Chapter 3
I curled up on the cold bed, burying my face in my knees, forcing myself to sound cheerful. "Mom, I'm fine. Everything's going well. My teacher likes me, and I have enough money. Don't worry."
Mom said, "That's good. Our family was talking about you the other day, saying that since you're out there all alone, don't be too stingy on yourself. Make sure you eat well..."
As I listened to Mom's rambling, tears fell silently down my face, each drop hitting the worn-out sheets and leaving a small, dark stain.
I couldn't afford to waste any energy crying. Strength was for surviving, not for tears.
After hanging up, an oppressive silence filled the room. I hugged my knees, staring out at the gray sky, feeling as if the world was devouring me.
Just when I thought I'd rot away in this room, there was a knock at the door.
I thought it was the landlord, but when I opened the door, I saw a man I'd never met before, someone with such a commanding presence that I couldn't ignore him.
He was dressed in a tailored dark gray suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. His hair was perfectly styled. He looked to be in his thirties, refined and polished, but his eyes were as sharp as a scalpel, as if he could see right through all my flaws and vulnerability.
He didn't move to come in, just stood in the doorway, looking down at her. "Miss Walters?" His pronunciation of my first language was flawless, with that unmistakable aloofness that only the elite seemed to possess.
I nodded warily.
He gave a slight smile and handed me a sleek black business card. It had a premium feel, with the name Eugene Shelton stamped in gold and a phone number.
I didn't take it.
He didn't seem to care, simply withdrew his hand and introduced himself in a calm, matter-of-fact way. "I'm Mr. Fleming's attorney."
My heart tightened.
He went on, his voice as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather. "I could have sent you a legal notice for your baseless accusations against Mr. Fleming. But my client is generous. He thinks you're young and foolish, so he's willing to give you a chance."
He took an envelope from his suit pocket, opened it slowly, and pulled out a check, holding it between two fingers as he handed it to me. "This is 65 thousand dollars. Take it, sign a settlement agreement, and this will all be over."
65 thousand dollars. It was more than I could ever save in ten years of work. He was using that money to buy my dignity, to clear Owen's name.
I looked at the check and suddenly let out a laugh, my shoulders trembling. "What if I refuse?"
A cold, unsurprised glint flickered in Eugene's eyes behind his glasses. He slipped the check away and pulled out a stack of photos, tossing them onto the floor one by one, like dealing cards.
The photos showed me scrubbing dishes in a kitchen, handing out flyers on the street, and trudging along in faded work clothes, me face weary and drained.
Each shot froze me at my most vulnerable, rock-bottom moments.
"Miss Walters, you're a smart girl." Eugene's voice turned cold as ice. "These photos, along with a few sensational stories like 'Poor international student frames a rich family's son for money'... What do you think your school will say?
"What about your relatives back in your country? And your mother, still lying in that hospital bed?"
He bent down, getting close, his voice barely above a whisper, every word dripping venom, hissing right into my ear.
He added, "You'll be expelled, sent back home in disgrace, and marked as a liar for life. All your hard work, all your family's hopes, will become nothing but a cruel joke."
He straightened up, fixed his tie, and slipped back into his polished, composed self. "Or you can take the money and walk away with your dignity. You have one night to make your choice."
The door closed behind him. I slowly crouched down, gathering the photos and the featherlight check from the floor.
The number on the check was massive, almost blinding. Those zeros stared back at me, an uncrossable abyss, and a set of custom-fitted shackles meant just for me.
*****
The verdict was final.
I lost.
The cold, meaningless syllables of the verdict drifted past my ears. I barely registered a word. My eyes were fixed on Eugene as he stood up from the defendant's table, calmly adjusting his cufflinks.
Behind those glasses, his gaze cut through the entire courtroom and landed on me with surgical precision.
There was no hint of victory in his eyes, just a clinical indifference, the way a scientist might regard a test subject.
It was as if he were saying, "See? Another overconfident specimen, perfectly dissected."
The trial felt like a meticulously choreographed slaughter. Eugene didn't waste time with flashy legal terms. He simply projected those photos onto the big screen.