Mira Chen POV
I had the evidence. That was the thing.
I wasn't walking into Richard Ashford's office empty-handed — I had Kai's screenshot of the group chat. The public announcement of a planned attack, timestamped, with Marcus's name attached and forty-two likes underneath it. I had my notebook with every incident logged by date. I had the plagiarism case, which Professor Wells himself could confirm.
I had everything.
I told myself that as I knocked on the Headmaster's door. You have proof. Real proof. No reasonable adult ignores real proof.
"Come in."
Richard Ashford looked exactly like what he was — a man who had inherited everything and never questioned whether he deserved it. Silver at his temples. A suit that cost more than Mom made in a month. He was sitting behind a desk the size of a small country, and he looked up at me the way you look at something that has appeared on your desk that you didn't ask for.
"Miss Chen," he said. He already knew my name. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad.
"Headmaster Ashford." I stepped forward and placed my notebook on his desk, open to the first incident log. Beside it, Kai's screenshot, printed in the school library twenty minutes ago. "I need to formally report ongoing harassment. I have documentation."
He looked at the papers without touching them. Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands.
"Sit down," he said.
I sat.
He picked up the screenshot first. Looked at it for approximately four seconds. Set it back down.
"This is from a private student chat I'm not familiar with," he said.
"It's called Ashford Insider. Three hundred and forty-seven students are members. This message was advertising a planned physical attack against me, sir. With a specific time and location."
"Mm." He picked up my notebook. Flipped through it slowly — not reading, I realized. Just moving pages. "These are your personal notes."
"Documented incidents. Dates, times, witnesses where applicable—"
"Miss Chen." He set the notebook down and looked at me directly for the first time. "Ashford Elite Academy has one of the lowest student complaint rates in the country. In forty years, we have maintained an environment of excellence and mutual respect."
I stared at him.
"What you're describing," he continued, "sounds less like targeted harassment and more like the normal social friction that comes with — adjusting. To a new environment. A significantly more demanding one than you may be accustomed to."
The words landed one at a time, each one careful and soft, like he'd practiced them.
"Professor Wells accused me of plagiarism based on an essay that was stolen from my folder," I said. My voice was steady. I don't know how. "I have timestamped draft evidence that I wrote it first."
"Professor Wells is conducting his own review of that situation."
"A student had my head shoved in a toilet."
Silence.
Richard Ashford looked at me for a long moment. Something moved across his face — not quite guilt. Not even close to guilt. More like mild inconvenience.
"Those are very serious allegations," he said. "Against students from families who have supported this institution for generations. You understand that without corroborated witness testimony—"
"There were witnesses. There are always witnesses. Nobody says anything because they're afraid of—"
"Miss Chen." His voice dropped. Quiet. Final. "Perhaps the real question we should be asking is whether Ashford is the right fit for you."
I went still.
"The Merit Scholarship is awarded with the expectation that recipients will thrive here — academically, socially, holistically. If you're finding the environment consistently hostile, if you're struggling to integrate..." He paused. "We can discuss withdrawing your scholarship. A graceful exit, clean record, a recommendation letter. Nobody needs to know the transition didn't work out."
I couldn't speak for a full five seconds.
He was offering me a way to disappear.
Wrapped in language that made it sound like kindness.
"I don't want a graceful exit," I said. "I want the harassment to stop."
Richard Ashford stood — and somehow that one movement said everything. The meeting was over. He'd decided before I walked in.
"I'll look into your concerns," he said. Which meant he wouldn't. "In the meantime, I'd encourage you to reflect on what adjustments you might make to settle in more smoothly."
He extended his hand toward the door.
I picked up my notebook and my screenshot. Walked out.
His door didn't close all the way behind me.
I was three steps down the corridor, still breathing through my nose, still holding myself together, when his voice drifted out through the gap — low and brisk, like he'd already forgotten I was there and moved on to more important things.
"Yes, it's handled." A pause. "She came in today, as you expected." Another pause. "No, the scholarship situation won't become a problem. You have my word."
I stopped walking.
"The board meeting is in six weeks — this will be resolved well before then. Sebastian knows what's expected of him." A short, quiet laugh. "The Chen girl is a complication, not a threat. She'll be gone before Christmas."
I stood in the corridor without moving.
The door was open three inches. His back was to me — he hadn't seen me stop.
I thought about Mom this morning. So proud of you, bao bei.
I thought about the scholarship letter. One of ten thousand.
I thought about forty-one fake reviews destroying nine years of her work, and Richard Ashford on the phone calling me a complication.
I walked away before he turned around. Quietly, controlled, one foot in front of the other.
Don't run, I told myself. Don't run. Don't cry. Don't give this building anything else.
I made it to the stairwell before my legs stopped cooperating and I had to sit on the steps, my back against the wall, just breathing.
The Headmaster was Sebastian's father.
Victoria's parents were on the phone with him.
The Trinity wasn't just using the school against me — the school was part of the Trinity. Every complaint I filed would go to the man whose son was running the campaign against me. Every escalation I attempted would be wrapped in polite language and handed back to me as proof I didn't belong.
There was nobody to report to.
There was no higher floor.
I was completely, architecturally, deliberately alone.
I sat there for a long time.
Long enough for the corridor above me to go quiet as afternoon classes began. Long enough for the cold from the stone steps to work through my blazer.
Then my phone buzzed.
Kai.
"Did you go? What happened?"
I typed back: "He's in on it."
Three dots. Then: "I was afraid of that. Meet me in the library after dinner. I have something to show you — something I found about the scholarship fund. About where the money actually goes."
I stared at the message.
Something about the scholarship fund.
Before I could respond, a second message came through — different contact. Unknown number again, like the first chat link. But this wasn't a link.
It was a photograph.
My mother. Outside her restaurant, talking to what looked like a health inspector — clipboard, official lanyard, the whole thing. The photo was taken from across the street. Zoomed in.
One message beneath it, no signature:
"Health violations are so easy to file anonymously. Especially when the kitchen hasn't been properly inspected in two years. You have 48 hours to withdraw your enrollment. Or the inspection report gets filed tonight."
I looked at the photo for a long time.
My mother. Her restaurant. Her whole life.
In someone's hand like a playing card.
My phone buzzed one more time. Same number.
"The Headmaster won't help you. Your teachers won't help you. And now you know your mother isn't safe either. There is only one way out of this, Mira. Take it."
I lowered my phone slowly.
Outside the stairwell window, I could see the Ashford courtyard — students crossing between buildings, laughing, completely unbothered. An entire world running normally while mine was being taken apart brick by brick.
Sebastian was out there. Crossing the courtyard with two other students, blazer open, saying something that made the people beside him laugh.
He glanced toward the building.
Just for a second.
His eyes found the window like he knew exactly where to look.
Then he turned away.
I looked down at my mother's photo still open on my phone.
And for the first time since I arrived at Ashford, I genuinely didn't know if I could survive this.