Chapter 3

I walked up to the Peterson' s front door feeling a strange calm. I had dressed the part: a simple sweater, my hair pulled back, my face scrubbed clean of makeup. I was playing the role of the sad, confused, and forgiving friend. My heart was a cold, hard stone in my chest. In my pocket, my phone was silently recording audio, and the thumb drive felt like a weapon.

Mrs. Peterson opened the door, her face a perfect painting of warm relief.

"Sarah! Oh, I'm so glad you came," she said, pulling me into a hug that felt like a cage. "We were so worried."

The house smelled of roasted chicken and expensive air freshener. In the living room, Jake and Emily were sitting a little too close on the couch. They looked up as I entered, Jake with a practiced look of remorse, Emily with a flicker of triumph in her eyes.

"Sarah, I'm so sorry," Jake began, standing up. "I was an idiot. I was scared, and I lied. I should have just told you the truth."

"We were both just so excited about CIT," Emily chimed in, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Jake was afraid of hurting your feelings, of leaving you behind."

They were Tag-teaming me, weaving a new net of lies around the old one.

We sat down for dinner. The conversation was a nightmare of forced cheerfulness. Mrs. Peterson talked about the "wonderful memories" our families shared. Mr. Peterson, a quiet, stern man I barely knew, nodded along, talking about the importance of loyalty.

"You and Jake, you're more like family than friends," Mrs. Peterson said, placing a hand over mine on the table. "That's why we were so happy to hear you were considering the state university with him. It would be a fresh start for you both, a way to stay connected."

She was still pushing the lie. Even after I knew. The audacity was breathtaking.

"You know," I said, my voice quiet but clear, cutting through her monologue. "That's a good point, Mrs. Peterson. You're right. Loyalty is important."

I looked directly at Jake. "So why did you lie?"

The room went silent. The clinking of forks stopped.

"Sarah, we went over this," Jake said, his voice tight.

"No, we didn't," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "You told me you failed. You begged me to throw away my future for you. Why?"

"I was protecting you!" he burst out, his voice rising.

"Protecting me from what? Success?" I let out a short, bitter laugh. "Or were you protecting 'Project Nightingale'?"

The color drained from Mrs. Peterson' s face. Mr. Peterson froze, his wine glass halfway to his lips. Jake looked like I had physically struck him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered.

"Don't you?" I pulled the thumb drive from my pocket and placed it on the pristine white tablecloth. It sat there, small and black, a bomb in the middle of their perfect dinner party.

"It's all on here," I said. "The business plan. The 'acquisition strategy' for my AI. The mock-ups with the Peterson Technologies logo. All of it."

Emily's smirk was gone, replaced by pure, undisguised fury. "You snooped on his private files? You're insane!"

"He used our shared server to plot how to steal my life's work," I shot back. "I think that cancels out any expectation of privacy."

"You ungrateful little brat!" Mrs. Peterson hissed, her sweet facade crumbling to reveal the venom beneath. "After everything we've done for you! We treated you like a daughter!"

"You treated me like an asset," I said, standing up. "A resource to be exploited for your failing company. Our friendship, my entire life, was just another part of your business plan."

I looked at Jake, at the boy who was once my other half. There was no remorse in his eyes now, only cold, cornered rage.

"It's over, Jake," I said, the words feeling like a final, painful surgery. "Whatever we were, it's done. You're not my friend. You're a thief and a liar."

He lunged across the table, his face a mask of fury. He wasn't trying to talk anymore. He was trying to grab the thumb drive.

"You're not ruining this for me!" he roared.

I stumbled backward, knocking my chair over. He was bigger and stronger, and for a terrifying second, I thought he would actually hurt me.

Just then, the front door burst open.

"Sarah?"

It was my dad. His face was etched with worry. I had sent him a single text before I came in: "Peterson's. If I'm not out in an hour, call the police."

He took in the scene in an instant-the overturned chair, my terrified face, Jake's aggressive posture. He moved to my side, putting a protective arm around me.

"We're leaving," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Jake took a step back, his rage deflating into sullen silence. Mrs. Peterson was sputtering, trying to salvage the situation, but it was too late. The masks were off for good.

My dad guided me out of the house and into the cool night air. I didn't look back.

In the car, the adrenaline faded, leaving a hollow ache. I told him everything, the words tumbling out in a rush. He just listened, his hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder.

When I was done, he just said, "I'm proud of you."

When we got home, I walked straight to my laptop. I opened the admissions portal for MIT. I clicked the button.

"I accept your offer of admission."

A chapter of my life had ended in a fire of betrayal. But a new one was just beginning.