Chapter 4

I grabbed a pen and jotted down a few lines in the blank space of the newspaper.

Lucas' fatal weaknesses were these.

His stepmother, Evelyn, had his mother's will locked away, and inside it was a clause about the Sterling Holdings shares that could finish him.

There was a hidden clause in the share transfer agreement his mother signed for Sterling Holdings, and that was the real kill shot. The agreement is still with Michael Grant, the lawyer who handled everything for his mother.

He was terrified of Evelyn, right down to his bones. Because she knew a secret he'd do anything to keep hidden. Lucas' real mother didn't die from illness.

She was pushed to her death by Richard and Evelyn together, and Lucas kept his mouth shut, covering it all up.

I set the pen down, a slow smirk curling at the corners of my lips.

In my last life, Lucas used my feelings to strip me of everything. This time, I'll make him taste what it's like to be used and tossed aside with nothing left.

Not with love, but with the thing he treasures most, Sterling Holdings.

Monday morning, I walked right into Central City High School, my old backpack hanging from one shoulder.

That backpack was from Mom, back when she was still around. It was faded from too many washes, and the strap broke once, but I'd stitched it up myself, every thread holding on.

The security guard at the gate gave me a look, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. I could practically hear him wondering whether that kid hadn't dropped out, and what she was doing back here.

I shot him a quick grin and headed straight for the school building.

My classroom was on the third floor. As I turned the corner on the second floor, I heard a voice I knew all too well.

"Wow, isn't that Jessica? Didn't she say her parents died and she couldn't afford school? How does she have the guts to show her face here?"

The one talking was Sophie Clarke. In my last life, she led the campaign to freeze me out. Her family had money from a building-supply business, and she ran her own clique in class; anyone who crossed her had a miserable time.

Back then, dropping out wasn't just about money; Sophie played a big part, too. Every day, she'd mock me, hide my homework, toss my backpack in the sink, and scrawl "bad luck girl whose parents died" across my desk with a marker.

I endured it because life was already hard enough, and I didn't want to stir up any more trouble.

But this time, things were different.

I stopped, turned around, and gave Sophie a sweet smile. "Hey, Sophie, your makeup's a bit uneven."

Sophie froze, her hand flying to her face.

The girls around her glanced over, and a few couldn't help but snicker.

Sophie's face turned bright red as she shot me a vicious glare. "Jessica, you—"

"Oh, by the way," I cut her off, pulling a folded piece of paper from my backpack. I unfolded it and waved it in front of her. "I found your cheat sheet from the last monthly exam. Want to see what's written on it?"

Sophie's face went from red to pale.

Of course, that paper wasn't real evidence of her cheating. In my last life, I never found any cheat sheet.

But I remembered clearly. Back in the first semester of sophomore year, Sophie got caught with a cheat sheet during the math exam by the head of discipline. The whole thing blew up, and she almost got written up.

But now, the monthly exam hadn't even started yet.

But I was counting on her guilty conscience.

Sure enough, Sophie's eyes darted away, her lips trembled, and she didn't say a word. She turned and walked away quickly.

The girls nearby exchanged nervous glances, then scattered like startled birds.

I folded the paper back up, put it in my backpack, and kept walking toward the classroom.

Most of the seats were already filled. As I walked in, some people shot me surprised looks, while others kept their heads down, whispering and gossiping behind my back.

I scanned the room and found my spot, the window seat in the very back corner.

In my last life, that was always my place, all because Sophie decided I wasn't good enough for the front row.

This time, I wasn't about to change that now.

From there, I could see the whole classroom, the playground outside, and even the mountains in the distance.

Not bad at all.

I set my backpack down and pulled out my textbook, flipping through it. It was still the one from last semester, the corners all bent and worn, with a few pages marked up with my notes.

As I flipped through, I landed on a page where, in bold red ink, someone had written: [Jessica, you'll ace the exam and leave this place.]

It was Mom's handwriting.

My eyes stung, but I held back the tears.

The bell rang, and our homeroom teacher, Christopher Johnson, walked in. He was in his forties with a receding hairline and thick-rimmed glasses, and he had a stack of papers under one arm.