Chapter 2

I stood frozen in the empty hallway, their laughter echoing in my ears like shards of glass. My chest felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside and scooped out everything that mattered. The books in my arms—physics, calculus, literature—suddenly seemed to mock me. All that knowledge, and I couldn't see what was right in front of me.

"Totally bought it. You should have seen her face—like a puppy being kicked."

Ethan's words replayed in my mind as I walked home, each step heavier than the last. The Seattle drizzle matched my mood, a fine mist that slowly soaked through my clothes until I felt chilled to the bone.

I didn't cry. Not on the bus. Not as I walked up the long, winding driveway to my family's secluded mansion on Mercer Island. Not as I nodded politely to our housekeeper and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

Only when I closed my door, when I was truly alone, did I allow myself to sink to the floor, my back against the cool wood, and feel the full weight of my humiliation.

"Stupid," I whispered, pulling off my glasses and pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. "So incredibly stupid."

I had been willing to throw away Stanford—Stanford!—for a boy who saw me as nothing more than a joke, a convenient tool to be used and discarded.

After what felt like hours, I pulled myself up and moved to my desk. My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I entered the complex password that unlocked my private digital journal. The screen illuminated with lines of code—my own encryption system that no one at school would ever suspect I was capable of creating.

I began to type, my fingers flying across the keys:

I mapped out everything I knew about him—his desperate need for validation, his fear of failure, his mother's obsession with status. I charted Madison's insecurities, her fear of losing her position at the top of the social hierarchy. I analyzed their relationship, built on mutual convenience rather than genuine connection.

And then I began to plan.

The code flowed from my fingers, transforming raw emotion into logical steps. If they wanted to destroy my future, I would make sure they never got to enjoy theirs. Not through direct confrontation—that wasn't my style. But through careful, precise manipulation of the weaknesses I'd observed for years while they thought I was nothing.

By dawn, I had the skeleton of my revenge. The first target: Karen Blake, Ethan's status-obsessed mother.

* * *

The following morning, I chose my outfit carefully—still modest, still unremarkable, but slightly more polished than usual. I needed to look trustworthy, responsible. The kind of girl a mother would want influencing her son.

I knew Karen Blake's schedule from years of Ethan's casual mentions. Every Friday morning, she had coffee at Victrola on Capitol Hill before her yoga class. It was where she liked to be seen, where she could casually drop mentions of Ethan's latest achievements to her equally competitive friends.

I timed my arrival perfectly, ordering a simple black coffee and positioning myself at a table near the door. When Karen walked in, her blonde hair immaculate despite the persistent Seattle mist, I pretended to be engrossed in a Princeton Review guide.

"Chloe?" Her voice carried that artificial warmth she reserved for people she thought might be useful. "What a surprise!"

I looked up, feigning startled pleasure. "Mrs. Blake! Good morning."

"Studying hard, I see." She gestured to the guide with a manicured hand. "Though I hardly think you need it, with your grades."

I smiled shyly. "Thank you. Actually, I was looking at some information for Ethan."

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Oh?"

"His SAT scores came out yesterday." I lowered my voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "Mrs. Blake, has he ever considered Harvard or Yale? With scores like his, he really should aim higher than UCLA."

I watched her eyes widen, then gleam with naked ambition. "Harvard?"

"Mr. Thompson—you know, our college counselor—he mentioned Ethan specifically when we were discussing Ivy League candidates." The lie rolled off my tongue with surprising ease. "I just thought you should know. Ethan's so modest about his achievements sometimes."

Karen's chest puffed with pride. "Well, of course he has the potential. The Blakes have always been exceptional."

"Absolutely," I agreed, watching the seed take root. "He could definitely get in with the right application strategy."

As Karen launched into a monologue about Ethan's many talents, I nodded attentively, the perfect audience. Inside, though, I felt a cold satisfaction spreading through my chest. The first domino was set.

Later that evening, I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, dreading the call I needed to make. My parents were at a tech conference in Tokyo—as usual, physically and emotionally distant. But I needed to maintain appearances, to make sure no one suspected my true plans.

"Dad?" I said when he answered, my voice deliberately small. "I wanted to talk to you about Stanford."

"Is there a problem with your scholarship?" David Parker's voice was calm, analytical—the same tone he used when discussing coding issues.

"No, I—" I swallowed hard. "I'm thinking of deferring. Just for a year."

A long pause followed. Then, surprisingly: "If that's your choice, Chloe, we trust your judgment."

No questions. No demands for explanations. Just quiet acceptance of whatever I decided, as if my future were of no more consequence than choosing what to have for dinner.

As I hung up, I felt something harden inside me. My parents might not care enough to question my decisions, but I was done making choices based on what other people wanted or expected.

I turned back to my computer, to my growing plan coded in a language no one at school could decipher.

Ethan Blake thought he knew me. Thought he could use me and discard me.

He had no idea what was coming.