Crashing the Fake Scholarship Girl's Prom

That familiar voice made my entire body freeze.

"Charlotte, are you spacing out? I'm talking to you."

I jerked my eyes open, gasping for air, my fingers instinctively clawing at my throat.

No suffocation. No deadly swelling cutting off my airway.

What greeted me was the student lounge of St. Clair Preparatory Academy.

That's when I realized—I'd gone back three days before the graduation ball, the day the Ivy League recommendation letters were finalized.

The man sitting across from me on the couch had his legs crossed, his gaze condescending behind gold-rimmed glasses. My stepbrother, Damien.

And beside him sat a girl in a worn dress, huddled in the corner—Sophie. The "gifted scholarship student" Damien had been bankrolling.

"Charlotte, I know this is hard to accept, but the family comes first." Damien's tone was flat. "You've always been fragile. The Ivy League workload would destroy you."

"Sophie's different. She's earned everything she has. This recommendation could change her entire life trajectory. As the heir, you should understand that kind of responsibility."

I lowered my head, staring at the water glass on the table, nausea rising in my stomach.

In my past life, it was in this very room that I'd begged him through tears not to take away the recommendation letter I'd earned through countless all-nighters.

What I got in return was his impatience, and later, to tie up loose ends permanently, a lethal injection of peanut extract in the basement.

"Yeah, Charlotte." My boyfriend Lucas stepped forward, reaching to put his arm around my shoulder, his voice dripping with that patronizing concern.

"Sophie only sleeps four hours a night studying for this. You were born with everything handed to you. Why do you have to be so possessive about one letter? It's selfish."

The instant his fingertips were about to touch my uniform, I jerked away, my stomach turning violently.

I stared at that hand—the same hand that played Chopin so beautifully. The same hand that, in my past life, had calmly turned the deadbolt on that basement door while I convulsed on the concrete floor, choking to death.

I'd earned that recommendation with a perfect GPA, and I was supposed to hand it over to a fraud who could barely pass even with Damien throwing money at tutors? And if I refused, I was the selfish one?

Seeing my silence, Sophie's eyes immediately welled up with tears.

She stumbled back two steps, covering her face as she sobbed: "I'm sorry, Charlotte. I shouldn't have even asked for something that isn't mine. Damien, Lucas, please don't blame her. I'll just go. I'm just a charity case anyway. Going back to my old building wouldn't kill me..."

She cried like her heart was breaking, perfectly triggering both men's savior complexes.

Damien's face darkened as he stood, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I knew too well:

"Charlotte, I'm running out of patience. Mr. Smith has the waiver ready. You're going to sign it. Now. Don't make me cut off your access to the trust fund your mother left you."

In my past life, those words had shattered me completely.

But now, looking at these three faces, I felt nothing but ice-cold clarity.

The room went silent.

My past self—the one who died gasping on that basement floor—and the me sitting here now were warring inside my skull.

My nails bit into my palms, but I barely felt it.

I clamped down on my tongue until metallic warmth flooded my mouth, using the pain to shove down the urge to grab that glass and put it through Damien's windpipe.

One second. That's all it took.

One second to swallow that black rage back down where it belonged.

When I looked up again, every trace of murder had been locked away behind my eyes.

I let them redden just enough. Clasped my hands together like I always did when I was nervous. Arranged my face into that familiar expression—maybe even more docile than usual.

"Damien, please." My voice came out small, with just the right tremor. "I... I didn't mean to upset you. You're right. The pressure would be too much for me. My heart's been acting up again. If Sophie needs it this badly, of course I'll step aside. We're family."

All three of them went still. Sophie stared at me, her tears forgotten.

The storm cleared from Damien's expression. He naturally assumed his years of breaking me down had worked their magic once more.

"There we go. That's my girl." He settled back into his seat, his tone shifting to that false warmth he wore like a mask. "Sign the papers, and I'll get you that Porsche you've been eyeing."

"Thank you, Damien."

I nodded meekly, then let a hint of worry creep into my voice. "But... the Ivy League committees are brutal about recommendations. If I just privately withdraw, they'll assume our family used money or influence. That kind of thing gets investigated. It could actually hurt Sophie's chances if they start digging into her qualifications."

I turned to Sophie, my eyes wide and earnest. "To make sure no one questions your spot, why don't we go straight to Mr. Smith's office right now? I'll sign the medical waiver in front of him. That way it's completely above board. Clean. Safe."

Sophie's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Legitimate" and "safe" were magic words to someone like her.

She grabbed Damien's sleeve. "Damien, she's right. If the counselor witnesses it himself, admissions won't have any reason to investigate."

Damien considered for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. We'll go to his office."

Lucas visibly relaxed, looking at me like I was a dog who'd finally learned to sit. "Charlotte, I'm proud of you for being mature about this."

Mature. I wanted to laugh.

Sure. Mature enough to help them dig their own graves.

I stood, sliding my fingers into my skirt pocket where my phone sat warm against my hip. Every word of their threats and manipulation was already backed up to three different cloud servers.

In the hallway, I fell into step behind Damien and Sophie as we headed toward the far end of the corridor.

Go sign papers? Absolutely.

Damien's entire identity was built on being the perfect, ethical businessman. His reputation was everything.

So I'd give him exactly what he wanted.

I could hardly wait to walk into that mahogany-paneled office reeking of expensive cigars and watch his whole world crack open and bleed.