Chapter 6

The text message lit up my phone at 1:47 a.m. *They're framing you for cheating. Check your student email. —V.*

I didn't sleep. I tore through my laptop until my eyes burned, and there it was—a string of emails sent from my account to a known essay mill. Timestamps matched my study sessions. The language was mine, polished and sharp. Except I'd never written a word of it.

At 8:47 a.m., I stood outside the IT lab, thirteen minutes before the disciplinary committee would convene to expel me. Marcus Voss, the admissions director, was already there, unlocking the door. His hands shook so badly the keys clattered against the frame.

"Miss Marlowe," he said, not meeting my eyes. "You shouldn't be here."

"Someone forged emails from my account. I need to see the server logs."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "The committee has already reviewed the evidence. Dean Lange—"

"Thirteen minutes, Mr. Voss." I stepped closer. "You took bribes from the mayor's office to alter my exam results. I have the bank records. So you're going to let me in that room, or I go to the press with what I know."

His face went gray. He opened the door.

The logs were damning. The forged emails originated from a campus IP address—the library, third floor, computer seven. I pulled the security footage. A familiar blonde in a designer coat sat at that terminal, her manicured fingers flying over the keyboard.

Chloé Bernard. Camille's shadow.

I froze the frame. There she was, smiling as she hit send. And in the corner of the screen, half-visible, stood Camille Duval, watching her work like a puppet master.

My hands trembled. This wasn't just about my spot anymore. They'd built a web around me, and I was tangled in it.

The clock read 8:56. Seven minutes left.

I looked at the login screen. The admin password prompt blinked at me. One breach of the university's security system, and I could pull the metadata that proved Chloé's account sent those emails.

But if I got caught hacking the system, I'd be expelled for real. No scholarship, no appeal, no future.

Five minutes.

I thought of my father, working double shifts so I could have this chance. I thought of Camille's smug smile at the gala, watching me fall.

I typed.

The system opened like a vault with a broken lock.

And then I saw it—the original IP, the raw metadata, Chloé's username stamped on every forged email like a signature.

I had her.

But as I saved the files, a new message appeared on my phone.

*Well done. Now delete the logs before they find you. —V.*

I stared at the screen. Who was V? And why did they keep helping me?

The clock hit 8:59.

I had one minute to decide whether to trust a stranger or face the committee alone.