Chapter 8

The invitation arrived in a cream envelope embossed with the university crest, my name handwritten in calligraphy. I almost laughed. Camille Duval didn't invite enemies to galas out of kindness.

"Trap," Anton said, reading over my shoulder, his mechanic's hands stained with grease.

"Obviously." I turned the card over. Black-tie. Main hall. The Chancellor's Fundraiser for Excellence. "But it's also the only stage big enough."

I'd already pulled the numbers. Professor Cole's accounting contact had come through—three years of fundraising records showing the same pattern. Corporate sponsors' checks deposited into a university foundation account, then quietly transferred to a shell company owned by Mayor Duval's cousin. The gala wasn't a celebration. It was a money pump.

"Problem is access," I said, tapping the schedule. "I'm not on the program. I'm just another scholarship student in a borrowed dress."

Anton's jaw tightened. "You want me to cause a diversion?"

"No." I pulled up the audio-visual specs. "The main screen runs on a wireless system. If I can get close enough to the control room for thirty seconds—"

"You're going to hack the projector?"

"I'm going to present the evidence to five hundred of the city's wealthiest people." I met his eyes. "They can either watch me expose their mayor's scheme, or sit through another hour of champagne and lies."

He studied me for a long moment. "This isn't just about your place at Kronberg anymore."

"No." My voice was steady. "It's about every scholarship student they've squeezed out to line their pockets."

He nodded slowly. "Then we'd better find you something to wear that makes them listen."

But as I tucked the USB drive into my clutch, I caught my reflection in the window—and saw the girl who'd been too angry to sleep, too proud to cry. She was still there. But now she had a plan. And a gala to ruin.