The morning sun clawed its way over the rooftops, casting pale gold streaks that slashed across the campus courtyard. Banners snapped sharply in the cold wind, their vibrant blues and golds flaring like battle standards in the crisp air. Beneath them, the school buzzed with barely contained energy—clusters of students gathered in tight huddles, necks bent toward glowing screens, voices pitching between excitement and dread. The air itself felt charged, a current that lifted the fine hairs on skin and pricked nerves to attention.
Lottie stood just inside the auditorium, one hand resting lightly on the cool metal doorframe, the other clenched so tightly around her phone her knuckles had gone pale. The soft glow of the screen painted her fingertips in ghostly light, and Leo's last message flickered across it: "We're ready. Say the word."
Her thumb hovered, the tip trembling imperceptibly. She drew in a sharp breath, chest tightening, and with a decisive flick, she typed: "Go."
The air in her lungs felt like glass as it left her, sharp and fragile all at once.
Outside, Evelyn's team moved with precision, a gleaming machine humming on the edge of overdrive. Perfectly curated videos flooded the school's feeds, hashtags cascaded down timelines, and Evelyn herself floated through the courtyard like a queen among her courtiers, sunlight glancing off her honey-gold hair. Her laugh rang out, light and bright as silver bells, cutting across the chill morning like an enchantment. To anyone watching, she was untouchable—a glittering monarch poised for triumph.
But Lottie saw the cracks.
Inside the media room, Leo crouched over his laptop, the screen's reflection flickering in his narrowed eyes. Fingers flew over keys, a predator's grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We're live in three… two… one." He hit the space bar with a decisive tap, and across the courtyard, every phone buzzed.
A ripple passed through the crowd, the shift of bodies as heads snapped downward, screens lighting up one after another like a wave of fireflies. Confusion flared first, then stillness spread like frost across faces as Lottie's voice crackled through the feed, smooth, calm, unmistakable.
"Good morning," her voice rolled through the courtyard speakers, undercut with steel. "Today isn't just about an election. It's about truth."
The effect was instantaneous. The courtyard froze, collective breath caught in a silent, shared inhale. Eyes swung toward the giant screen Leo had mounted near the auditorium steps, their glossy reflections catching Lottie's figure as she stepped into frame—shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes steady.
Evelyn, halfway through an artful pivot for the camera, faltered. Her hand tightened on the phone so sharply her knuckles blanched. The perfect tilt of her head slipped a fraction. Her eyes flicked to the headlines scrolling in bold, unforgiving font beneath Lottie's poised figure: "Anonymous Leaks Expose Campaign Fraud,""Charity Funds Diverted—Proof Inside,""Top Contender's Dark Secrets Revealed."
A sharp, audible intake of breath split the hush. Evelyn's lips parted, air catching ragged between clenched teeth. She turned sharply, sending her blonde waves snapping over her shoulder, and barked something to her PR manager—a sharp, clipped command that barely carried over the rising murmur.
Amy stood near the fountain, shoulders rigid, fingers pressed hard against her mouth. The cold stone bit into her back as she leaned slightly against it, eyes wide and gleaming with something between shock and dread. Her pulse hammered against the delicate skin of her throat, a frantic, battering rhythm. For weeks, the guilt had gnawed at her—small, sharp bites that left her hollowed out inside—but now, with Evelyn's mask slipping and the crowd's stunned faces turning toward the truth, the knot in her chest cinched painfully tight.
Without fully realizing it, Amy felt her body move—knees unlocking, feet pivoting, hands clenched at her sides. She stepped up onto the edge of the fountain, the cold stone biting into her palms as she steadied herself. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she swayed for a moment, the edges of her vision blurring.
"Wait!" Amy's voice cracked across the courtyard, thin but sharp, slicing through the murmuring air. "I have something to say!"
The crowd shuddered. Heads whipped around. Conversations died mid-breath, and phones snapped up, lenses glinting like a thousand tiny eyes. For a heartbeat, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Lottie's head snapped toward the fountain, dark eyes narrowing in swift calculation. Leo's voice crackled in her earpiece, sharp with tension: "She's going off-script."
Amy's chest heaved. Her legs trembled so hard she thought they might give out from under her. Evelyn's gaze locked on her like a harpoon, the weight of it pinning her in place. A silent plea, sharp and poisonous, threaded through Evelyn's taut expression: Don't you dare.
"I—" Amy's voice shook, thin and raw. She closed her eyes briefly, fingers curling into fists, fingernails biting crescent moons into her palms. When she opened her mouth again, the words tore out in a rush. "I've been lying. Evelyn—she made me lie."
The courtyard erupted.
A gasp rippled outward, a shiver running through the crowd as voices rose like birds startled from a wire. Whispers surged like a tide, a brittle laugh cracked somewhere near the back, and the sharp, metallic click of camera shutters sliced through the air. Evelyn took a step forward, one trembling hand half-extended, her eyes wide with something wild and shattering at the edges.
"Amy," Evelyn called, voice high and sweet as spun sugar, trembling at the corners, "you're confused. Let's talk about this—just you and me."
"Don't." Amy's voice cracked, but her chin lifted, defiant even through the wobble. Her cheeks burned hot, breath puffing white in the cold, but her spine straightened inch by inch. "You used me. You used all of us. And I'm done."
Lottie's hands curled into fists at her sides, the cold biting into her knuckles. She felt Leo's grin, sharp and wolfish, even across the distance. Her phone buzzed once—a single message from Mason sliding onto the screen: "Well played."
A strange ache twisted in Lottie's chest, tight and bittersweet.
From the stage, Lottie stepped forward, voice steady as she raised the microphone. "Thank you, Amy," she said quietly, each syllable threading through the chaos like a needle through silk. "You're braver than you know."
For a long, suspended moment, the courtyard hushed. Eyes swung, breath held, a collective pause stretching taut. And then, as if on a silent cue, the crowd's gaze turned to Evelyn.
The queen without a throne.
Evelyn's smile flickered, the sharp gleam in her eyes dimming. Her gaze skittered from face to face, searching—pleading—for a lifeline, for one loyal voice, one loyal face. But her supporters had drawn subtly away, forming a hesitant circle just beyond arm's reach, their eyes cast down, fingers frozen mid-tap on their phones.
Her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides, delicate and pale against the dark fabric of her coat, fingers grasping for a script that had burned to ash. She let out a brittle laugh, chin tipping upward in a fragile mimicry of poise, but it wavered, the corners of her mouth trembling.
The student council president, eyes wide and voice trembling, hurried onto the makeshift stage. "Due to recent revelations," she announced, voice breaking faintly on the first syllable, "we are temporarily halting the election to investigate allegations of misconduct."
Evelyn's breath hitched audibly, a thin, sharp gasp.
The courtyard shattered into noise—cheers, shouts, stunned laughter, the low thrum of hundreds of conversations overlapping, all crashing together in a surge that sent Evelyn staggering a half-step back. Her heels scraped on the stone, her posture stiffening as if to hold herself together through sheer force of will.
Lottie drew a slow, steady breath, tucking her hands into her coat pockets, shoulders rising and falling with a deliberate calm. Her gaze swept the courtyard, drinking in the chaos, the collapse, the first delicate unraveling of a long-built empire.
Amy stood alone by the fountain now, arms wrapped tightly around herself, the last shudders of adrenaline shaking her slight frame. Lottie moved toward her, boots crunching softly on the stone, the crowd parting like water. She stopped at Amy's side, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder, the warmth of it a quiet anchor.
"You okay?" Lottie murmured, voice pitched low.
Amy let out a breathless, shaky laugh, eyes brimming with tears. "I don't know," she whispered, voice thick. "But it feels… lighter."
From the edge of her vision, Lottie caught the flicker of Evelyn's retreat—shoulders squared, head high, a perfect silhouette outlined against the pale sky, the sunlight glancing cold and sharp off her hair. As Evelyn neared the edge of the crowd, she turned. Her eyes locked onto Lottie's, and the fury blazing there was pure, electric, a silent promise that cracked like thunder in the air.
Her lips curved, slow and razor-thin.
This isn't over.
Lottie's breath stilled in her chest. For one suspended heartbeat, the noise of the crowd faded, the cold gnawed deeper into her bones, and the sharp taste of victory soured faintly on her tongue.
Leo's hand settled briefly on her arm, a grounding pressure, his voice a low murmur at her ear. "Enjoy it, Whitaker. You earned this."
Her phone buzzed again. Mason's message glowed on the screen: "A shift has begun."
Lottie lifted her gaze to the horizon, the sun a pale flare in the brittle sky, her heartbeat steadying beneath the weight of what was won—and what waited. And somewhere beyond the edge of the courtyard, Evelyn's shadow slipped into the waiting dark, carrying the quiet, unbroken promise of war.