Chapter 8

Carly Tillman sat at her vanity mirror in her massive bedroom, applying a coat of expensive lip gloss.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

She picked it up. It was an email from the private investigator her mother had hired.

Carly opened the attachment.

Her eyes widened. There were photos of Ayla stepping out of a bulletproof SUV at the Obsidian Estate. There were photos of Ayla confronting their mother in front of a Maybach.

Carly's grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Jealousy, hot and acidic, burned in her throat.

"Obsidian Estate?" Carly hissed to herself. "How the hell did she get in there?"

There was no way Ayla had the connections or the money. In Carly's mind, there was only one logical explanation.

With a vicious snarl, Carly swept her arm across the vanity. Bottles of perfume and expensive makeup crashed to the hardwood floor, shattering into pieces.

She grabbed her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen.

She uploaded the photos of Ayla getting out of the luxury SUV to an anonymous burner account.

Look at the new trash in Class 15, she typed. Selling her body to old men to pay for her tuition. Disgusting.

She hit send, blasting the post to the St. Jude's school forum and every major gossip group chat.

At that exact moment, miles away in the study of the Obsidian Estate, Aron Lawrence sat behind a massive oak desk.

Morgan knocked twice and entered, carrying a thick manila folder. He placed it on the desk.

"Full background check on Ayla Haley, boss," Morgan said, his brow furrowed.

Aron opened the folder. He pulled out the stack of papers and began to read.

The file was pathetic. It showed a childhood in a rundown Nevada orphanage. It showed terrible grades, multiple truancy records, a stint working the fryer at a fast-food joint, and a juvenile detention record for a violent assault.

Every page had official police stamps and social worker signatures.

"Her background is garbage, boss," Morgan said, shaking his head. "She's a street rat."

Aron didn't speak. He stared at the juvenile detention record. His long, calloused finger began to tap a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood of the desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Morgan," Aron's voice was low, vibrating with dark amusement. "How does a girl who flips burgers in Nevada know the exact chemical breakdown of a mutated deep-sea neurotoxin?"

Morgan froze. The color drained from his face as the logic hit him.

Aron picked up the file and tossed it back onto the desk.

"This file is a ghost," Aron said, his eyes gleaming with dangerous fascination. "It's too perfect. Every stamp is flawless. Every signature is perfectly legible. Someone built this identity to hide a monster."

Whoever forged this had access to government mainframes.

"Call off the investigation," Aron ordered. "If we keep digging, we'll trip her alarms. I'll handle her myself."

Back in the crowded hallways of St. Jude's, Ayla and Clotilde were walking toward their lockers.

The atmosphere had changed. Students were no longer just staring; they were pointing, laughing, and whispering loudly.

"Fifty bucks says the guy in the SUV is over sixty," a cheerleader snickered to her friend as they walked past.

Clotilde stopped. She pulled out her phone and opened the school forum.

Her face turned bright red. "Ayla! Look at this! They're saying you're a sugar baby! I'm going to kill whoever posted this!"

Ayla leaned over and glanced at the screen. She saw the photo of herself at the Obsidian Estate.

Instead of anger, a slow, dark smirk spread across Ayla's lips.

Her stomach didn't tighten. Her pulse didn't race. She just felt a profound sense of pity for whoever was stupid enough to declare digital war on her.

"Let them talk," Ayla said, her voice terrifyingly calm.