I rolled my suitcase to the front door. Calla’s room upstairs was shut tight, but through the thick walls I could still hear the faint, disgusting rhythm of what was happening inside.
I walked to the kitchen. My mom was drying dishes, eyes red from holding back tears.
“Mom,” I said softly, “I’m heading out. I’ve got that military school interview today.”
She nodded, reached into the fridge and pulled out a carefully wrapped lunch box.
“Take care, son. Call me when you get there,” she said as she pressed the lunchbox into my hands.
“I will,” I said, my throat tight. “You take care too.”
I turned without looking back, pulling my suitcase behind me as I stepped through the doors of the Grant estate.
I wasn’t coming back.
***
The day of the interview, my heart was pounding. I’d been dreaming of this for years. Serving in the military had been my dream since I was five. But just as I reached the main entrance of the academy building, someone yelled behind me.
“River!”
I turned. Calla was storming across the courtyard, face pale with rage.
“Think you can run away from this?” she snapped, grabbing my arm with a grip like a bear trap. “You think you can just take the class fund and walk into an academy like nothing happened?!”
Heads turned. All the other interviewees were suddenly watching.
“Let go,” I said through gritted teeth. “I told you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I didn’t take that money. You guys spent it. You never kept track.”
“Don’t give me that crap!” she barked, then tossed a thick file down at my feet. “See this? Your dad’s account got a fourteen grand deposited last December. You seriously wanna stand here and tell me that’s not class money?”
I looked down at the printout. It was blurry, barely legible, probably cropped to hide context. And just like that, she tried to pin the whole thing on me.
“That was money I earned working jobs. I sent it to my dad because—God forbid—I wanted to help him out.”
“You?” she sneered. “What job pays a driver’s son five figures?”
She shoved me hard. I stumbled back—caught the edge of a step—and fell. My hands flew out to catch myself, but there was a sickening sound of broken bones and pain exploded through my wrist. I let out a sharp breath, sweat instantly breaking on my forehead.
“Hey! Someone just got shoved!”
People started shouting. Calla froze. Her eyes darted from my twisted wrist to the faces around her. For a second, she looked scared. Then her mask snapped back on.
“Oh please,” she scoffed. “Now you’re faking an injury? What’s next, a fainting spell?”
“Move. Make way!”
A sharp voice cut through the noise as a military instructor pushed through the crowd. He knelt beside me, checked my arm.
“Fracture,” he said crisply, then looked up at Calla with steel in his eyes. “Who are you and why are you putting your hands on candidates?”
“I—I didn’t touch him,” Calla stammered. “He fell on his own!”
“That’s not true!” someone shouted from the crowd. “She pushed him!”
The instructor stood, voice low but firm. “I don’t care what your argument is—this is assault. And it happened at the academy gate.”
Then he turned to me. “I’m sorry, Son. With an injury like that, you won’t be able to complete the interview process today.”
That hit harder than the fall. I tried to get up, eyes pleading. “Sir, I’ve prepared for this my whole life. She’s lying. She pushed me. She’s framing me—”
“Enough!” another voice cut in.
Nico came jogging over, panting, a little too conveniently out of breath.
“River, come on,” he said, voice full of fake concern. “Calla was just upset. None of this was on purpose.”
Then he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Look, just pay back forty grand. We’ll cover the rest and this whole mess goes away.”
