The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of St. Helena Academy, bathing the polished hallway floors in gold. Students milled about, clutching books, whispering gossip, and pretending not to notice the simmering tension that always followed Clara and Elena wherever they went.
Clara walked in with steady steps, her uniform crisp, her gaze cold and sharp. Today wasn't like any other day. She had planned something, and for once, Elena wouldn't be the one laughing.
At the far end of the hallway, Elena stood with her usual entourage, her laughter high and sharp like glass shattering. She leaned against her locker, flipping her glossy hair back as if she owned the building. Her friends were busy sneering at a timid first-year who had accidentally dropped his books near them.
"Watch where you're going, loser," one of Elena's friends snapped, kicking a notebook aside. The boy bent down, embarrassed, cheeks red.
Clara's lips curved. Perfect timing.
She walked right into the scene, heels clicking deliberately against the marble. A hush spread through the hallway. Ever since that incident in the cafeteria, whispers about Clara had spread like wildfire. Some said she wasn't the same anymore. Others said she had gone mad. One thing was certain: everyone wanted to see what would happen next.
Clara bent down, picked up the boy's notebook, and dusted it lightly. "Careful," she said softly to him, her tone unusually gentle. The boy looked up, startled, and Clara smiled at him before handing it back. "Not everyone in this school is trash."
Gasps filled the hallway. Elena's eyes narrowed.
"What did you just say?" Elena hissed, her sweet mask slipping.
Clara straightened, her expression icy. "You heard me. I said not everyone here is trash… but unfortunately, some people clearly are." Her gaze cut like a blade as it landed squarely on Elena.
The crowd erupted in murmurs.
Elena's friends stiffened, but she held up a hand. "Clara, dear," Elena drawled, trying to recover her calm, "don't embarrass yourself. You've already made enough of a fool lately. Why don't you run along before you get hurt?"
Clara chuckled, a low sound that made the hairs on everyone's neck rise. "Embarrass myself? Oh Elena, that's your specialty, not mine. But since you're always so eager to perform…" Clara's voice dropped to a whisper, sharp and cutting. "…why don't we give the audience a real show?"
Before Elena could respond, Clara reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper. She tossed it onto Elena's lap with perfect precision. Elena caught it instinctively, frowning, then unfolded it.
Her face drained of color.
On the paper was a photocopy of Elena's math test—failed spectacularly, with a giant red 38/100 scrawled across the top. Clara had somehow gotten her hands on it.
The crowd gasped louder this time.
Elena quickly tried to crumple it, but Clara's voice rang clear: "Funny, isn't it? You strut around as if you're the smartest, the most perfect. But when it comes to the actual work… you can't even pass basic algebra."
A ripple of laughter spread through the hallway. Elena's friends shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.
Elena stood abruptly, her hands shaking. "You—you stole this! How dare you!"
Clara tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Stole? No, Elena. I don't need to steal what you throw away so carelessly. You should be more careful with your secrets. You never know who's watching."
Whispers turned into open snickers. The same students who once fawned over Elena now smirked, their eyes darting between her and Clara. The tide was turning.
Elena clenched her fists. "Clara, I'll—"
"—What? Scream? Cry? Or maybe you'll run to your precious daddy to fix it for you?" Clara cut her off smoothly, her tone mocking. "Go ahead. But remember this, Elena: every empire starts to crumble from within. And yours…" Clara leaned in closer, her smile wicked, "…is already cracking."
The hallway exploded with noise. Phones were out, students were recording, laughter filled the air. Elena's face burned scarlet. For the first time, she looked cornered.
But just as Clara turned to leave, satisfied with her strike, a sharp voice sliced through the chaos:
"Clara Whitmore!"
The entire hallway froze.
At the end of the corridor stood Mr. Reynolds, the strictest teacher in the academy, his glare cold enough to freeze fire. In his hand was a stack of confiscated notes… with Clara's handwriting all over them.
His eyes pinned her down like a predator. "My office. Now."
The crowd erupted again, this time with fresh gasps.
Elena's lips slowly curled back into a smirk, her earlier humiliation flickering into something darker. The tables had turned once more—but for whom?
Clara's fingers tightened around her bag strap, her heart pounding. So this is how you want to play it, Elena?
She lifted her chin, calm on the surface, but inside, her mind raced.
This wasn't over. In fact, it had only just begun.