The courtyard had never been so still. A hush rippled through the crowd as the last seconds of Lottie's exposé flickered across dozens of phone screens, her measured voice cutting through the brittle morning air like a scalpel. Phones quivered in clammy hands, mouths hung half open, and Evelyn Hayes—once the school's untouchable golden girl—stood frozen in the center of it all, a statue crumbling under the weight of a thousand eyes.
From her post at the auditorium steps, Lottie stood motionless, one hand curled loosely around her phone. The glow of the screen lit her fingertips ghost-pale, the last message from Leo still pulsing on it: "It's going viral." But she didn't need to check. She felt it in the air, in the taut, electric tension crackling from student to student, passing like a current. The murmurs. The furtive glances. The sharp gasps that sliced the air like tiny, jagged knives.
Evelyn's inner circle faltered first. Maddie Hart, Evelyn's shadow since freshman year, shifted her weight, eyes darting nervously between Evelyn and the frozen crowd. Her hands fluttered as if to reach for Evelyn, then curled inward at the last second, fingers fisting in her sleeves. A sharp intake of breath came from behind, and the rest followed—friends, campaign aides, social climbers, all beginning to edge back, away from the bright, burning center of collapse. The careful empire Evelyn had built—the hand-picked endorsements, the flawless campaign videos, the immaculate image—was crumbling in real time, and no one wanted to be buried in the wreckage.
By the fountain, Amy trembled. Her arms clenched tight around herself, nails digging crescent moons into her sleeves. She shook, chest hitching with every ragged inhale, but in her tear-streaked eyes, something flickered—a defiance raw and jagged-edged. The words she had hurled only moments before—"Evelyn—she made me lie"—echoed in her ears, shaking through her ribs like the aftershock of an earthquake. She tasted fear, tasted freedom. Her heart thudded against her chest, wild and uneven, but for the first time in months, the air didn't feel suffocating.
A gust of wind tore through the courtyard, rattling the campaign banners strung along the stone columns. Evelyn's PR team, clustered behind her like a nervous flock of birds, snapped to attention. Tablets glowed with frantic notifications, fingers darted over keyboards, whispered commands hissed from ear to ear. But Evelyn stood unnervingly still. Her back was ramrod-straight, shoulders locked, fists clenched so tightly at her sides that the diamond on her ring carved angry red dents into her palm. A tremor flickered along her knuckles as she exhaled, a slow, tight pull of air. The corners of her mouth twitched upward—too sharp, too smooth, a porcelain smile painted over cracked glass.
"Spin it," Evelyn murmured to the handler nearest her, her voice like the edge of a blade. "Now."
But for the first time, the handler hesitated. Just half a second. Just enough for the fracture lines to widen.
Behind them, the hallway monitors ticked over, the digital vote counter flashing. Lottie's gaze swept to the numbers as they slid, the votes falling away from Evelyn like sand spilling from a broken hourglass. A sharp metallic clang rang out across the courtyard—the main campaign banner, its cord frayed, snapping free and crashing onto the pavement. The sound cracked through the frozen silence like a gunshot.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
And then the reporters surged.
They poured through the gates in a blur of dark coats and swinging cameras, microphones thrust forward like spears. Evelyn's head jerked up, her mouth parting in a flash of raw, unguarded panic before she caught herself, smoothing her face into the polished smile she'd perfected over years.
"Evelyn! Evelyn, what's your comment on the leaked documents?"
"Did you falsify the charity reports?"
"Can you address the whistleblower's accusations?"
Her fingers twitched, once, twice, before rising in a graceful motion—her signature gesture, the one that usually charmed a crowd into silence. But the voice that emerged was thin, cracked at the edges, a frayed thread struggling to hold.
"I—" Evelyn began, but the word splintered. A sharp, white fissure in the middle of her composure.
Lottie felt it deep in her chest—not triumph, not glee, but a hollow ache curling beneath her ribs. This was victory. Not the kind that soared or glittered, but the kind that cut, clean and cold, leaving behind an ache where certainty once lived.
Her phone buzzed once. Mason: "Well played."
Leo appeared at her side, breath misting in the chill air, his grin sharp with adrenaline. "It's everywhere," he murmured, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Reddit, TikTok, Twitter—Evelyn Hayes is trending, and not for the right reasons."
"Let them," Lottie murmured, her voice low, her gaze sliding over the courtyard. She watched as Evelyn's orbit collapsed—the whispered conversations, the glances over shoulders, the shifting feet edging back from the imploding star at the center.
But it was Amy's stifled, hitching breath that pulled Lottie's focus.
She moved.
Boot heels clicking softly on the stone, Lottie crossed the courtyard, students parting instinctively, the murmured undercurrent folding around her like water. Amy jerked slightly as Lottie reached out, a tremor racing through her body when cool fingers brushed her shoulder.
"You okay?" Lottie's voice was quiet, edged with steel but softened at the core.
Amy let out a breathless laugh, choked and sharp at the same time. "I—I don't know." She swiped a trembling hand across her cheek, fingers cold and damp. "It's like… like I can finally breathe."
Lottie's mouth curved at the corner, the faintest hint of warmth flickering through her otherwise cool expression. "You were brave." The words were soft, almost lost in the air between them, but they landed heavy, and Amy sagged forward slightly, shoulders hitching on a shaky exhale.
Across the courtyard, Evelyn's eyes snapped to them, sharp as a thrown blade. For a moment, her mask cracked—the faintest tremor along her mouth, the twitch of her jaw. Then she drew in a slow, deliberate breath, shoulders pulling back. Her chin lifted, eyes narrowing to a gleaming, dangerous sliver.
Lottie met the look head-on, the weight of Evelyn's fury sliding over her skin like a winter wind. She didn't flinch.
And Evelyn turned, slicing through the reporters, her handlers scrambling in her wake. Just before she vanished beneath the archway, she looked back—one last, searing glance. The message etched into every sharp line of her face was unmistakable.
This isn't over.
A flicker of cold slid down Lottie's spine, a brief tightening in her chest. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, brushing the edge of her coat pocket, the cool metal of her phone grounding her.
Leo's voice drifted from behind, low and dry. "She's not done."
"Didn't think she would be," Lottie murmured, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. Her phone buzzed—Mason again: "Reporters at the front. Stay sharp."
"Come on," she said to Amy, her tone shifting, crisp and composed. "Let's get you inside."
The media wave hit just as they reached the auditorium doors. Cameras flared, the light blinding for an instant, and a surge of voices rose in a chaotic tide.
"Lottie! Lottie, how long have you known?"
"Do you have a statement about Evelyn's misconduct?"
"Did you orchestrate this campaign?"
The reporters lunged forward, microphones thrusting, bodies pressing close, the air thick with flashbulbs and rising heat. Even from a distance, Lottie could hear Evelyn's handlers snapping at each other, the sharp crack of orders, the brittle edge of panic threading through their voices. Evelyn's silhouette was visible just beyond the reporters—a queen in retreat, her head high but her hands clenched white at her sides.
Inside, the auditorium was cooler, dimmer, the chaos muffled beyond the heavy doors. Leo was already at the laptop, his grin wicked as he flicked through sentiment charts.
"Twenty-five percent approval drop in under two hours," he reported, glancing up. "She's tanking."
Lottie ran a hand lightly across the edge of the table, fingers brushing over the keyboard without pressing a single key. The screen flickered with headlines, comment threads, hashtags twisting into virality. She felt it—not just the weight of the moment, but the delicate, brutal balance of it.
A soft voice at her side tugged her back.
"What now?" Amy asked, voice raw, threaded with something that was half hope, half dread.
Lottie's eyes softened, just barely. "Now," she murmured, quiet and firm, "we make sure it sticks."
Outside, the campaign banner dragged across the stone, the wind snapping it sharply, over and over. Beyond the window, Lottie caught a glimpse of Evelyn's father striding down the steps, phone pressed tight to his ear, his face carved into lines of fury and calculation.
The storm was far from over.
And Lottie stood at the edge of it, pulse steady, gaze clear, her fingers curling loosely as the weight of everything pressed in—and held.