Chapter 9
The officer stepped forward.
“We also have statements,” he said, “and footage from inside the venue that shows who arranged the booking and who encouraged everyone to stay.”
Khloe’s head snapped up.
“There are no cameras.”
The officer’s stare was flat.
“There were enough,” he said. “And there were phones.”
The class started turning on itself right there in the hallway.
Kids looked at Khloe like they were seeing her for the first time.
“Khloe told us she had connections.”
“She said it was safe.”
“She said nobody would know.”
Liam appeared then, hair messy, face pale, a bandage on his forehead. He looked like he wanted to disappear, but he couldn’t.
His eyes found mine, and for a second, the old timeline flashed between us like a blade.
He tried to speak.
I didn’t let him.
“Liam,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you were there. You encouraged it. You said you’d break up with me. You called me a problem.”
His face tightened.
Parents stared at him now, too.
The golden-boy image cracked like cheap glass.
Khloe suddenly grabbed the teacher’s sleeve, desperate.
“Please,” she whispered, crying now for real. “You said you believed me.”
The teacher pulled back slowly, confusion and betrayal fighting across her face.
“You told me you were from a wealthy family,” the teacher said, her voice shaking. “You told me your parents donated.”
Khloe broke.
“I had to,” she choked. “If people knew what I was—if they knew the truth, they’d look down on me.”
A parent snapped, “So you let our kids take the fall to protect your image?”
Another shouted, “My son could lose his future!”
The hallway erupted again.
This time, not at me.
At her.
And in the middle of the noise, I stood very still and breathed.
Because this was what had never happened before.
In my last life, Khloe’s lies had landed clean.
This time, the truth had something it had never had before.
Timing.
Proof.
A witness list.
An adult world that couldn’t ignore it.
Two days later, I walked into my finals with a clear head and steady hands.
Not because the world was fair.
Because I had stopped trying to be the savior of people who were happy to watch me burn.
Some students didn’t show up.
Some showed up rattled, exhausted, their confidence shattered.
The class group chat went quiet.
Teachers stopped calling.
Parents stopped yelling at me.
And when the acceptance letters came again—mine first, then the rest—I didn’t wait for anyone to congratulate me.
I took my results, hugged my parents, and turned the page like I had been practicing all along.