Chapter 4

The rain hadn't stopped for three days. I knew because I'd counted every drop sliding down my bedroom window, tracing paths like the ones I used to draw in the margins of my notebooks—back when my notebooks were mine, before someone turned them into weapons.

"Élise?" Mom's voice was soft through the door. The smell of her antiseptic hand cream drifted in, a scent I'd always associated with comfort. Now it just felt like pity. "I made soup."

"I'm not hungry."

The door opened anyway. She stood there in her nurse's uniform, still wearing her badge, still smelling like the hospital shift she'd just finished. Her eyes did that thing they always do—scanning me like I was a patient, looking for symptoms.

"The school called again." She sat on the edge of my bed. "They said you haven't responded to their emails about the appeal process."

I pulled my journal closer, the one from two years ago. *I want to prove I belong at Saint-Aubin. I want them to see that merit means more than money.*

"I can't appeal," I whispered. "I don't have proof."

Mom's hand found mine. "Then maybe we should talk about other options. There's a public school across town. It's—"

"With what money?" The words came out harsher than I meant. I saw her flinch, saw the exhaustion behind her mask of strength. "You work double shifts just to keep our lights on. Transferring means application fees, new uniforms, tutoring I'd need to catch up."

I was already away, sketching blueprints of escape in my head, and every single one collapsed under the weight of our bank account.

"The cafés on Rue de Vaugirard hire students," Mom said quietly. "You could save up—"

"Run away." I laughed, but it came out broken. "That's what you're telling me to do. Run away and start over somewhere that doesn't know my name."

My reflection stared back from the window—pale, hollow-eyed, wearing the same hoodie I'd worn for days. I didn't recognize her. She'd had dreams once, that girl. Plans. Now she just had shame and a pile of secondhand notebooks.

Something old and stubborn curled in my chest.

"No." I closed the journal, feeling the worn cover under my fingers. "I'm not running. I didn't cheat, and I'm not going to let them make me disappear."

Mom's eyes widened. "But you said you don't have proof—"

"Then I'll find it." I stood up, swaying slightly. "Someone set this up. Someone planted that notebook in Camille's bag. There has to be a trail, a mistake, a—"

*Anything.*

My voice died. Where would I even start? Camille's house? Nathan's shield of loyalty? The school had already made its decision.

I sank back onto the bed, the truth crushing me all over again. I was innocent. And innocence, it turns out, wasn't enough.

Mom pulled me into her arms, and for the first time in days, I let myself cry—not for the accusation, but for the girl in the journal who believed hard work was enough.

Is it ever okay to give up when you're innocent? I used to think the answer was obvious. Now I held my broken future in my hands and wondered if "never" was just something privileged people said.