Chapter 3

Ally Gomez POV:

I knocked on the heavy oak door of Professor Albright' s office, my knuckles barely making a sound. A tight, cold knot of dread was coiling in my stomach.

\"Come in.\"

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. My eyes immediately fell on the person sitting in the chair opposite the professor' s desk, and my heart plummeted.

Kennedy Kaufman.

She looked up as I entered, her wide, innocent blue eyes meeting mine. For a split second, I saw a flash of pure, unadulterated triumph in their depths, a smug, predatory glint. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a mask of nervous, doe-eyed vulnerability.

Professor Albright' s face was a thundercloud. He didn' t greet me. He just slapped two bound papers down on his desk with a loud crack that made me flinch.

\"Miss Gomez. Miss Kaufman,\" he said, his voice dangerously low. \"Perhaps one of you would care to explain why your final theses are nearly identical.\"

My gaze dropped to the papers. My thesis. And another, with Kennedy' s name on the cover. My blood turned to ice.

\"I don' t have to tell you,\" Professor Albright continued, his glare shifting between us, \"that academic dishonesty is the single greatest sin at this institution. I am giving you one chance. One of you needs to confess right now.\"

\"Professor, I swear, I didn't copy,\" Kennedy burst out immediately, her voice trembling artfully. She looked on the verge of tears. \"I worked on this paper for months. Every word is my own.\"

I stared at the two theses, my mind reeling. My work. My research. My words. Stolen and twisted into this nightmare. \"I didn't copy either,\" I said, my voice barely a whisper. My own throat felt tight, as if a hand was squeezing it shut.

Professor Albright rubbed his temples, a vein throbbing there. \"Then provide me with proof. Drafts. Notes. Anything.\"

\"I have a witness,\" Kennedy said quickly, her eyes darting toward the door.

As if on cue, the office door opened again.

Branson Ayers walked in.

He didn't even look at me. It was as if I was a piece of furniture, an insignificant object in the room. His cool, grey eyes went straight to Professor Albright.

\"Professor,\" he said, his voice calm and authoritative. \"I can vouch for Kennedy. I was with her throughout the entire writing process. I saw her write every single draft.\" He paused, then his gaze finally, briefly, flickered to me, devoid of any warmth. \"As for how the papers ended up so similar... I believe you' ll have to ask Miss Gomez that.\"

The implication was clear. Devastatingly clear.

And just like that, the scales of justice, already so heavily weighted by the Ayers and Kaufman family names, tipped completely. Professor Albright looked at Branson, the business school prodigy, the heir to a global empire, and then he looked at me, the disgraced scholarship girl from the porn video. The verdict was instantaneous.

\"Ally Gomez!\" he roared, his face turning a blotchy red. \"I am beyond disappointed. I took you under my wing! I believed in you! And you repay that faith with plagiarism? With this... this filth?\"

I stared at Branson, my entire being screaming in silent protest. Why? I wanted to shriek. You already took my scholarship. You took my dignity. You took my heart and let your brother use my body. Why this too?

I knew why. It was to protect Kennedy. To erase any possible stain on her record, to ensure her path was flawless. And I was just collateral damage. The final loose end to be snipped away.

Any explanation I could offer would be useless. It was my word against the golden boy and his princess. I was already condemned. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, it felt like my ribs were cracking.

\"Branson, Kennedy, you may leave,\" Professor Albright said, his voice calmer now, but laced with icy finality. \"I will handle this.\"

He waited until the door clicked shut behind them before turning his full fury back on me. He lectured me for what felt like an eternity, his words about integrity and honor washing over me in a meaningless drone. The only words that registered were the final ones.

\"Your thesis is void. A mark for academic misconduct will be permanently placed on your record.\"

I walked out of his office like a zombie, my soul scraped raw.

And there he was. Leaning against the corridor wall, waiting for me. Branson.

I stopped, my feet rooted to the spot. \"Why?\" The word was a dry, ragged tear in the silence. \"Why would you do that?\"

He pushed himself off the wall, his expression as impassive as ever. \"Kennedy got a little too... inspired by the draft of your thesis she saw on my laptop,\" he said, as if discussing the weather. \"It was an honest mistake.\"

An honest mistake. My blood, sweat, and tears, the culmination of a year's work, reduced to an \"honest mistake.\"

\"Her thesis is very important for her graduate school applications,\" he continued, his voice still holding that infuriating, cold logic. \"And you... well. You' re already dealing with this video scandal. What' s one more mark against your name? It doesn't really matter anymore, does it?\"

It doesn't really matter anymore.

The casual cruelty of it, the absolute disregard for me as a human being, finally shattered the last of my composure. A sound tore from my throat, a raw, wounded cry of pure agony and rage.

\"You are monsters! All of you! Do you have any idea what you've done to me?\" Tears streamed down my face, hot and useless.

For the first time, a flicker of something unsettled crossed Branson' s perfect features. A slight frown creased his brow. He was used to my quiet compliance, my soft-spoken admiration. He wasn't used to this. This primal scream of a broken woman.

\"Ally, calm down,\" he said, reaching for my arm. \"It' s a small thing. I' ll take you out for dinner tonight to make up for it.\"

I recoiled as if his hand were a hot poker, slapping it away with a choked sob.

\"Make up for it?\" I shrieked, my voice cracking. \"You think dinner can fix this? I am not that pathetic! I am not that cheap!\"

I turned and ran, my vision blurred by tears, my lungs burning. I had to get away from him, from this place that had become my personal hell.

I left him standing there in the hallway, a look of mild annoyance and confusion on his handsome, merciless face. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking I was overreacting. He was thinking I was being difficult. After all, in his world, people like me were disposable. We were props, meant to be used and then discarded without a fuss.

He probably thought I' d cry it out and be fine by morning.

He had no idea that he had just pulverized the last remaining atom of the girl who had ever loved him.