The Hayes mansion, once a fortress of glass and marble calm, had transformed overnight into a war zone. Evelyn's scream sliced through the soundproofed walls, sharp as a blade, as she hurled a porcelain lamp across her room. The shattering crash erupted in a rain of glass and ceramic, fragments arcing through the air like shrapnel, spraying the edge of her white rug with glittering debris. Her breath tore ragged from her chest, shoulders heaving, fingers trembling as they gripped the edge of her dresser so tightly her knuckles blanched.
The cracked mirror above her caught her reflection in a dozen fractured angles: wild eyes rimmed with smudged eyeliner, hair falling in tangled waves, lips parted on the edge of a raw, animal sound. Evelyn stared, her vision wavering, her pulse hammering so loudly it drowned out the faint voices drifting up from downstairs.
"This is not happening," she whispered, her voice hoarse, guttural, almost unrecognizable in the stillness. Her nails dug into the cool marble as she slammed her fists down once, twice, the vibration rattling the perfume bottles until they wobbled, toppled, fell—one after another, delicate glass breaking in bursts of sharp, sweet scent that clung to the air like a choking fog. The acrid sting of crushed flowers filled her throat, making her eyes water.
Downstairs, Grace Hayes flinched as the muffled crash rippled through the ceiling. She sat rigid in the sleek white living room, fingers wound so tightly around the stem of her wineglass the crystal creaked in protest. Across the room, Robert Hayes stood near the tall window, his silhouette tense against the dying light, phone pressed to his ear, voice clipped and sharp as he rattled off instructions to their lawyer.
Grace's gaze flicked upward as another thud echoed, her mouth tightening, shoulders trembling in a brief, involuntary spasm. The ruby swirl in her glass quivered, rippling up the side as her fingers flexed, and for a heartbeat, it seemed she might rise—might climb the stairs, might pound on her daughter's door—but the moment passed. She drew a long breath, nostrils flaring faintly, and settled deeper into the velvet armchair, knuckles white.
In her own room, miles away, Lottie sat cross-legged at her desk, the pale glow of her laptop painting her face in shifting blue light. Headlines spun across the screen like wildfire—Evelyn Hayes: The Fall of a Queen, Scandal at Briarwood Academy, Exclusive Leaks Shake Elite Circle. Mason's message pinged into the corner of the screen, sharp and clipped: "We've got the first batch of evidence. Let me know when to move."
A dry, breathless laugh slipped from Lottie's throat, her shoulders shaking faintly as she exhaled through a tight, aching chest. "Not yet," she murmured under her breath, thumb brushing over the trackpad as she flipped through the flood of articles. Her gaze darted to the buzzing phone on her desk—Leo's name flashing across the screen.
"Set up the secure chat," Leo's voice rasped through the line, taut with urgency. "Amy's getting hammered with hate. We need to pull her in. Fast."
Lottie's mouth tightened, a flicker of guilt cutting through the cold satisfaction that had settled over her. With swift, practiced fingers, she opened the encrypted app, dragging Amy and the others into a private thread. The screen blinked its confirmation, but her eyes stayed restless, flicking over the scrolling feeds where Evelyn's supporters clawed and tore across comments, sharp as wolves tearing into bone. Amy's name was everywhere—tagged, mocked, threatened. Lottie swallowed, her throat tight.
"Amy," she whispered, fingers pressing briefly to her lips as if the name itself was fragile. "Hold on."
In the Hayes mansion, Evelyn's hands shook as she yanked open her closet, fingers tearing past rows of silk and cashmere. Her phone buzzed from the floor where it lay in two cracked pieces, screen blinking, but she ignored it. She shoved hangers aside, breath shallow, frantic, until her fingertips closed around the edge of a battered leather box wedged in the back. She pulled it free, knees buckling as she slumped onto the floor, the weight of the box heavy in her lap. For a moment, her hands stilled, hovering, and a sound slipped from her—a soft, strangled laugh that broke into a shuddering sob.
In the corridor, Grace's heels tapped softly against the marble as she approached Evelyn's door. Her hand lifted, fingers curled to knock—but she froze, palm hovering inches from the smooth wood. On the other side, the faint sound of a sob reached her, muffled, raw. Grace's throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. Her fingers twitched, lowered, and slowly, she turned, her reflection catching in the gilded hallway mirror. A woman of icy poise stared back at her, hair smooth, jaw set, but the faintest tremor ran through her lips before she pressed them flat, steeling herself.
Back at school, Amy sat curled on her dorm bed, knees pulled tight to her chest, phone clutched in both hands. The screen vibrated over and over in her palm, the sharp sting of each notification like a slap. Comments flashed past in a brutal cascade—traitor, liar, coward, snake. Her thumb hovered over the power button, breath hitching, vision blurring with hot, blinding tears.
A soft ping broke through.
Lottie: "We're with you. Group chat live. Join us."
Amy's breath caught, a faint, hiccupping sound in her throat. For a long, trembling second, she stared at the message, her finger frozen above the link. And then, with a shaking exhale, she tapped.
Leo's grin filled the first video message, crooked and sharp, his voice low but edged with fierce warmth. "Look who's here," he drawled, amusement curling through his words. "Amy, welcome to the chaos. You're one of us now."
Lottie's voice followed, quieter but steady, a grounding force. "You're not alone."
Amy laughed—a thin, broken sound that tumbled free before she could stop it. She pressed her forehead to her knees, shoulders shaking as the knot in her chest loosened, just slightly.
Meanwhile, in the Hayes study, Robert Hayes's voice sliced through the hush, cool and unyielding. "Emergency family meeting. Now."
Grace appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, lips pale. Evelyn descended the staircase slowly, each step measured, her hands twitching faintly at her sides. She looked immaculate—hair smoothed, makeup retouched—but the fine tremor in her fingers betrayed her. A brittle smile clung to her mouth as she crossed the threshold, shards of glass still clinging to the soles of her heels, leaving faint, glittering trails in her wake.
"Sit," Robert commanded, voice hard as stone.
Evelyn sat.
The air in the room was brittle, strained thin as glass.
Across town, Lottie stood before her mirror, adjusting the fall of her dark hair, her eyes sharp, intent. Adrian's voice murmured through her Bluetooth earpiece, calm and efficient. "Media training's at six. Mason's got the brief ready. Don't hesitate, Lottie—the window's closing."
"I know," Lottie murmured, smoothing the lapel of her blazer, her gaze locked on her reflection. Her pulse fluttered, rapid under her skin, a faint hammering beneath the cool surface. "I'm ready."
But even as she spoke the words, her fingers curled briefly at her side, nails pressing into her palm, the weight of the moment pressing deep into her bones.
In the mansion, Robert's voice lashed the air—financial audits, reputation damage, board panic. Grace sat rigid, her hands laced so tightly her knuckles blanched. Evelyn's head dipped once, lashes lowering, but when she lifted her gaze, a gleam flickered in her eyes—sharp, bright, dangerous.
A laugh slipped from her lips, soft at first, then rising, curling into the silence like smoke. "You think you're done with me?" she murmured, her voice light, brittle, threaded through with something electric. "You have no idea what's coming."
Grace flinched, her gaze darting to Robert, but the man's face was carved in stone.
Later, alone in her room, Evelyn crouched before the broken mirror, fingertips brushing the jagged edges of the glass. Her reflection scattered, a dozen fractured Evelyns staring back—wide-eyed, sharp-edged, lips parted on the cusp of a scream or a laugh. Her breath fogged the mirror as she leaned close, and a soft whisper ghosted from her lips, the words almost lost in the hush.
"I'll burn it all down before I let them win."
Her eyes flicked wide as the words settled, blooming like poison across her thoughts. And then—the scream tore free, raw, throat-shredding, echoing off marble and silk as her fists slammed into the mirror. The crack shot outward, a jagged lightning bolt splitting the glass, the sound sharp and final.
Downstairs, Grace clutched the banister, her heart hammering as the crash echoed through the house.
Back in her room, Lottie exhaled slowly, the first stars cutting through the twilight outside. Her phone buzzed—Adrian again, his message clipped and calm.
"Brace for impact."
Lottie's lips curved, slow and sharp.
"I'm already braced," she whispered, fingers brushing the windowpane as the night folded in.