Chapter2

I was just reaching for my bag to leave when Harper lunged like a cornered rabid dog, snatching my still-open laptop.

"Sydney, you're just acting out of anger right now. I know you love Carter! To save you from regretting this later, I'll make the choice for you!"

Shielded by Carter and Julian, who positioned themselves like a human wall, I "helplessly" watched Harper's fingers fly across my Common App. She mercilessly hit Decline Offer for Harvard, then swiftly clicked Confirm on the page for Apollo Vocational College.

"All done!" Harper shoved the laptop back into my chest. A flash of unrestrained malice danced in her eyes, and her lips curled into a smug, canary-eating grin. If I was dragged down to that isolated, third-rate diploma mill, cut off from my family's ironclad security detail, they would have endless opportunities to stage a fatal "accident" and seize my family's multi-billion-dollar fortune.

Carter slung a hypocritical arm around my shoulder, giving it a gentle, condescending pat. "Baby, this is for the best. You'll understand my good intentions later."

I stared at his reaching hand and took a sharp step back, dodging him like he was a plague-ridden viper.

Convinced the board was set and I was entirely at their mercy, the trio left the library laughing and joking. Harper walked in the center, flanked by Carter and Julian like two fiercely loyal bodyguards.

What an irredeemable pack of idiots.

The moment I returned to our Beverly Hills estate, I locked my bedroom door and immediately dialed my father's private line.

As for that sabotaged Common App—my father had just donated a ten-million-dollar medical lab to Harvard last month. It only took one internal call to the admissions office. In less than ten minutes, my Harvard portal was rightfully restored, brightly displaying that unmistakable green Admitted banner.

Afterward, I gathered my parents in the bulletproof master study. I laid everything out on the table: the tragic rooftop murder from my past life, Carter and Harper’s drug trafficking, their calculated assassination plot to steal our family’s wealth, and the pathetic stunt they had just pulled in the library.

At first, my father found it utterly absurd. His brows furrowed deeply. "Sydney, are you just under too much pressure from college applications? Your mother and I watched Carter grow up alongside his parents. Sure, he's a bit reckless, but he wouldn't go that far..."

But when I detailed Harper's complete master plan—framing my death as a depressive suicide, exploiting their grief to become their adopted daughter, and ultimately swallowing our multi-billion-dollar empire—my father's razor-sharp instincts as a corporate apex predator kicked in. His face darkened like a gathering storm. My mother, entirely horrified, covered her mouth, her whole body trembling.

Prioritizing the family's absolute security above all else, my father immediately severed every hidden financial pipeline funding Harper. He didn't just freeze her black card; he poured a fortune into hiring a private investigation firm comprised of LA's most elite former FBI agents to monitor the trio 24/7.

The following month of May evolved into the most absurd carnival before the storm.

Convinced she had successfully locked my fate to that vocational school, Harper comfortably used her remaining savings to fly her two fools out to the beaches of Cancun for a vacation. Every single day, she flooded her Instagram with shameless, boastful updates.

In one photo, she lounged on a beach chair in a sexy bikini, with Carter and Julian flanking her, slathering her in sunscreen. The caption read: "Surrounded by two men who are willing to give up Yale and Princeton just for me. Feeling like the luckiest girl in the world."

Meanwhile, Carter—that morally bankrupt junkie and absolute drama king—kept playing the devoted lover on WhatsApp.

"Sydney, once I'm at Apollo, I'll think about you every single day. The photos online are just Harper's vanity talking. I only came along to keep a close eye on her. You know you're the only one in my heart."

I listened to his voice notes, saving every single syllable directly into a secured evidence folder for the prosecution, my stomach churning with pure disgust.

On the flip side, Julian was busy posting pictures of Harper's back on Twitter. His caption read: "What does giving up Princeton matter for the girl I love? She has suffered too much. This girl is worth laying down my life to protect."

Staring at a declaration dripping with so much self-righteous delusion, I actually felt a pang of pity for Julian, the ultimate pathetic sucker. He genuinely believed he was the sole savior of Harper's world. Little did he know, every single night, Harper lay tangled in Carter's arms, ruthlessly mocking Julian as nothing more than an on-call, unpaid lookout—a disposable murder weapon.

Over the course of that month, the private investigators delivered a staggering goldmine of intelligence.

Not only did they capture ultra-high-definition footage of Harper and Carter smoking weed and dropping hallucinogens in the VIP booths of underground nightclubs, but they also recorded a lethal conversation in their Cancun presidential suite—a conversation that amounted to a literal death sentence. Through high-sensitivity bugs, every single chilling detail of their plot to murder me and hijack my wealth was captured flawlessly.

All the pieces were in place. We were just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.