Reborn To Ruin: The Jilted Heiress's Revenge

Principal Henderson was sweating. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, looking at the man sitting in the guest chair.

"Mr. Hale," Henderson stammered, his voice hushed despite them being alone. "I... I really don't think this is necessary. Your... benefactor was very clear, of course, but a man of your... background... working security?"

Blaze sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other. He looked entirely at home in the plush office, perhaps more so than the principal.

"It's what I want," Blaze said simply. "And you will pay me the standard wage. Minimum wage. The paperwork needs to look clean."

"But... the Board..."

"The Board answers to its donors," Blaze interrupted smoothly. "And some of your largest anonymous donors appreciate my desire for a... quieter life. Let's just say the people who fund your new stadium are friends of mine."

The encrypted burner phone on Henderson's desk buzzed. He jumped.

He picked it up. "Principal Henderson."

He listened for a moment, his face paling. "Yes. Understood. Full cooperation. Whatever he wants. Yes."

He hung up, his hands shaking.

"The message was clear," Henderson whispered. "You are to be given full access."

Blaze nodded. "Good. I want the personnel files. All of them. And the student records."

"That's highly irregular..."

Blaze just looked at him.

"Right away," Henderson squeaked. He turned to his computer and typed furiously. "Here. It's all on the server. I'll give you admin clearance."

Blaze stood up. "One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Chelsea Molina. Grade 12. Move her locker."

"Move it?"

"To the main hallway. Directly under Camera 4. The blind spot by the gym is... unacceptable."

Henderson blinked. "Okay. I'll have maintenance do it during second period."

"And Henderson?" Blaze paused at the door.

"Yes, Mr. Hale?"

"If anyone finds out why I'm really here... your friends with the stadium funding might find your offshore accounts. Clear?"

"Crystal," Henderson choked out.

Blaze walked out of the office. He pulled a file from his inside pocket-a paper copy he had swiped from the desk when Henderson wasn't looking.

It was Chelsea's file.

He opened it. A school photo stared back at him. She was smiling, but her eyes were sad.

He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"I've got you," he whispered. "No one hurts you this time."

He closed the folder and walked down the hall, the heavy boots of his uniform echoing like a war drum.

The game had changed. And he was the one making the rules now.