I had already made my choice.

The system's cold voice spoke again.

[Host, do you wish to activate 'The Karmic Trigger'?]

I shook my head. Not yet. This was just the beginning.

Let him have his moment. Let him soar. The higher he soared, the harder he would fall.

That very night, Boyce and Sloane were on every headline.

Blackwood Heir Proposes to Socialite# #A Power Union of New and Old Money#

The financial media called it a merger of dynasties. The fashion pages called it a modern fairytale. Social media was ablaze.

Boyce posted a photo of the two of them—perfect lighting, perfect smiles, a perfectly composed fantasy.

The caption read: "Finally have everything I've always wanted."

The post exploded. Thousands of likes. Endless comments.

I didn't engage. No like, no comment. I just scrolled past.

Instead, I buried myself in the lab, pouring everything into my polymer research.

Professor Alistair Finch was more than a mentor; he was the first person who saw the potential in my work.

"Your research has the potential to reshape the entire industry," he told me one afternoon, reviewing my progress.

He didn't know the real reason I was so far ahead. I had already lived the next forty years. I knew which technologies were on the verge of a breakthrough, which industries would boom, and which research would redefine the future.

This wasn't just a second chance. It was an insurmountable advantage. And I wasn't about to waste it.

A month later, Boyce appeared at the lab.

He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Professor Finch," he said, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of casual arrogance only new money can buy, "I'd like to make a donation. Enough to have the building renamed."

Professor Finch barely looked up from his work. "This building already has a name."

Boyce smiled. "Everything has a price."

Professor Finch set down his pen and met his gaze. "Not everything."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Boyce's face, quickly replaced by cold indifference.

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "I'll just speak with the board of trustees directly."

He turned to leave, then paused.

"Oh, and about Dani Hayes," he added, his tone dripping with condescension. "She's a nobody. Just some broke student. Don't waste university resources on a charity case."

Professor Finch's expression didn't change. He simply returned to his papers.

But he called me that night.

"I have to tell you something," he said. "Boyce Collier pressured the university to revoke your research grant and reallocate the funds."

I froze.

"He spoke to the trustees this afternoon. Given the size of his recent donation… the university is caving."

Silence.

That grant was my life's work. It represented years of sleepless nights, sacrificed weekends, and a social life that had ceased to exist. And now, someone could just wave a check and make it all disappear.

"I fought for you," Professor Finch continued, "but I can't promise I'll win. You need a backup plan."

I thanked him and hung up.

I stood in the silent hallway and let the reality sink in.

In our last life, I had supported Boyce through his rock bottom—the years he was unemployed, depressed, and lost. I had carried us both.

Now, in this life, he wasn't just leaving me behind. He was trying to erase me.

Not because I was a threat. Not because I was in his way.

But because I was a reminder of what he used to be.

And for that, he could never forgive me.

The next morning, the official email arrived.

My research grant was revoked.

The language was polite and bureaucratic. "Due to a reprioritization of funding…" But the truth was blunt: Boyce had bought my future out from under me.

I packed my things in silence. No tears. It wasn't that it didn't hurt. It was that I was already planning my next move.

On my way out, I ran into Boyce. He was standing at the entrance to the newly christened business school, smiling at something on his phone.

He glanced up and saw me. "Leaving?"

I said nothing.

"Good," he said. "You were a waste of the school's resources anyway."

I looked at him—really looked at him—and a cold clarity settled over me.

He hadn't become this cruel because he had money. He had always been this cruel. The money just gave him permission to show it.

I walked past him without a word and went back to my dorm to finish packing.

The system's voice resurfaced, softer this time.

[Host, your emotional state is unstable. Do you wish to activate the trigger?]

I shook my head. Not yet. Boyce and Sloane's "wedding of the century" was still over a month away.

I could wait.

The moment I stepped off campus, my phone rang. It was Professor Finch.

"Dani, I contacted a colleague on your behalf," he said, his voice brisk. "Stellaton Advanced Materials Institute. He owes me a favor. You'll have a place there."

I stopped in my tracks. "Professor Finch… the Montgomery family won't—"

He cut me off with a dry, weary laugh. "I refuse to let a talent like yours be buried by this kind of petty power play."

A pause. "You earned your spot. I'm just making sure you get to keep it."

My throat tightened. "Thank you."

"Pack your bags," he added. "They'll be in touch."

Leaving Bridgewater wasn't a loss. It was a reset. A new city. A clean slate.

Yes, watching Boyce fall would be satisfying. But building my own future was more important.

To make ends meet before the move, I took a waitressing job at a charity gala. And that's where I saw them.

Boyce and Sloane.

They were the guests of honor, holding court in a circle of fawning admirers. The diamond necklace around Sloane's throat was worth more than my entire tuition. Boyce's arm was draped possessively around her waist.