Julieta forced her spine straight. She desperately tried to claw back her sense of superiority. She let out a loud, forced laugh.

She sneered, telling Bridget that getting some stupid letters back wouldn't change the fact that she was bottom-feeding trash.

Julieta's voice grew louder, frantic. She bragged that Kurtis came from old money on the East Coast. That his family owned half of New York.

She pointed a manicured finger at Bridget's frayed coat. She spat that the shoes on Kurtis's feet cost more than Bridget's family made in a year.

Hearing Julieta deploy wealth as a weapon-the only currency they understood-Tanya grasped at it like a lifeline. She didn't dare look directly at Bridget, but she and Gretel puffed up their chests. They smirked, their sudden burst of courage entirely hollow, hiding behind the shield of someone else's money.

Bridget stood perfectly still. She didn't flush with anger. She looked at them with the mild fascination of someone watching monkeys throw feces at a zoo.

When Julieta finally ran out of breath, Bridget tilted her head. She let out a soft, pitying sigh.

Her brain instantly pulled up the economic data and social structures of the 1970s East Coast elite.

She took a half-step forward. Her voice was ice-cold and surgical as she began to dismantle the illusion.

Bridget stated clearly that if Kurtis were actually an heir to a New York syndicate, he wouldn't be sweating in a dirt camp for free college credits.

She brutally explained how real wealth worked. Old money families didn't do manual labor; they bought library wings to secure legacy admissions.

Julieta's smug smile froze. The confidence in her eyes began to fracture.

Bridget didn't stop. She brought up the watch Kurtis wore on his left wrist. The one he claimed was a custom Swiss piece.

Bridget named the exact brand. She stated she had just seen that identical watch in a department store window downtown, priced at under fifty dollars, noting it was a mass-produced piece of garbage popular as a cheap high school graduation gift.

Tanya gasped. She whipped her head around to look at Julieta, her eyes silently asking if the local girl was telling the truth.

Julieta avoided Tanya's gaze. She screamed at Bridget to shut her mouth, her voice shrill and panicked.

Bridget stepped closer, invading Julieta's space. She stripped away the final layer of the lie. She called Kurtis a vain, pathetic clown wearing a costume to impress small-town girls.

She looked deep into Julieta's eyes. She whispered that Julieta already knew he was a fake.

Bridget exposed the ugly truth: Julieta only played along with Kurtis's lie because it made her feel like a queen in a town full of peasants.

The truth hit Julieta like a bullet. All the blood drained from her face. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably.

An image flashed in Bridget's mind. The original Bridget crying in the dirt while Kurtis stood by and watched, doing nothing.

A wave of intense, visceral disgust washed over Bridget. Not just for these stupid girls, but for the coward who enabled them.

Bridget's eyes hardened into flint. She was done playing with them.

She lunged forward. Her hand shot out and clamped onto the strap of Julieta's leather purse.

Julieta screamed. She yanked back, trying to keep the bag. But the adrenaline in Bridget's recovering body gave her a terrifying burst of strength.

Bridget ripped the bag downward. The cheap zipper busted open with a loud tearing sound. The contents spilled everywhere.

Lipsticks, a compact mirror, and a stack of pink envelopes hit the dusty floorboards.

Bridget ignored the expensive makeup. She dropped to a crouch and snatched up the letters with lightning speed.

She flipped through them, her thumb counting the edges. The number didn't match the memory. There were missing letters.

She shoved the stack into her coat pocket. She stood up slowly, towering over Julieta, who had collapsed onto the floor in shock.

Julieta scrambled backward across the floorboards. Her perfectly styled hair was a tangled mess around her face. She looked unhinged.

She dropped the sweet voice entirely. Her tone was a vicious screech as she called Bridget a psychotic bitch.

Julieta pushed herself up. She pointed a shaking finger at Bridget, threatening to tell everyone in town that Bridget was a desperate slut who threw herself at men.

She screamed that she would find Bridget's mother at the factory and make sure the whole family was humiliated out of town.

Bridget didn't flinch. She didn't blink. She just stood there, letting the venom wash over her like rain on concrete.

When Julieta finally stopped screaming, Bridget lowered her head. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in her chest.

The sound was so unnatural, so devoid of fear, that it made the hair on Julieta's arms stand up. She instinctively took a step back.

Bridget stopped laughing. She raised her head. Her eyes were dead, looking at Julieta like she was already a corpse.

She closed the distance between them, using her height to loom over the trembling girl.

Bridget lowered her voice to a dangerous whisper. She dropped a single, heavy word into the room: "Defamation."

She systematically laid out the consequences. If Julieta spoke one more word about her, Bridget would file a civil suit in federal court.

She promised to mail a formal complaint, along with a copy of the county Sheriff's official police report, directly to the volunteer dispatch agency and the principal of Julieta's high school. She asked Julieta to imagine how fast her 'outstanding community service' record would be reclassified as moral misconduct.

Julieta's pupils dilated in pure terror. She didn't understand the legal mechanics, but the threat to her future was crystal clear.

Bridget leaned in closer. She mocked Julieta for being a parasite who hid behind boys, entirely unequipped to play a real adult's game.

The words sliced through the last shred of Julieta's ego.

Julieta's whole body trembled. She clenched her fists so hard her manicured nails dug into her palms, drawing crescent moons of blood.

She let out a frustrated, defeated scream. She shoved Tanya out of the way with brutal force.

Julieta snatched her jacket off the chair and bolted out the door, running like a terrified animal.

Tanya and Gretel exchanged one panicked look. They hugged the walls and scurried out of the cabin right behind her.

The cabin fell into absolute silence. Bridget was alone with the scattered makeup and the dust.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline crashed. A violent wave of dizziness hit her brain.

She grabbed the edge of the wooden table. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the spinning room to stop. Her knuckles turned white from the grip.

After fifteen seconds, the nausea passed. She reached into her pocket and touched the letters. Her brain rebooted.

If Julieta only had half the letters, the hypocrite Kurtis definitely had the rest.

Bridget opened her eyes. The weakness vanished, replaced by cold determination. She walked out of the cabin.

The afternoon sun hit her face. She squinted, scanning the busy dirt paths of the camp.

She turned toward the supply distribution tents. It was the highest traffic area for the volunteers.

Her boots crunched against the gravel. Her pace was slow, conserving energy, but every step was locked onto a target.

As she rounded the corner of a corrugated metal storage shed, she heard it. A deep, fake, overly dramatic male voice.

Bridget stopped dead. She pressed her back against the metal siding. She stared at the back of the boy who was currently reciting poetry to a new, starry-eyed girl.

Bridget stepped out from the shadow of the metal shed. She intentionally brought her boot down hard on the gravel. The loud crunch echoed in the tight space.

The girl listening to the poetry frowned at the interruption. She turned, saw the absolute murder in Bridget's eyes, and immediately scurried away without a word.

Kurtis turned around. When he saw Bridget-the girl who was supposed to be dying in a hospital bed-standing right in front of him, his eyes widened in panic.

He blinked rapidly. He forced his facial muscles to shift, pasting on a look of deep, agonizing concern.

Kurtis took a step forward. He reached his hand out, aiming for her shoulder, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Bridget, my god, are you okay?"

Bridget didn't hesitate. She swung her arm and slapped his hand away. The loud smack of flesh on flesh stung her palm, but the force made Kurtis hiss in pain.

The mask of the caring gentleman cracked. Kurtis pulled his hand back to his chest, his eyes turning dark and defensive.

Bridget didn't give him a second to speak. She held out her open palm. Her voice was flat. "The letters."

Kurtis swallowed hard. He tugged at his collar, his eyes darting around the empty space. He let out a nervous laugh and played dumb, claiming he had no idea what she meant.

The corner of Bridget's mouth curled up. She pulled out the nuclear option.

She lifted her wrist, staring at a watch she wasn't wearing. She spoke in a calm, conversational tone, delivering a complete lie.

She told Kurtis that her mother, Corda, was currently sitting in the county Sheriff's office.

She enunciated the charges perfectly: Using his status as a city volunteer to deceive and corrupt the morals of a local minor, driving her to a public suicide attempt. She asked him how the Sheriff would handle a city boy ruining a hometown girl.

The words "Sheriff" and "harassment" hit Kurtis like a freight train. All the color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly gray.

He started stuttering uncontrollably. He waved his hands, pleading that she wrote them willingly, that he never touched her.

Bridget took a step closer, invading his space. Her voice dropped to a demonic whisper. She reminded him that a local jury would always side with the hometown girl who almost drowned.

She laid out his future: The moment the Sheriff opened an investigation, his East Coast scholarship and his entire life would burn to the ground.

Beads of cold sweat broke out on Kurtis's forehead. His psychological defenses shattered under the weight of her flawless logic.

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He looked at her like she was a monster wearing a familiar face.

Kurtis spun around. He dropped to his knees and ripped open the zipper of his green canvas duffel bag sitting by the shed.

His hands shook so violently he could barely move the clothes aside. He dug frantically into the bottom.

He pulled out a thick stack of pink envelopes, tied together with a cheap red ribbon.

He scrambled to his feet. He shoved the stack into Bridget's hand like it was covered in acid.

He leaned in, his voice a pathetic, begging whisper. He pleaded with her to run and stop her mother before the cops came.

Bridget looked down. She ran her thumb over the edges, confirming the handwriting and the thickness. It was all of them.

She shoved the stack into her coat pocket. She looked up and hit him with a stare of pure, unadulterated disgust.

Without a single word, she turned her back on him and walked away.

Kurtis slumped against the metal shed. His legs gave out, and he slid down to the dirt, gasping for air, his shirt soaked in sweat.

Bridget walked out of the main gates of the camp. She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The heavy, suffocating weight that had lived in the original Bridget's chest completely dissolved.

She patted her pocket. It was time to burn it.