Clara barely slept. The photograph burned in her thoughts, replaying over and over like a secret melody. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Elena—small, broken, humiliated. It should have made her feel triumphant, but instead it unsettled her.
So that's why she walks around now, acting like a queen. She thinks she's climbing out of the dirt.
Clara pressed her palm against her racing heart. "Not for long," she whispered into the empty room.
By morning, her exhaustion didn't matter. Her pride was sharper than sleep. She dressed with meticulous care: silk blouse, fitted skirt, diamonds at her ears. The picture of elegance—untouchable, flawless. Her bruised dignity would be repainted with glamour.
Vivienne trailed after her like a nervous shadow as they entered the academy. The halls were louder than usual, alive with whispers that rose and died like waves. Clara could feel them—eyes darting, lips curling, the cafeteria humiliation still a feast for gossip.
"There she is…"
"…Can you believe what happened yesterday?"
"She must be dying inside."
Clara kept walking, chin high, her heels striking the floor like gavel blows. Each whisper made her resolve harder. She would erase yesterday with something unforgettable.
"Clara," Vivienne murmured, her voice low. "Are you sure about this? Whoever sent that photo… we don't even know if they can be trusted."
Clara didn't slow. "Trust? I don't need to trust them. I just need to use them. They want Elena ruined as much as I do. That's enough."
Vivienne bit her lip. "And what if it backfires?"
Clara stopped suddenly, turning so sharply that Vivienne nearly bumped into her. Her smile was cold, razor-thin. "It won't. Because Elena may have claws now, but I know something she doesn't…"
Her hand brushed against her clutch, where the photograph rested. The weapon. The evidence. The weakness.
"…Her past is dirtier than mine."
---
Classes dragged like chains. Clara barely heard the lectures, her mind scripting tomorrow's performance. She imagined Elena's face when the photo came to light—the shock, the shame, the whispers flipping sides in an instant.
She pictured the crowd circling like vultures, hungry for gossip. No one would care if Elena was once a victim; they would only laugh that their so-called shining star had once been nothing but trash.
The image thrilled her. She tapped her manicured nails against the desk, her lips curving. Yes… let her drown in humiliation. The same way she drowned me.
---
At lunch, Clara skipped the cafeteria entirely, refusing to walk into the scene of her downfall. Instead, she retreated to the garden behind the arts building, a secluded space of stone benches and ivy walls.
The air was crisp, the sun filtered through leaves, but Clara barely noticed. She pulled the photograph out, running her fingers over its edges.
The Elena in the photo was pitiful—tear-streaked, trembling, powerless. A perfect contrast to the Elena who had humiliated her yesterday.
"This is what you really are," Clara whispered, staring into Elena's frozen eyes. "Not a queen. Not powerful. Just a girl begging not to be stepped on."
Her laughter was soft, but it carried through the garden like a warning.
Vivienne shifted uneasily. "Clara, maybe… maybe you shouldn't. People might pity her instead of mocking her."
Clara snapped her gaze up, ice blazing in her eyes. "No. People don't pity weakness, Vivienne. They devour it. And tomorrow… Elena will be fed to them."
Vivienne looked down, biting her tongue. She'd seen Clara like this before—once the storm in her brewed, there was no turning it aside.
---
Evening fell, and Clara locked herself in her room again, spreading her notes across her desk. Tomorrow wasn't just about a photograph. It needed timing, precision, spectacle.
She practiced her words in the mirror, letting venom drip from her tone until her reflection looked almost unfamiliar. She rehearsed the tilt of her chin, the icy smile, the measured pauses.
Tomorrow, she would not falter. Tomorrow, she would own the stage.
---
But as she worked, her phone vibrated.
A new message from the same unknown number.
"The stage is ready. Noon. The auditorium. Don't fail."
Clara's heart skipped, then pounded harder. The mysterious figure's promise was real. Noon, the auditorium—the perfect place, crowded, impossible for Elena to escape humiliation.
Her lips curved. "Perfect."
She closed her eyes, clutching the photograph tightly. For a fleeting second, Elena's tear-streaked face from the past flickered behind her eyelids. And then she crushed the thought, replacing it with the image of Elena broken again—but this time, in front of everyone.
---
The night dragged on endlessly. Clara lay in bed, unable to stop the thrill of anticipation surging through her veins. She imagined tomorrow's gasps, the whispers, the fall of Elena's carefully built image.
Sleep never came. Only hunger.
---
By the time dawn broke, Clara was already awake, her body trembling with restless energy. She painted her lips a bold red, the color of blood, and stared into the mirror.
"This time," she murmured to her reflection, "it'll be Elena's turn to crawl."
Her reflection smiled back, cruel and certain.
---
And somewhere else, across town, Elena stirred awake—completely unaware that tomorrow, the academy itself would become a stage… and Clara the one holding the script.