Irene’s POV

A PDF file appeared in a pinned post on the school's anonymous forum at 2 a.m.

The title was sensational: "Exposed: How a Work-Study 'Honor Student' Gets A's Through Unspoken Rules."

Clicking in, there was a long string of spliced chat record screenshots.

The so-called "me" used a fawning tone I'd never had, messaging the art history professor late at night: "Professor, I really enjoyed your lecture yesterday. If you're free, could we discuss my paper privately?"

Following that was a very crudely forged restaurant receipt screenshot, attempting to prove the professor and I had dinner together at some expensive French restaurant.

I rested my chin on my hand, looking at that restaurant receipt. I would never in my life spend that much money to eat escargot.

Although the poster hid their identity, I recognized those passive-aggressive IDs in the comment section—all Joanna's sorority people.

Seems she really had gone crazy with anger. Not being able to beat my grades would really make her try every way to drag me down to hell.

"Oh my god, so that's the kind of person she is."

"I knew it, how could a poor person possibly test that well? Turns out she slept her way up."

"Disgusting, kick her out of our school already."

I didn't reply to the post, nor did I cry and go find someone to explain to.

I just sat in the darkness, staring at the screen until my eyes burned.

Then I opened a new document and began calmly reviewing everything. Font spacing, bubble colors, timestamp loopholes... The hacker Joanna found had terrible skills, or rather, she was too eager to trample me into the mud and thus overlooked details.

Early the next morning, I was called to the dean's office.

The atmosphere was as heavy as a funeral. The dean, the department head, and that so-called "victim" professor—who actually couldn't even get my name right—were sitting there with embarrassed faces, holding those printed forged records.

"Irene Perot, these accusations are serious." The dean's voice was grave, as if I were already a death row inmate. "The school must initiate a formal investigation procedure."

"Of course," I sat across from them, back straight, hands folded on my knees. "I also hope to investigate this thoroughly. After all, this is also damage to my reputation."

The campus hearing was set for Friday afternoon.

The hallway was packed with people. Joanna wore a cream-colored Chanel suit, holding Henry's arm, looking at me with pity all over her face, as if I were about to die the next second.

When Henry saw me coming, he frowned, but didn't greet me eagerly like before. He seemed somewhat confused about whether I'd really done these things.

I stopped and looked up at him. This boy I once thought would protect me now wore an expensive custom suit but seemed so strange.

"Henry," I smiled, my voice light as a feather. "With such a wife, your life will certainly be very lively."

Having said that, I walked past him into the hearing room.

The room was full of people. Student representatives, faculty representatives, board members. And in the last row of the observer seats, in the darkest corner, sat Vincent Green.

He wore all black today, almost blending into the background. He didn't look at me, just kept his head down looking at his phone, fingers slowly sliding across the screen, as if all this farce happening outside had nothing to do with him.

I looked at him somewhat puzzled—what exactly was this person's position at the school?

Joanna spread rumors about me having an affair with an old professor, not knowing I'd been fucking her fiancé's uncle on a couch in some office at this school.

I raised an eyebrow, stopped looking at him, walked to the defendant's seat, sat down, and placed my backpack at my feet, my movements so steady they surprised even me.

The hearing lasted four hours.

The opposing lawyer was aggressive, trying to find flaws in my micro-expressions; the professor stammered to clarify that he absolutely didn't send those messages; Joanna's side even brought so-called "witnesses" who said they'd seen me disheveled walking out of the professor's office.

My usually clear-headed brain went fuzzy for a moment, suddenly remembering that day I walked out of Vincent's room wearing torn, wet school uniform—I didn't even know if anyone had seen me then.

"Irene Perot," the opposing lawyer seized on me, "you seem to have remembered something."

I paused, smiled slightly: "Yes, I just remembered there's one room without a specific office name or professor name written on it."

The opposing lawyer's eyes flashed with severity: "You and the professor were meeting in that room?"

I turned and pointed to Vincent Green in the corner: "That room is Mr. Green's room."

Vincent Green raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised I would so openly admit I'd come out of his room.

Even his gaze carried a trace of curiosity, curious about what I would do next.

The students below began whispering.

"So her sugar daddy is actually Mr. Green?"

"Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Green never gets close to women. Jason must have randomly photographed a room door to spread rumors, and she didn't know it was Mr. Green's room."

The lawyer coughed awkwardly twice: "This doesn't mean you didn't have a relationship with the professor."

I glanced coldly at the lawyer.

"Are you done? Then it's my turn."

I pointed out the time contradictions in the chat records—during that time period I was clocking in at the library, surveillance footage could testify. I showed my paper drafts and revision records, each page with detailed timestamps. I even enlarged the restaurant logo on that forged receipt, pointing out that logo had been changed half a year ago, while the screenshot still used the old version.

I had no emotion, no sentiment, just stated the facts.

When I finished my last sentence "that's all," the entire room was quiet enough to hear breathing.

The result was without suspense.

See, Peter, putting me and your daughter in the same school would turn into this.

Due to the sufficient evidence I provided, they couldn't determine I had academic misconduct. But still considering this matter had affected the school's reputation, the administration decided to give me a verbal warning for "overly aggressive defensive attitude."

I rolled my eyes, packed up the documents on the table, put them in my backpack—the zipper sound was especially harsh in the dead silent room.

From start to finish, I didn't look at that man in the last row once.

I walked down the stairs, my steps light. Just as I turned the corner on the second floor, a tall figure blocked the way.

Vincent leaned against the wall, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

He'd obviously been waiting for me for a while.

"You clearly have no one to rely on," he straightened up, blocking my path. His voice was low, without the previous mockery, instead carrying an almost commanding heaviness. "Why won't you consider relying on me? Clearly just asking me once would make everything easier."

I looked at him puzzled: "I don't understand, why do you always want me to beg you?"

Vincent crushed the cigarette, grabbed my collar with one hand, and shoved me against the wall.

"Hey!" I felt the back of my head definitely got a bump.

Vincent's kiss had already pressed down.