Page 82 of The Sweetest Revenge

"Actually," I leaned forward, the chair's leather creaking beneath me. Their eyes snapped to mine. "We're not done." I let the silence stretch, watching them squirm. It was amazing how quickly power shifts; just minutes ago, they'd been the ones making all the noise.

"Ariella isn't going to be punished either."

"Unfortunately, that's not an opt?—"

"Stop." The word felt soft but sharp. "Let me paint you a picture, Dean Sweeney. It's dinner time. You're sitting across from your husband, Thomas, right? He's asking about your day. Meanwhile, his phone buzzes. Then, your daughter's phone. Then every phone in every home of everyone of your colleagues." I pulled out my phone, turning it slowly in my hands. "How long do you think it would take for this video to reach them? Twenty minutes? Ten?"

The sounds of her early moans filled the small office, and the color drained from her face. Beside her, Coach Hillard's hands had curled into useless fists.

"So yes, Dean Sweeney. It is an option. In fact, it's your only option."

"That's blackmail, Zaiden." Sweeney crossed her arms over her chest, trying to summon the authority that had crumbled the moment I opened that door.

Blackmail. It's such an ugly term for such a useful tool.

"Yeah," I finally said, tasting the power in my pause. "It's what I do best." My phone felt heavy in my pocket, warm with secrets. "But we can skip the moral outrage, Dean Sweeney. We both know you can't afford to let this video see the light of day. And maybe I’ll share how you've propositioned most of the hockey team. Or how your dance coach was forcing dancers to suck his dick to make the team."

"Don't make claims you can't prove." Coach's voice had found its authority again, that same self-righteous tone.

I let my smile widen slowly. My phone slid across his desk. A video that had been passed through every player on the hockey team of Sweeney getting rammed by two hockey players last year. "I never do."

His eyes dropped to the screen, then snapped to Sweeney. "Are you—" The words seemed to stick in his throat. "Are you fucking students?"

Sweeney's silence filled the room. Her perfectly manicured nails dug crescents into her palms as she glared at me, but beneath the rage, I caught it, that flicker of fear.

The leather chair breathed as I rose, taking my time. No need to rush now, the game was already won. "Fifteen minutes, Sweeney." I checked my watch, an unnecessary gesture that made her flinch. "That's how long you have to reverse Ariella's suspension. With a formal apology, of course."

I moved toward the door with unhurried steps. I paused, not bothering to look back. "Oh, and Dean? Make it convincing. Think of it as a performance." My hand rested on the doorknob. "Maybe with less moaning this time."

The door clicked shut behind me with the softness of a whispered threat. In the empty hallway, I finally let myself smile. Sweeney would do exactly as she was told, as people always did when their carefully constructed lives hung by a digital thread.

CHAPTER39

ARIELLA

When it rained, it poured—And right now, it felt like a monsoon.

Everything I'd worked so hard for was gone.

I was four years old the first time I saw the Westbrook University dancers perform on the massive field, and I was eight the first time I got to tag along for a day. I knew I wanted that. I'd spent years in dance practicing, training, and dancing to be the best, and now it was all for nothing.

All because of Zaiden and his stupid plan to ruin me for something I didn't do.

I stared at the empty suitcase standing closed at the end of my bed. I didn't want to go back to my dad's house, but I also didn't want to be here. I'd never wanted to be here.

My gaze shifted, freezing on Kacie's MacBook sitting on my desk, and I released a slow breath as my shoulders sagged. I couldn't leave without trying to figure out what happened to Kacie. I knew there was a big chance we'd never figure it out, but I had to get into that laptop. The fact that it had a different password than all her other devices told me that there was something she didn't want anyone to see. But what? I was her best friend, and I had no idea what it could be.

I leaned forward, jerking the laptop off my desk and onto my lap. Flipping it open, I stared at the login screen, gently tapping the keys.

"Okay, Kacie," I mumbled. "What is your password?"

I thought back over the passwords she used for everything else. Her bank and school logins were the first love of her life, Bella, her four-pound dachshund who passed away when she was twelve, and Kacie's birthday. Her social media logins were her best friend's initials and the date we met, but neither of those worked for her laptop. She always used something that was most important to her. My mind raced through the things she loved.

My phone buzzed on the bed beside me, pulling me from my pity party.

It was Mila. Again.

I'd ignored all her texts and phone calls because I didn't want to explain what happened again.

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