Chapter 5 5

Wainwright pushed open the heavy double mahogany doors of the Student Council President's office. He was out of breath.

Dontae Vance sat behind a massive leather desk. His dark eyes were locked onto the scrolling stock data on his Bloomberg terminal.

Wainwright walked forward and placed the handwritten loose-leaf paper carefully on the desk.

Dontae shifted his gaze. His eyes swept over the sharp, aggressive handwriting. He read the formulas.

His jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck corded. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned stark white.

Dontae snapped his head up. "Which Wall Street analyst gave you this?"

Wainwright swallowed hard. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck. "It wasn't an analyst, sir. It was... Scarlett Sinclair."

Dontae froze. He stared at Wainwright. His eyes darkened with sudden, violent anger. He thought the professor was playing a very stupid joke on him.

Helen Mercer, the council assistant standing by the wall, quickly tapped her tablet. She pulled up the security footage from Class Z. She mirrored it to the large screen on the wall.

The video showed Scarlett sitting at her desk. Her face was completely blank. Her hand moved rapidly across the paper, writing the exact formulas Dontae was holding.

Dontae stared at the screen. He watched the woman he had always considered a pathetic, brainless stalker tear apart his family's billion-dollar deal with a fountain pen.

His worldview cracked.

"Get out," Dontae said to Wainwright. He didn't look away from the screen.

Down in the academy's Michelin-star cafeteria, Scarlett carried her tray to a quiet corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She sat down. She picked up her silver knife and fork and cleanly sliced into her beef Wellington.

The chair across from her was pulled out with a loud scrape.

Harlow Montoya dropped into the seat. He was the heir to the Montoya Consortium, known for his endless string of scandals.

A heavy wave of expensive cologne hit Scarlett's nose. Beneath it was the sickeningly sweet smell of cheap women's perfume.

Harlow leaned his elbows on the table. He gave her a lazy, mocking smile.

"Playing hard to get today, Scarlett?" Harlow drawled. "It's a new look. But I haven't forgotten you standing in the rain for three hours just to hand me an umbrella."

The students at the surrounding tables stopped eating. They watched, waiting for Scarlett to beg for his attention.

Scarlett set her knife and fork down. She picked up a white napkin and dabbed the corner of her mouth.

She looked up. Her eyes swept over Harlow like he was a piece of rotting garbage on the sidewalk.

"There is a smudge of cheap red lipstick on your collar," Scarlett said, her voice devoid of any inflection. "And the dark circles under your eyes suggest severe sleep deprivation. Combined with your pallor and slight hand tremors, I'd say your kidneys are failing."

Harlow's smirk vanished. A heavy, suffocating pressure settled over the table.

Scarlett leaned forward slightly. "You are filthy."

She looked straight into his eyes. "Before you sit at my table again, I suggest you go through a chemical decontamination chamber."

Harlow's face turned dark red. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up violently. His knee hit the table leg. His water glass tipped over, spilling ice water all over his expensive pants.

His pride was bleeding out on the floor. He pointed a shaking finger at her face, opening his mouth to scream at her.

Scarlett didn't even look at him. She picked up her knife and fork and cut another piece of steak. She treated him like empty air.

Harlow's fists clenched. He looked around at the staring crowd. He turned and stormed out of the cafeteria, his wet pants clinging to his legs.

"Cognitive restructuring detected in surrounding male subjects," the system pinged weakly in her head.