Chapter4
"And the ultimate winner of this year's Pinnacle Academic Award goes to the heiress of the Sterling Consortium—Chloe Sterling!"
The deafening applause nearly shattered the crystal chandeliers of the Grand Hall. Thousands of eyes snapped to the center of the stage in unison. Lifting the hem of her deep red Elie Saab haute couture gown, Chloe stepped gracefully into the blinding spotlight. The diamond necklace at her throat caught the glare, refracting a halo so piercing it forced people to look away.
I stood in the deepest, most shadowed corner of the hall. She had conned her way into that exorbitant red dress using a family name, banking on the fact that some fools would always blindly believe a surname was enough to represent everything. Not only had she stolen the precious lifeblood I had sweated through feverish nights to create, but she was also usurping that very family name to jewel her thief's crown.
"I want to thank the Academic Committee." Chloe held the trophy with both hands, her voice trembling with perfectly manufactured tears as she leaned into the microphone. "This ten-year commercial projection for the Sterling Consortium cost me countless sleepless nights. But above all, my deepest gratitude goes out to the Sterling bloodline that flows through my veins. It is my family that granted me a business instinct far beyond the reach of ordinary people."
She paused, her gaze snapping with pinpoint accuracy toward the dim corner where I stood in my worn-out sweater. A magnanimous, entirely forged smile spread across her lips. "During the research process, my insecure roommate actually attempted to steal and replicate my core code. But I don't blame her. After all, when faced with an absolute legacy of class, the jealousy of the poor is simply uncontrollable."
An uproar swept through the venue, swiftly followed by waves of condescending scoffs and sneers directed at the "unnamed roommate."
"Stop glaring. You could pop your eyes out of your skull, and that trophy still wouldn't belong to a sewer rat like you."
A nauseatingly familiar voice drifted from my right. Ethan, balancing a flute of champagne, strode aggressively toward me. Clad in a crisp tailored suit, he stopped inches away, sweeping a patronizing gaze over me from head to toe.
"So what if you got your payout?" I kept my eyes locked on his. "Are you going to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair? You stepped on my blood to build a set of stairs for a thief. Did you throw away every last ounce of your backbone?"
The smugness on his face instantly coagulated. Completely disregarding whether anyone was watching, he lunged forward, closing the gap between us.
"Backbone?" he hissed through gritted teeth. "Can your sour stacks of paper feed me? Can they hand me a million-dollar base salary, or fix my damn legs?!" Ripping a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, he shoved it roughly down the collar of my frayed sweater.
"Get over it, Aria." He looked down his nose at me, casually straightening his suit cuffs. "It's just a pathetic little paper. This is how the world works. People like Chloe, born into a billion-dollar Rome, are destined to rule the earth. And you," he reached out and flicked my shoulder mockingly, "only had to sacrifice one tiny thesis to buy yourself an unimaginable future. Keep your head up."
With that, he turned on his heel, eager to march back to his front-row VIP seat and bask in the brilliant future he had purchased by selling me out.
I watched the hundred-dollar bill slip from my collar and drift to the floor. I looked up at the woman standing high upon her pedestal, hoisting my blood, sweat, and tears into the air to accept the worship of the masses.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I simply reached into my pocket and pulled out an obsolete cell phone with a completely shattered screen. Inside this archaic terminal, entirely devoid of social media apps, was a single, encrypted satellite number endowed with the absolute highest level of clearance. I pressed the speed dial and coldly engaged the speakerphone.
"You shouldn't have worn that suit, Ethan," I said.
Ethan froze mid-step and looked back, staring at the broken piece of plastic in my hand as if I had lost my mind. "What crazy tangent are you on now? Give me that—"
Beep—click.
It only rang a half-second before the line engaged. Gripping the shattered phone, I raised my chin, pinning my gaze relentlessly on Chloe on the stage, and Ethan on the floor.
"Dad. I’m done playing a normal girl." My voice was ice. "End them."
The entire back row of the hall plunged into an eerie, suffocating silence. The few students standing closest to me whipped their heads around in bewilderment. Ethan stood frozen, paralyzed in his tracks.
A second later. A deep, ruthless, middle-aged baritone resonated from overdriven speaker of my broken phone.
It was the exact voice that commanded the opening monologue of CNBC's financial news every morning. The voice of the absolute Wall Street tyrant who possessed the power to sever hundreds of global supply chains with a single sentence.
"As you wish, my heir."
The low response, crackling with the faint static of a satellite link, detonated with the force of a tectonic shift between Ethan and me.
Crash.
The champagne flute slipped from Ethan's motionless fingers, shattering into jagged shards on the marble floor. Every drop of blood drained from his face as he stared, utterly horrified, into my eyes.
