That One Item Changed Everything

During the mandatory freshman orientation camp, my skin had flared up with a severe allergic reaction, so I didn't use the plastic washbasin the school handed out.

Instead, I opened my suitcase and took out the custom silver basin I had brought from home.

My roommate, Louisa Carter, immediately made a snide remark, drawling, "You're really something, huh? Kids from broke families like us are lucky to have any basin at all."

I didn't bother responding. I simply pulled out my facial essence to do a cold compress, but she immediately rushed over, slapped the bottle out of my hand, and jabbed a finger at my face.

"Bet you get tens of thousands a month for living expenses. You have a sugar daddy, don't you? Don't you feel guilty making your folks work their fingers to the bone back on the farm? People like you don't deserve to be at our school. I'm reporting you to the student counselor."

I laughed in disbelief and slapped her.

…

The next morning, the family photo I'd left on my desk had been slashed to ribbons. Across the back, carved in ink, were the words: 'Daughter of a homewrecker. Go to hell.'

I went straight to the police.

While officers pulled the dorm security footage, our student counselor and the university president rushed in. The moment the president saw the man whose face had been cut apart in my photo, his legs nearly buckled.

He almost dropped to his knees.

When Mercy Is Mistaken

The university president, Wilhelm Weber, waved his hands shakily, ushering the police officers and the student counselor out of the room.

"Mallory, the school will make this right for you." He pointed at the family photo in my hand, his voice pleading. "Could you… not escalate this for now?"

I thought back to what my father had told me when he dropped me off. He had asked me to keep a low profile and not make trouble.

But keeping my head down didn't mean I had to let people walk all over me. And it certainly didn't mean letting anyone slash my father's face and call me a homewrecker's daughter.

The corner of my mouth twitched.

I slipped the photo back into its frame and nodded without expression.

Wilhelm exhaled in visible relief, his shoulders sagging.

…

The hallway surveillance footage was quickly pulled up.

At three in the morning, Louisa's sneaky silhouette appeared on screen.

She slipped out of our dorm, disappeared into the storage room at the end of the hall, and returned moments later, jittery, one hand hidden stiffly behind her back.

When the police questioned her, she sat in the chair and burst into tears on cue. "She hit me first. My face is still swollen. I just accidentally knocked over her photo frame. It's not my fault that it was so flimsy—it fell apart the moment it touched the floor."

The officers turned to me, asking for my statement.

Remembering my promise to the university president not to make things bigger for now, I simply said, "It was just a misunderstanding."

Since even I downplayed it, the police treated it as nothing more than a minor student conflict, offered a half-hearted warning, and wrapped it up.

Louisa looked straight at me afterward, her eyes full of mockery and contempt. "See? Even the cops don't care about you. Do you think being rich makes you special? You still have to sit there and take it."

I didn't answer. I just watched her.

"What, nothing to say? Guilty? Or scared?" she pressed, raising her voice. "This is a university, Mallory Leighton. Not your family's backyard. A little money doesn't give you the right to do whatever you want."

I snorted inwardly and looked away. 'Typical clown behavior. Go ahead. Enjoy your tiny victory while it lasts.'

…

That afternoon, the moment I pushed open the dorm door, a familiar scent hit me. It was the soothing-face-cream blend I'd asked one of my father's friends at a Helvetia lab to formulate for me—only one jar existed in the world.

My stomach dropped.

I rushed straight to my cabinet. The silver jar was sitting exactly where I'd left it, but it felt far too light in my hand.

I twisted the lid open.

A full jar now had a deep gouge carved through the center, as if someone had scooped out a handful with bare fingers.

I spun around. Louisa and another roommate were sprawled on their beds, their faces gleaming with oil. The familiar scent I'd noticed earlier was coming off their skin.

Seeing my expression, Louisa sat up and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, bragging loudly, "Oh, you're back? Mallory, your stuff isn't even that good. Greasy as hell. My cream works better."

The roommate beside her chimed in, "Seriously. It smells weird, costs a fortune, and for what? I'll never understand rich people's taste."