"Tell me about the day shift and night shift," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the hurricane raging inside me.

The twins exchanged glances. Sawyer sat up straighter while Reece's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Harper, you're upset about those photos," Reece said smoothly. "I understand, but now isn't the time for accusations."

"Two years," I whispered, my voice gaining strength. "Two years of my life as your experiment."

Before either could respond, my phone rang. Professor Morrison's name flashed on the screen. I answered, desperate for any escape from the nightmare before me.

"Harper, I need to see you immediately," she said, her voice uncharacteristically strained.

Thirty minutes later, I sat in her office, staring at the letter she'd placed before me.

"I don't understand," I said, reading it again. "My recommendation was withdrawn? How is that possible?"

"I'm as confused as you are," Professor Morrison said, though something in her eyes suggested otherwise. "But Harvard just informed me they've accepted Teresa Hill based on the strength of my recommendation."

"Your recommendation for her? But you were writing one for me."

She looked away. "The department only allows me one elite recommendation per year. Somehow, Teresa received it."

I left her office in a daze. The recommendation I'd worked toward for years—gone. Given to Teresa Hill, the girl Reece actually wanted.

Two days later, the campus emergency system blared across the quad. Teresa Hill had been in a car accident just outside the campus gates. I was walking to class when Reece appeared, grabbing my arm with unusual urgency.

"Harper, I need your help," he said, his typically cold eyes now animated with panic. "Teresa needs a blood transfusion. You're the only O-negative match available on campus."

"Why would I help her?" I asked, yanking my arm away. "After everything?"

"Because despite what you think of me, she's innocent," he said. "And you're not a monster."

He was right about that, at least. I wasn't a monster—unlike him.

At the campus medical center, everything happened quickly. No time for proper screening, they said. Emergency protocol. I watched the needle slide into my arm, my blood flowing through the tube. One pint. Then another. The room began to spin.

"That's enough," I heard a nurse say distantly. "She's given too much."

"Just a bit more," Reece's voice. Cool. Calculated. "Teresa needs it."

Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. The last thing I saw was Reece standing over me, his expression unreadable as the world faded away.

I woke to beeping machines and the sterile smell of hospital disinfectant. According to the nurse, I'd been unconscious for three days. Severe anemia from excessive blood loss. Meanwhile, Teresa Hill had made a miraculous recovery and been discharged the previous day.

I was still processing this information when two police officers entered my room.

"Harper Stevens?" one asked, though he clearly knew who I was. "You're under arrest for tampering with Teresa Hill's vehicle with intent to cause bodily harm."

"What? That's impossible—I was in class when—"

"Save it for your attorney," the second officer said, producing handcuffs.

They allowed me to dress, then marched me through the hospital. Nurses and patients stared as I passed. Outside, a patrol car waited. The campus newspaper photographer captured the moment—Columbia's fallen "pure goddess" now an accused criminal.

The processing at the county jail stripped away whatever dignity I had left. Fingerprinted. Photographed. Personal items cataloged and taken. I changed into an orange jumpsuit, the fabric stiff and smelling of industrial detergent.

"Well, well," said a woman with tattooed arms as I was led to a holding cell. "If it isn't the college princess. Saw your pictures online, sweetheart. Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

Others in the cell recognized me too—the campus scandal had apparently reached beyond university borders. For three days, I endured their taunts, slept on a hard bench, and used a toilet with no privacy. Three days of complete humiliation, each minute stretching into eternity.

On the third day, the charges were mysteriously dropped due to "insufficient evidence." No explanation. No apology. I was simply processed out and left standing on the sidewalk outside the jail, wearing the same clothes I'd been arrested in, clutching a plastic bag containing my few possessions.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard a bird singing. Such a normal sound in a world that had become anything but normal.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard a bird singing. Such a normal sound in a world that had become anything but normal.

I walked away from the jail with nowhere to go. My phone had died days ago, and the clothes I wore carried the stale smell of incarceration. Each step felt like wading through concrete as I made my way back toward campus.

A notification awaited me when I finally charged my phone in a coffee shop that didn't immediately ask me to leave. An email from the Academic Integrity Committee requesting my presence for an emergency hearing—scheduled for yesterday.

"Miss Stevens," Professor Morrison's voice was ice when I entered her office an hour later. "How convenient that you've decided to join us now."

Four other faculty members sat in a semicircle, their faces masks of disappointment. On the table between us lay my thesis paper—the culmination of two years' work—with red markings slashed across every page.

"These passages," Professor Morrison pushed a document toward me, "match Teresa Hill's unpublished research with 89% similarity."

"That's impossible," I whispered. "I've never even seen her research."

"The timestamps don't lie, Harper." She removed her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Her submission predates yours by three weeks."

I felt the walls closing in. "Professor, please—I would never—"

"The committee has already ruled." She wouldn't meet my eyes. "Your academic standing is revoked pending further investigation. Your teaching assistantship is terminated immediately."

As I left the building, I spotted Reece across the quad, walking with Teresa. She leaned into him, laughing at something he said. His arm slipped around her waist in a gesture so natural it made my stomach turn. He glanced up, caught my eye, and had the audacity to nod slightly before turning away.

Two weeks later, I stood behind the counter at Cornerstone Books, arranging a display of new releases. The owner had taken pity on me—the only person in three counties willing to hire the disgraced Harper Stevens.

"Excuse me," a woman approached, her eyes widening with recognition. "Aren't you the girl from Columbia? The one in those photos?"

I felt heat rush to my face. "Can I help you find something?"

"Oh my god, it is you." She turned to her friend, whispering loudly. "That's her—the one who tried to kill that other girl after the sex pictures leaked."

The whispers followed me throughout my shift. Customers pointing discreetly. College students snickering behind bookshelves. A man in his forties asking if I was "available for private photography sessions."

By closing time, my hands shook so badly I could barely count the register. The owner watched me with a mixture of pity and concern.

"Harper," she said gently, "maybe this isn't the right fit after all."

I understood. I was bad for business.

The night air felt heavy as I climbed the stairs to my tiny studio apartment—the only place I could afford after being evicted from university housing. I'd lost my scholarship, my reputation, my future. All methodically stripped away by the Wagner twins.

I was heating soup on a hotplate when I heard the scrape against my fire escape. The window slid open before I could scream, and a familiar figure climbed through.

Sawyer Wagner stood in my apartment, rain dripping from his hair onto my threadbare carpet.

"What are you doing here?" My voice shook as I backed away, gripping a kitchen knife.

"Harper, please." He raised his hands. "I need to talk to you."

"Get out before I call the police."

"They won't believe you." His voice softened. "No one does anymore. That was the point, wasn't it?"

I tightened my grip on the knife. "Say what you came to say, then leave."

Sawyer stepped forward, his eyes—so like Reece's yet somehow different—filled with an emotion I couldn't name.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he whispered. "It started as Reece's plan—I just went along with it. But something changed."

"Nothing changed except you got caught."

"No." He moved closer. "I fell in love with you, Harper. For real. Those nights—they weren't fake for me. Not after the first few months."

I laughed bitterly. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I know how it sounds." He ran a hand through his wet hair. "But I'm not Reece. I'm not calculating like him. What I felt with you—what I still feel—it's real."

"Get out," I whispered, tears threatening to spill. "Just get out."

"Harper, please." He reached for me. "Give me a chance to make this right."

The knife trembled in my hand as rain continued to beat against the window behind him.