Chapter 3

Since the victory gala was scheduled for decision day, the day the SAT ended, Harold and Giselle whisked Dahlia off to St. Barts for her graduation trip.

Leaving me alone in the empty Long Island estate? I didn't just not mind—I was thrilled.

With those parasites gone, I could finally get to work.

I pulled out my phone and dialed an encrypted number. The moment the line connected, I cut straight to the point:

"Professor Vance, that reconstruction algorithm you sent last month? I broke through the bottleneck."

On the other end, Professor Vance's voice cracked with excitement. "Maeve, you're a goddamn genius! You just saved the entire project!"

Less than three hours later, a private jet delivered me to Palo Alto.

In that classified lab, I coded around the clock for weeks, debugging the final infrastructure layer.

Professor Vance didn't let me surface until decision day.

He physically unplugged my workstation and put me on a private jet back to New York, where a Maybach was waiting to drive me straight to the Gala in Midtown Manhattan.

The second I walked into the ballroom, I spotted Dahlia and our parents, fresh off the plane from St. Barts with matching Caribbean tans.

They held court at the center of the room, surrounded by Wall Street heavyweights and Manhattan's social elite, champagne flutes glinting under the chandeliers.

"Mr. Wright, Dahlia's not just Prom Queen—she's a genuine scholar. You must be so proud."

"Absolutely. Once she takes over with an Ivy diploma, our companies should strengthen our partnership."

New York's power players didn't show up tonight to watch two teenagers check test scores.

The real event was Grandfather Augustus's will:

Whoever earned the higher SAT score—me or Dahlia—would inherit the billion-dollar trust.

This wasn't a release party. It was a power transfer. And every vulture in this room knew it.

I walked straight to the head table, ignoring the stares.

Grandfather's sharp eyes found mine. His weathered hand patted my knuckles. "Maeve, you ready?"

I nodded. "I won't let you down."

In this cold family, Grandfather was the only one who ever gave a damn about me.

In my previous life, Dahlia used that rigged Oracle system to destroy me. When that pathetic 400 flashed on the screen, Grandfather's disappointment shattered something in him.

The same weekend I was thrown out and left bleeding on a Brooklyn sidewalk, his heart gave out.

Not this time. I wouldn't let it happen again.

"Maeve, why are you lying to Grandfather?" Dahlia rushed over, designer gown swishing.

She arranged her face into manufactured concern, but pitched her voice to carry across the room. "The entire month before the test, you were partying with burnouts at underground raves. How could you possibly do well?"

"Grandfather trusts you, and you're using him."

She thrust her phone forward. Photos projected onto the massive screen—me in heavy makeup at some grimy warehouse party, red Solo cup raised high.

Harold's glare could have stripped paint. "If I were you, I wouldn't have the balls to show up here tonight."

"Dahlia's Oracle projection locked in over 1550. You couldn't hit half that if your life depended on it. After tonight, the trust goes to Dahlia, and you'll be begging her for scraps the rest of your miserable life."

The crowd immediately piled on:

"Makes sense. My son saw her at some dive bar in Queens, all over some tattooed dealer. Absolutely feral."

"Dreaming about the Ivies while living like that? She'd be lucky to get into community college. She's got nothing on Dahlia."

"Obviously. A 1550 projection—Harvard and Yale would fight over that. The Wright empire needs someone like Dahlia at the helm."

Watching their twisted, eager faces, I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server.

"The portal isn't even open yet. Scores aren't out." I took a slow sip. "Hope you're all betting on the right horse."

"If partying in basements earned Ivy offers, every prep school in America would be out of business!"

Laughter rippled through the hall.

Harold, red-faced from my comeback, slammed a set of keys on the table—a custom-painted Porsche 911.

"You want to embarrass us? Fine. Your score hits even half of Dahlia's, the car's yours."

I glanced at the keys and smiled coldly.

"Just a Porsche? Come on, Dad." I locked eyes with him. "If you're so confident in your golden child, why not make it interesting? Bet everything—your trust shares, your liquid assets, all of it."

Harold's expression shifted. Uncertainty flickered across his face.

Giselle immediately latched onto his arm. "Honey, what's there to worry about? She didn't open a single book. What could she possibly have?"

Dahlia tugged his sleeve, eyes wide and innocent. "Dad, don't you believe in me? I know exactly how I did."

Bolstered by their reassurances, Harold's chest puffed out again.

He turned to address the entire room. "All right! Tonight, whichever of you earns the better scores gets everything—my entire trust allocation and asset portfolio!"

The moment he finished, someone's phone chimed.

Eight PM sharp. The College Board portal had opened.

Dahlia glided toward the laptop connected to the projector, lifting her gown like she was accepting a crown. "Then let me go first."

Confident, almost smug, she typed her username and password with practiced ease.

Every eye in the room fixed on the massive screen.

The loading bar crawled forward. Then the page refreshed.

Dahlia's final SAT score blazed across the wall in massive digits.