it fixed on me.

"Charlotte, I received a call from the school counselor today. They said you've not only been spacing out in class lately but also showing signs of talking to yourself."

Gideon paused, his stare cutting into me like a blade. "Combined with this morning's unprovoked glass-smashing and emotional outburst... it's genuinely concerning."

He was closing the net.

I set down my knife and fork, putting on a flustered, helpless expression. "I haven't, Gideon. This morning was just an accident. I've just been so focused on my thesis these past few days..."

"Is that so?"

Gideon wiped his mouth. "Before Mother passed, her greatest worry was your psychological resilience. You've always been withdrawn since childhood. Now, facing college pressure, I'm afraid you'll follow in your crazy grandmother's footsteps."

He deliberately emphasized the word "crazy."

I suppressed the emotions in my eyes and asked with difficulty, "What do you mean?"

"Nothing much. For your own health, I've already contacted the renowned psychiatrist Dr. Evans. He'll be here tomorrow afternoon to conduct a comprehensive psychological evaluation." Gideon's tone was unquestionably cold. "This is for your own good, Charlotte."

I looked at his sanctimonious face, my stomach turning.

For my own good?

Only three days remained until high school graduation and my eighteenth birthday.

Once that moment arrived, I'd be completely free of his guardianship and legally inherit the eighty-million-dollar trust fund my mother had left me.

He was this desperate because he needed to officially slap a "mentally ill" diagnosis on me before that countdown ended, making sure I'd never be able to legally touch a dime of it.

"Okay, I'll do what you say." I lowered my head, my voice thin and trembling, my narrow shoulders shaking slightly—the perfect image of prey with broken wings.

But beneath the tablecloth, hidden from their view, my right hand clutched the voice recorder in my pocket, my thumb pressing down firmly on the save button.

Feeling the faint vibration against my fingertip, a chilling satisfaction settled over me.

In my past life, it was this very Dr. Evans who'd collaborated with them, using a forged diagnosis to strip me to the bone.

Gideon thought this "surprise evaluation" was his perfect killing move.

But he couldn't possibly imagine that for someone who'd clawed her way back from hell, the "mentally ill" label was actually the perfect bulletproof vest for a counterattack.

Since they'd schemed so desperately, so eagerly wanting to see me lose control—

Tomorrow afternoon, I'd give them exactly the show they were looking for.