Bridget set the empty soup bowl down on the table. Corda wiped her wet hands vigorously on her faded apron and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. The air in the room grew heavy.

Corda reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was the suicide note the original Bridget had left on the kitchen counter.

Bridget glanced at it. The paper was covered in pathetic, desperate handwriting, detailing her obsession with Kurtis and the agony of his rejection.

Corda's hands shook. She gripped the edges of the paper and ripped it in half. The sound of the tearing paper was loud in the quiet room.

Corda ground her teeth together. She cursed Kurtis, calling him a wolf in sheep's clothing who preyed on a naive girl.

Bridget remained completely silent. She watched the emotional outburst with detached calculation, assessing the social damage this situation posed.

Corda stood up. She began pacing the narrow space between the sofa and the TV. The floorboards groaned under her heavy, anxious steps.

Suddenly, Corda stopped. She spun around and glared at Bridget. She demanded that Bridget go to the volunteer camp immediately.

Corda's voice pitched higher, cracking with desperation. She ordered Bridget to get every single one of those humiliating love letters back.

She yelled that she wouldn't let the town treat her daughter like a pathetic joke.

The memory of writing those letters surfaced in Bridget's mind. The desperate hoping, the pathetic longing. A wave of physical nausea hit Bridget's stomach.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, forcing the bile down. Her financial risk-assessment models fired up.

Those letters were toxic assets. They were reputation landmines left out in the open. They had to be liquidated immediately.

Bridget opened her eyes. Her gaze was crystal clear. There was no shame, no hesitation. She looked straight at her frantic mother.

She crossed her hands in her lap. Her voice was perfectly level. "Okay."

The simple, immediate agreement shocked Corda. She had prepared herself for a screaming match, for Bridget to cry and refuse to face her humiliator.

Corda took two steps closer, her eyes narrowing. She suspected Bridget was just lying to shut her up.

Bridget stood up. Her legs wobbled slightly from the weakness, but she locked her knees and kept her spine perfectly straight.

She looked Corda dead in the eye. She stated clearly that she wasn't just going to get the letters back. She was going to sever the connection permanently.

Corda stared at her. She saw a ruthless, decisive edge in Bridget's eyes that had never been there before. Corda was too stunned to speak.

Bridget turned and walked to the coat rack. She pulled down a stiff, faded canvas jacket.

As she slid her arms into the sleeves, the muscles in her back screamed in protest. Bridget frowned, but her movements didn't slow down for a second.

She asked Corda for the exact location of the volunteer camp and the mayor's temporary office.

Corda mechanically rattled off the directions, her brain still struggling to process her daughter's total personality shift.

Bridget walked to the front door and wrapped her hand around the freezing brass doorknob.

Corda suddenly rushed forward. She grabbed Bridget's arm, a flash of genuine maternal fear in her eyes. She asked if Bridget was sure she could handle this alone.

Bridget turned her head. She gave her mother a confident, reassuring smile. She patted Corda's hand.

She pulled her arm free and pushed the door open. The bright afternoon sun stabbed at her eyes.

She squinted, letting her pupils adjust, then marched down the wooden steps and onto the dirt road.

A cold autumn wind whipped past her, kicking up dead leaves. Bridget pulled the canvas coat tighter around her chest and kept her pace steady.

In her mind, those letters were no longer symbols of teenage heartbreak. They were outstanding debts, and she was the debt collector.

Bridget pushed her way through a thick patch of thorny bushes. The trees broke, revealing a wide clearing filled with canvas tents and cheap wooden cabins. The loud hum of a generator and the chatter of teenagers filled the air.

She didn't walk through the main entrance. She slipped into the shadows of the tree line, pressing her back against the rough bark of a massive oak tree.

A sharp, grating laugh erupted from Cabin 3, right in front of her. The sound easily pierced the thin wooden walls.

Bridget leaned forward slightly. She looked through the half-open window and locked onto the three girls inside.

Sitting in the center, wearing a pristine chiffon blouse that didn't belong in a dirt camp, was Julieta. The primary bully from her memories.

Julieta was holding a pink envelope. She waved it around dramatically, making the two girls beside her giggle.

One of the followers, Tanya, read a line from the letter out loud. Her voice was intentionally loud enough to echo across the camp.

Hearing the pathetic words, Bridget's body betrayed her. A violent shudder of humiliation ran down her spine. But her eyes remained dead and cold.

She quickly assessed the variables. Three against one. Her body was exhausted and weak. Kicking the door down and fighting them physically had a zero percent success rate.

Bridget pulled her gaze away from the window. She scanned the rest of the camp, looking for leverage.

Her eyes stopped on a fat man standing in the center of the dirt lot. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and holding a clipboard.

Her memory supplied the name: Calvin Booker, the town mayor. He was in charge of overseeing the community service hours for these out-of-town volunteers.

Bridget watched his face. He was staring at the piles of uncollected trash and the empty workstations. His jaw was tight with irritation.

A flawless, corporate-style takedown formed in Bridget's mind.

She adjusted her canvas coat. She brushed a dry leaf off her sleeve and stepped out of the shadows with total confidence.

She avoided the sightline of Cabin 3 and walked straight toward the sweating mayor.

She stopped exactly three feet away from him. She kept her voice polite but firm. "Excuse me, Mayor Booker."

Calvin jumped slightly. He looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowing in annoyance when he saw a local teenager.

Bridget didn't waste time with small talk. She pointed toward the east side of the camp. She stated that the fuel barrels were stacked dangerously close to the canvas tents, creating a massive fire hazard. She pointed out that if a spark caught, the town's minimal insurance policy wouldn't cover the disaster, and the mayor would be held personally liable for the financial fallout.

Calvin blinked. He stared at her, shocked that a poor local girl knew anything about safety regulations.

Bridget immediately dropped the bait. She casually mentioned that it seemed the government-subsidized volunteers didn't care about the town's actual safety.

The comment hit Calvin right in his bureaucratic ego. His face darkened instantly.

Reading his reaction perfectly, Bridget casually pointed her finger toward Cabin 3.

She used a tone of mild disappointment. She told him that the girls assigned to clear the riverbed were currently having a tea party inside.

Right on cue, another massive burst of laughter exploded from Cabin 3. It sounded like a direct insult to the mayor's authority.

Calvin's face turned bright red. He slammed his clipboard shut with a loud smack.

He demanded to know her name. She looked him in the eye and calmly said, "Bridget Rogers."

Calvin gave her a curt nod. He spun around and stormed toward Cabin 3, his heavy shoes kicking up dust.

Bridget stood perfectly still. She watched his furious back, a cold, predatory smile touching the corners of her mouth.

She took her time. She walked slowly, matching the pace of an executioner approaching the block, following the mayor to the cabin.

Calvin reached the door of Cabin 3. He didn't knock. He raised his heavy boot and kicked the flimsy wooden door wide open.

The door slammed against the interior wall with a deafening crack. The laughter inside died instantly, cut off like a choked nerve.

Tanya jumped in her seat. The pink envelope slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the dusty floorboards.

Calvin stood in the doorway, his face purple with rage. He glared at the makeup and snacks scattered across the table.

He screamed at them, demanding to know if they thought taxpayer money was funding their summer vacation.

Julieta recovered first. Her hand flew to her perfectly curled hair. She widened her eyes, putting on a sickeningly sweet, innocent voice, claiming they were just taking a mandatory water break.

Calvin didn't buy a second of it. He cut her off, pointing a thick finger toward the river.

He warned them that if the riverbed wasn't completely cleared by sunset, he would revoke every single one of their community service credits.

At the word "credits," all three girls turned pale. Those credits were their golden tickets to Ivy League college applications.

Calvin sneered at them. He spun on his heel and marched away, his heavy footsteps fading into the dirt.

The cabin was dead silent. The three girls breathed heavily, staring at the door in shock.

Just as they started to relax, a tall shadow fell across the floorboards, blocking the sunlight.

Bridget stood in the doorway. She kept her hands buried deep in the pockets of her canvas coat. Her posture was relaxed, almost bored, as she stepped over the threshold.

Tanya looked up. She let out a high-pitched shriek, pointing a trembling finger at Bridget, stammering incoherently.

Bridget ignored her completely. Her eyes locked onto the pink envelope lying in the dirt.

She walked forward. She bent down, her movements smooth and deliberate, and picked up the letter. She casually flicked the dust off the paper.

Gretel, the other follower, lunged forward to grab it back. Bridget merely shifted her gaze and looked at her. The look was so heavy, so filled with absolute authority, that Gretel froze mid-step.

Gretel shrank back, terrified by the deadness in Bridget's eyes.

Julieta dropped her innocent act. Her face twisted into an ugly sneer. She spat out that it was a shame Bridget didn't finish the job in the lake.

Bridget let out a short, dry laugh. She folded the letter neatly, slid it into her pocket, and turned her full attention to Julieta.

Using the sharp, clipped tone of a corporate executive dressing down an intern, Bridget stated that Julieta's crisis management skills were pathetic.

She mocked Julieta for relying on cheap tears to manipulate middle-aged men, calling the tactic embarrassing and amateur.

Julieta's mouth fell open. The vocabulary and the sheer condescension in Bridget's voice short-circuited her brain. Her cheeks flushed a deep, angry red.

Bridget took a step forward. The air in the room seemed to compress. She pointed out that their panic over the mayor proved they had zero actual power here.

Tanya tried to defend her boss. She yelled that Bridget was just a white-trash loser.

Bridget didn't even turn her head. She kept her eyes on Julieta and snapped, "Shut up. Assistants don't speak in the boardroom."

The brutal, accurate demotion hit Tanya like a physical blow. She snapped her mouth shut, her face burning with humiliation.

Bridget held out her right hand, palm facing up.

Her voice dropped an octave, turning into a hard command. She ordered Julieta to hand over the rest of the letters immediately.

Julieta's hands instinctively clamped down over her leather purse. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes.

Bridget saw the micro-expression. Her thumb rubbed against her index finger. She smiled-a cold, terrifying smile. She was ready to break her.