Chapter 2

I steadied myself against his arm, gasping for air. Ignoring the blood seeping through my feet, I locked my eyes on his.

This was the first time I'd ever dared to look someone straight in the eye.

"If I can't lose this weight the drugs gave me," my voice came out hoarse, each word deliberate, "I'd rather die on that treadmill."

Francis stared back, his dark eyes utterly unreadable.

His gaze flicked briefly to my mangled feet, then returned to meet mine.

After a few seconds, he released my arm without a word and walked over to the equipment area. He grabbed a forty-five-pound black weight plate and simply let go.

BANG.

The dull thud against the floor sent vibrations through my soles.

"Tomorrow night. Eight PM." He turned, his voice cold and hard. "One minute late, and you're done. Forever."

He didn't wait for an answer, just walked straight back to the front desk. I gripped the machine and slowly straightened up, wiping the dried cake frosting off my face with the back of my hand. I stared at that heavy weight plate.

I wasn't late. Not once.

For the next three months, my life consisted of nothing but cold iron, sweat, and pain.

Francis wasn't a coach—he was more like a machine.

When I did burpees until I was puking acid, he didn't even look up. Just stared at his stopwatch. "Done throwing up? Thirty seconds left."

The hormone medication had completely wrecked my metabolism.

At first, every squat tore at my fragile joints. My inner thighs blistered daily—bursting, scabbing over, then blistering again. My fingernails bent back and broke from gripping the dumbbells so hard.

But I never made a sound. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Bobby waving those bills and Jennifer's heel grinding into that cake.

Rage was the best fuel.

Three months. I trained like hell and dropped forty pounds. The hormone-induced swelling receded. The bloating disappeared. The person in the mirror was no longer a shapeless mass but had regained clear bone structure.

But it wasn't enough. In a world that only cared about faces and bank accounts, changing my body was just surface level.

I didn't just want to get thin. I needed blood-drawing revenge.

The perfect opportunity came soon enough—the midterm evaluation for Advanced Sociology Seminar.

Professor Miller was notoriously strict. The midterm counted for forty percent of the final grade. Jennifer and I had been assigned to the same group.

Before, I would pull all-nighters researching and writing the report while Jennifer just showed up in makeup to read the PowerPoint and cruise to an A.

But this time, I had prepared a special gift for her.

The night before the presentation, I typed the final line in the library. The report integrated dozens of internal police bureau datasets with my field research—bulletproof.

I sent the file to Jennifer with a note: Jennifer, here's the initial draft for tomorrow. Please review.

Ten minutes later, she replied: About time you made yourself useful. Just sit in the audience tomorrow—don't even think about coming up and embarrassing me.

I stared at the words on my screen and closed my laptop.

The bait was cast. And she'd swallowed it whole without even looking.

The next afternoon, the lecture hall was packed. Professor Miller sat in the front row, adjusted his reading glasses, and signaled to begin.

Jennifer clicked across the stage in heels, wearing a Chanel suit. She really did know how to deliver—she presented that report with complete confidence.

"In conclusion, crime rates in lower-income communities demonstrate a linear correlation with educational resource distribution." Jennifer advanced to the final slide. Applause rippled through the room.

Professor Miller nodded. "Thorough analysis, Jennifer. The depth of data exceeded expectations."

Jennifer lifted her chin, her eyes sliding toward me. "Thank you, Professor. I pulled several all-nighters for this report."

"Did you?"

My voice cut through the quiet room as I stood up from the back row.

The entire class whipped around. They didn't see the fat girl who always wore oversized hoodies and hunched her shoulders. I wore only a fitted black sweater, spine straight, eyes locked on the stage.

Jennifer's smile froze instantly.

"Ms. Rodriguez?" Professor Miller frowned, a hint of impatience in his tone. "Is there something you'd like to add?"

I picked up my laptop and walked down the steps, stopping at the front of the stage.

"Professor, I have a small question about the report."

I looked up at Jennifer on stage. "Slide three—the West Precinct crime statistics from last year. You noted 'non-violent crime up twelve percent.' What specific types? What's the original case file number?"

Jennifer went pale. She hadn't even read the draft, much less knew any details.

"That's... that's just a macro-level statistic." She stammered. "The detailed data is all in the appendix—"

"It's not in the appendix." I cut her off mercilessly. "Because that data set was deliberate bait I planted in the initial draft. It's completely fabricated."

The classroom exploded.

Professor Miller's expression darkened. "Ms. Rodriguez! Academic fraud is an extremely serious accusation!"

"I know, Professor. Which is why I would never commit such an error in my final submission."

I pulled out a flash drive, inserted it into the backup computer at the podium, and hit a few keys. The PowerPoint background on the large screen switched to inverse mode.

Now, across every slide, a line of previously transparent watermarks appeared: This report was completed independently by Leona Rodriguez. Jennifer Hartley did not participate in any substantive work.

The room went silent for one second, then erupted in buzzing conversation.

Jennifer trembled with rage, pointing at me and shrieking, "You set me up!"

"Set you up?" I looked at her. "The email I sent clearly labeled it an 'initial draft.' You didn't even glance at it before passing it off as your own work. There's a word for that—plagiarism."

I turned to Professor Miller. "Professor, I have library access logs from the past two weeks, draft versions, and field interview recordings."

"As for that bait data, I removed it from the correct final version I submitted to you privately last night. I did this to prove what everyone already suspected—not one word of this Alpha Sigma president's report is her own."

Professor Miller slammed the desk, his face iron. "Ms. Hartley! You receive an F in this course. I will be submitting a plagiarism report to the academic committee."

"No! Professor, let me explain!" Jennifer screamed and lunged toward me, but was held back by two guys in the front row. Her blonde hair flew wild.

I pulled out the flash drive and turned to leave.

"This isn't over, Leona!"

The door closed behind me, cutting off her screams.

The hallway was empty, cold light streaming through the glass. I slowed my pace, breathing steady. The tension I'd carried for three months finally eased, just slightly.

But this was only the beginning.

Buzz.

My phone vibrated. I pulled it out. A text from Bobby.

[Leona, I heard about what happened in seminar. Jennifer was completely wrong. I broke up with her. This weekend is the Winter Gala—I want to make things right. Let me take you as my date. We can start fresh.]

I stopped walking and stared at the screen.

His girlfriend had just crashed and burned in front of the entire class, and he'd not only dumped her immediately but was now inviting me to the biggest event of the season.

He wasn't even trying to hide it.

Obviously, that five-hundred-dollar "pig hunting fund" from three months ago hadn't been canceled—it had escalated after Jennifer's spectacular failure. They were planning a full Carrie moment—pig's blood under the spotlight and all.

I looked down the empty hallway, typed, and hit send. The blue glow of the screen lit my face.

[Sure.]