Chapter 3

The Senator' s pronouncements echoed. The gala continued, but the air was different, charged.

Marcus was seething, forced to watch me, his allowance cut, his pride wounded.

Ethan avoided my gaze, his future uncertain. He knew begging for forgiveness now, in public, would only make it worse.

Chloe was gone.

Father stayed by my side for a while, his presence a shield and a statement.

"You handled that well, Ava," he murmured, his eyes proud. "Though I wish it hadn't been necessary."

"Thank you, Father," I said. I leaned my head on his shoulder for a moment, a rare public display of affection. He squeezed my hand.

He was the ultimate authority. His word was law in our world.

He had punished Marcus, fired Ethan, and banished Chloe.

The consequences were immediate and clear.

My mother, Eleanor, glided over, her smile serene. "A little excitement, but your father has restored order, darling." She kissed my cheek. "Happy birthday, my strong girl."

I felt a wave of triumph. The initial, public humiliation of my enemies was complete.

The rest of the evening was mine. I danced, I laughed, I accepted congratulations.

I was the undisputed heiress, favored and protected.

The next week, back at our Ivy League university, the fallout continued.

Chloe Vance, stripped of my patronage, was suddenly adrift.

I made no effort to speak to her, to even acknowledge her presence in shared classes.

The elite students, the ones who had previously tolerated Chloe because of me, now saw her for what she was: an outsider, a pretender.

Their torment of Chloe began subtly.

A "misplaced" textbook before an important exam.

Snide whispers that stopped when she turned around.

"Accidental" shoves in crowded hallways.

Chloe tried to complain to me.

"Ava, they' re being horrible to me," she' d say, her eyes pleading. "You have to tell them to stop."

I would look at her with feigned surprise. "Tell who to stop, Chloe? I haven' t seen anything."

If she brought "evidence" – a nasty note, a spoiled assignment – I would express concern, promise to look into it, and then the evidence would conveniently get "misplaced" from my possession.

She tried complaining to university authorities.

But without my backing, without any concrete proof I hadn't already neutralized, her complaints went nowhere. She was seen as hysterical, overly sensitive.

The torment escalated.

Her locker was vandalized with cruel words.

She was openly mocked in the dining hall.

Isolated and harassed, her grades plummeted.

She became a ghost of her former self, pale, anxious, her ambition curdled into despair.

One morning, her seat in our shared Political Science lecture was empty.

It remained empty.

A week later, news circulated. Chloe Vance had withdrawn from the university.

A "nervous breakdown," the official story went.

I feigned concern when people asked. "It' s so tragic," I' d say. "Poor Chloe. I hope she gets the help she needs."

Inside, I felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

One down.