Her Regret, My Revenge: A New Beginning

The air in the Peterson' s mansion was thick with the smell of money and expensive perfume, a suffocating celebration for Tiffany Peterson, the valedictorian with a perfect SAT score of 1600. I stood in the shadows, a ghost at a party I knew too well.

This scene had played out before, exactly-the same party, the same banner, the same lie. Because in my first life, this perfect party started a downward spiral.

After the SAT scores were released and Tiffany' s supposed 1600 was revealed to be a mere 480, she blamed me. Her cyberbullying campaign, accusing me of hacking her score and obsession, turned my life into a living hell. "Cheater," "Ugly snake," "You should kill yourself" echoed through my phone and town. My family suffered, my parents were tormented, and one week later, unable to bear the crushing weight, I swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet.

I didn't understand why the world believed her over me. Why was her twisted narrative so easily accepted?

But now, I' m back. I' m not the old Sarah, the one who tried to be kind and then died of shame. This time, I' m here to watch Tiffany burn, armed with the truth and a genius hacker by my side.

The air in the Peterson' s mansion was thick with the smell of money and expensive perfume.

It felt heavy in my lungs.

Everywhere I looked, I saw fake smiles and heard loud, empty laughter.

Tiffany Peterson, the queen of our school, stood on a makeshift stage in her backyard, a glass of champagne in her hand.

She wore a white dress that probably cost more than my dad' s car.

Behind her, a massive banner read: "Congratulations to our Valedictorian of the Year, Tiffany Peterson! SAT Perfect Score: 1600!"

"I just want to thank everyone for coming to celebrate with me," Tiffany said into the microphone, her voice smooth and practiced.

"It wasn't easy, but I knew I could do it. A perfect score, can you believe it?"

The crowd of students, parents, and teachers erupted in applause.

They believed it.

They ate up every word she said.

My classmates worshipped her.

"She's amazing," a girl next to me whispered to her friend. "Beautiful, rich, and a genius. She has everything."

"I know, right? I wish I was her."

I saw Mr. Thompson, our guidance counselor, standing near the front.

He clapped harder than anyone.

He was beaming, looking at Tiffany like she was a winning lottery ticket.

"A truly exceptional student," he had told my parents during a meeting last week. "Tiffany is the best this school has ever seen. She's going to an Ivy League, no question."

He had looked at me with pity.

I was just Sarah Miller, the quiet girl with good grades who sat in the back of the class.

I stood in the shadows at the edge of the perfectly manicured lawn, a plastic cup of lukewarm soda in my hand.

The green grass felt like a different world from my family' s small, worn-out apartment.

I watched Tiffany soak in the adoration, and a cold, familiar ache started in my chest.

It was a memory, sharp and ugly, pushing its way to the surface.

This exact scene had played out before.

The same party.

The same banner.

The same lie.

I remembered it all.

I remembered every condescending smile, every cruel whisper, every moment of the nightmare that followed.

In that other life, a life that ended in darkness and despair, I had pitied her.

I had thought she was just insecure, just a girl desperate for approval.

Now, I knew better.

Tiffany Peterson wasn't insecure.

She was a monster hiding behind a pretty face.

And this time, I wasn't here to be her victim.

I was here to watch her burn.

Because I knew the truth.

I knew she didn't get a 1600.

She got a 480.

A score so low it was almost impressive.

And me?

I got a 1580.

I watched her raise her glass for a toast, her face glowing under the party lights.

For the first time in a very, very long time, a real smile touched my lips.

It was a small, sharp smirk that no one else could see.

This was going to be fun.

In my first life, I was a fool.

I actually believed in things like kindness and giving people the benefit of the doubt.

When the SATs were over, rumors started flying.

Tiffany was telling everyone she had aced it, that she had a gut feeling she got a perfect 1600.

I didn't believe her.

Not because I thought she was stupid, but because the math section had been brutal.

There was one question in particular, a complex probability problem, that I knew had stumped almost everyone.

I had only solved it because I'd spent a month studying that specific type of problem.

I overheard her in the hallway, laughing with her friends.

"It was so easy," she said, flipping her blonde hair. "I probably could have done it in my sleep."

I thought, maybe she made a mistake. Maybe she misremembered the questions.

If the official scores came out and she was wrong, she would be so embarrassed.

So I did something incredibly stupid.

I tried to be nice.

I found her after school, by her locker.

"Tiffany?" I said softly.

She turned, her smile tightening when she saw it was me.

"What do you want, Miller?"

"I just... I overheard you talking about the SATs," I stammered. "I was just thinking, maybe it's a good idea not to get your hopes up too high. Sometimes the scoring can be weird. There might be an error or something."

I was trying to give her an out. An excuse she could use later.

She stared at me for a long moment, her blue eyes turning to ice.

Then she laughed.

It was a loud, ugly sound.

"An error?" she repeated, her voice dripping with scorn. "Or maybe you're just jealous?"

"No, that's not it. I just-"

"You just can't stand that I'm better than you at everything, can you?" she cut me off, her voice getting louder.

Her friends started to gather around, like sharks smelling blood.

"You think because you're a little nerd who studies all day, you're the only one who can get a good score? Newsflash, Sarah. Some of us are naturally smart."

She stepped closer, poking a finger into my shoulder.

"Let me give you some advice," she said, her voice a low hiss. "Stop trying to tear other people down just because your own life is pathetic. It's a really bad look."

She turned to her audience.

"Did you guys hear that? Sad Sarah here is so worried I did better than her, she's trying to tell me my score is a mistake!"

The group erupted in laughter.

The sound echoed in the hallway, bouncing off the lockers.

I felt my face burn with shame.

Every laugh was a physical blow.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird trying to escape.

"She's just a bitter little snake," one of Tiffany's friends said.

"Yeah, a total hater."

My well-intentioned warning was twisted into an act of jealous sabotage.

I stood there, frozen, as they picked me apart with their words.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

I just wanted to disappear.

Tiffany gave me one last look of pure disgust.

"Stay away from me, freak," she said, before turning and walking away, her posse following her like a royal court.

I was left alone in the hallway, the sound of their laughter still ringing in my ears.

That was the moment I learned that for people like Tiffany, kindness was just another weapon to be used against you.