Wainwright pushed open the heavy double mahogany doors of the Student Council President's office. He was out of breath.

Dontae Vance sat behind a massive leather desk. His dark eyes were locked onto the scrolling stock data on his Bloomberg terminal.

Wainwright walked forward and placed the handwritten loose-leaf paper carefully on the desk.

Dontae shifted his gaze. His eyes swept over the sharp, aggressive handwriting. He read the formulas.

His jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck corded. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned stark white.

Dontae snapped his head up. "Which Wall Street analyst gave you this?"

Wainwright swallowed hard. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck. "It wasn't an analyst, sir. It was... Scarlett Sinclair."

Dontae froze. He stared at Wainwright. His eyes darkened with sudden, violent anger. He thought the professor was playing a very stupid joke on him.

Helen Mercer, the council assistant standing by the wall, quickly tapped her tablet. She pulled up the security footage from Class Z. She mirrored it to the large screen on the wall.

The video showed Scarlett sitting at her desk. Her face was completely blank. Her hand moved rapidly across the paper, writing the exact formulas Dontae was holding.

Dontae stared at the screen. He watched the woman he had always considered a pathetic, brainless stalker tear apart his family's billion-dollar deal with a fountain pen.

His worldview cracked.

"Get out," Dontae said to Wainwright. He didn't look away from the screen.

Down in the academy's Michelin-star cafeteria, Scarlett carried her tray to a quiet corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She sat down. She picked up her silver knife and fork and cleanly sliced into her beef Wellington.

The chair across from her was pulled out with a loud scrape.

Harlow Montoya dropped into the seat. He was the heir to the Montoya Consortium, known for his endless string of scandals.

A heavy wave of expensive cologne hit Scarlett's nose. Beneath it was the sickeningly sweet smell of cheap women's perfume.

Harlow leaned his elbows on the table. He gave her a lazy, mocking smile.

"Playing hard to get today, Scarlett?" Harlow drawled. "It's a new look. But I haven't forgotten you standing in the rain for three hours just to hand me an umbrella."

The students at the surrounding tables stopped eating. They watched, waiting for Scarlett to beg for his attention.

Scarlett set her knife and fork down. She picked up a white napkin and dabbed the corner of her mouth.

She looked up. Her eyes swept over Harlow like he was a piece of rotting garbage on the sidewalk.

"There is a smudge of cheap red lipstick on your collar," Scarlett said, her voice devoid of any inflection. "And the dark circles under your eyes suggest severe sleep deprivation. Combined with your pallor and slight hand tremors, I'd say your kidneys are failing."

Harlow's smirk vanished. A heavy, suffocating pressure settled over the table.

Scarlett leaned forward slightly. "You are filthy."

She looked straight into his eyes. "Before you sit at my table again, I suggest you go through a chemical decontamination chamber."

Harlow's face turned dark red. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up violently. His knee hit the table leg. His water glass tipped over, spilling ice water all over his expensive pants.

His pride was bleeding out on the floor. He pointed a shaking finger at her face, opening his mouth to scream at her.

Scarlett didn't even look at him. She picked up her knife and fork and cut another piece of steak. She treated him like empty air.

Harlow's fists clenched. He looked around at the staring crowd. He turned and stormed out of the cafeteria, his wet pants clinging to his legs.

"Cognitive restructuring detected in surrounding male subjects," the system pinged weakly in her head.

Harlow kicked a solid brass trash can as he stormed down the hallway. The metal clanged loudly against the marble floor.

His current date, Lexi Blum, ran up and touched his arm. Harlow violently shoved her away and kept walking.

Scarlett watched the scene through the cafeteria's glass wall. Her face remained entirely passive. She picked up her tray and walked toward the disposal station.

A sudden, sharp pain spiked at the base of her skull. Scarlett stopped. She pressed her hand against the cold wall.

A glowing red countdown timer flashed across her retinas.

"Main task critical," the system's mechanical voice warned. "Failure to establish interaction with Dontae Vance will result in Level One electrical punishment in three minutes."

Scarlett sneered in her mind. Patience, you parasite. She forced the warning screen away and pushed herself off the wall. She kept walking.

She stepped out of the cafeteria doors.

Frank Baxter, a senior Student Council officer, stood in the middle of the hallway. Two large juniors stood behind him. They blocked her path.

Frank tapped the gold-rimmed council badge on his chest. He looked down his nose at her.

"President Vance is waiting for you in the top-floor office," Frank said. His tone was arrogant, like he was delivering a command from a king.

He looked her up and down. "You might want to fix your hair. And try not to cry on his carpet this time."

The hallway traffic slowed down. Students lingered, watching the confrontation. Everyone knew what happened when Dontae Vance summoned someone. They expected Scarlett to run up the stairs like an obedient dog.

Scarlett slowly raised her left arm. She looked at the vintage Patek Philippe watch on her wrist.

She dropped her arm. She looked Frank dead in the eyes.

"I don't have time right now," Scarlett said flatly. "Tell him to wait."

Frank's jaw dropped. The arrogant smirk slid off his face. He stared at her, completely unable to process the words.

Scarlett didn't wait for his brain to catch up. She stepped around him and headed toward the main exit doors.

Frank snapped out of his shock. His face flushed with anger. He reached out and grabbed Scarlett's shoulder to drag her back.

Scarlett shifted her weight. She dropped her shoulder, breaking his grip. In the same fluid motion, she swung the heavy, hardback textbook in her hand backward.

The thick spine of the book smashed directly into the back of Frank's hand.

Frank let out a sharp hiss of pain. He yanked his hand back, cradling his bruised knuckles.

"Are you crazy?" Frank yelled. "You don't reject the President!"

Scarlett stopped. She turned her head slowly. Her eyes were like shards of black ice.

"If Dontae Vance wants to see me," Scarlett said, her voice echoing in the quiet hall, "tell him to roll down here and ask me himself."

She turned around and walked out the heavy oak doors of the academy.

Ten minutes later, Frank pushed open the doors to the top-floor office. He was sweating.

Dontae stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the campus.

Frank swallowed hard. He repeated Scarlett's exact words.

The temperature in the office plummeted. Helen Mercer stopped typing and held her breath.

Dontae slowly turned around. There was no anger in his eyes. Instead, his pupils were dilated with a dark, predatory thrill.

He walked over to his desk. He picked up the handwritten report, folded it sharply, and slid it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He cursed under his breath. The corner of his mouth lifted into a dangerous smile. Fine. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad... He was going to hunt her down himself.

The black Maybach crunched over the gravel driveway and stopped in front of Sinclair Manor.

Scarlett stepped out. She looked up at the massive, two-hundred-year-old Gothic estate. It felt like a tomb.

The heavy front doors swung open. Giles Mccray, her distant cousin, walked out onto the porch. He wore a perfectly tailored tweed three-piece suit. A warm, gentle smile was plastered across his face.

"Scarlett," Giles said softly. "How was your first day back? I hope the other students weren't too harsh on you."

He sounded exactly like a concerned older brother.

Scarlett's eyes narrowed slightly. She noticed where he was standing. He was positioned dead center on the top step-the spot reserved strictly for the head of the family.

She didn't say a word. She walked up the stairs, her heels clicking sharply against the marble.

Giles stepped aside to let her pass. The moment her back was to him, the warm smile vanished. His eyes turned cold and venomous.

Dinner was served in the main dining room. The long mahogany table felt empty with only the three of them sitting at it.

William Sinclair III cut into his meat. He cleared his throat. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

"Scarlett," William said, not looking up from his plate. "The board of directors is concerned. Your erratic behavior over the last three years has caused significant instability."

He took a sip of wine. "I have decided to temporarily transfer proxy control of your voting shares to Giles."

Giles immediately put his fork down. He looked shocked. "Uncle William, no. I couldn't possibly. I don't have the experience to manage her shares."

William waved his hand dismissively. "You've been the only stable force in this family, Giles. It's settled."

Scarlett picked up her heavy crystal water glass. She slammed it down onto the mahogany table.

The loud thud made William jump.

Scarlett stared directly at her father. "Are you going senile, or are you just blind? You are handing the keys to our house to a thief."

William slammed his hand on the table. "Watch your mouth! You have done nothing but drag this family through the mud!"

Giles leaned forward, placing a comforting hand on William's arm. "Please, Uncle, your blood pressure. Scarlett is just upset. She doesn't mean it."

Scarlett pushed her chair back and stood up. She planted her hands on the table and leaned over, looking down at the two of them.

"Listen to me very carefully," Scarlett said, her voice dropping to a freezing register. "What is mine belongs to me. If anyone tries to touch so much as a speck of dust on my shares, I will bury them."

She turned and walked out of the dining room.

She reached the top of the dark, second-floor landing. Footsteps hurried up the stairs behind her.

Giles caught up to her. The hallway was dimly lit. The mask of the perfect gentleman was completely gone.

He stepped close to her. His voice was a wet, dangerous hiss. "Don't play tough with me, you stupid girl. I already control half the executives in the company. You are nothing."

Scarlett spun around. Her hand shot out and grabbed the knot of his expensive tie. She shoved him backward with brutal force.

Giles slammed into the wall. A sharp grunt escaped his lips.

Scarlett pulled a silver letter opener from her pocket. She had taken it from her father's desk earlier. She pressed the cold, sharp blade directly against his carotid artery.

Giles froze. His pupils dilated in pure terror. He felt the sting of the metal against his skin. He could feel the faint, steady pulse of his own life beating against the edge of the blade.

Scarlett leaned into his ear. "If you ever try to touch my equity again," she whispered, her voice like a snake sliding over glass, "I will cut your throat myself."

She pulled the blade away and walked down the hall, leaving Giles trembling in the dark.