Chapter 2

Chloe’s face drained of every drop of color.

The phone was still pressed against her ear, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish flopping on dry land.

I stared at her. There was no rage in my eyes, no shock, not even a flicker of contempt.

I just watched her with absolute stillness, the same way I had looked at every student from the podium over the past twelve years.

"Done with your call?" I asked quietly.

Chloe’s eyes welled with tears almost instantly, spilling over without warning.

Just three seconds ago, she was gloating on the phone. Now, she looked as if someone had a hand wrapped around her throat, trembling in sheer, helpless fright.

I didn't utter a word. I simply pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped the stop button right in front of her.

Her pupils constricted sharply.

"You... you recorded that?"

I offered no answer. I slid the phone back into my pocket and moved to walk past her.

As our shoulders brushed, I stopped. My voice was barely a whisper.

"Chloe, I always considered you a bright girl."

I paused, turning my head slightly. "But when brilliance is used for evil, it only leads to your own destruction."

The tears on Chloe’s face dried up in an instant.

She stared at me for two solid seconds, and then, a slow smile crept across her lips.

It wasn't the sweet, polite smile she wore in class. It was a chilling, sinister smirk that sent a shudder straight down my spine.

"Mr. Miller, do you really think a recording is going to save you?"

Chloe took a step toward me, the innocent schoolgirl mask shattering completely to reveal the venom underneath.

"You think that recording means anything? Go ahead! Take it to the police! Let's see who they believe—you, or me."

She tilted her chin up, her gaze dripping with disdain.

"A seventeen-year-old girl versus a middle-aged male teacher. I don't need hard evidence. A few tears are all it takes to ruin you."

"Think you can claim I framed you? Ha. I already have appointments logged with a therapist. My files clearly state I have post-traumatic stress from your harassment. Guess how many sessions it took to buy that diagnosis?"

My hands clenched at my sides, my fingernails piercing my skin.

Chloe caught the motion, and her smirk widened.

"What? Want to hit me? Go ahead, do it. Touch a single hair on my head and I’ll scream bloody murder. Let's see if anyone in this entire town ever believes another word out of your mouth."

She raised an index finger and poked my chest, over and over, light and mocking, like she was teasing a caged beast.

"You teach government and ethics, don't you, Mr. Miller? Why don't you tell me: how many years does a disgraced teacher get for assaulting a minor?"

I didn't move.

Not because I was afraid, but because I couldn't afford to take the bait.

I knew better than anyone that if I touched her—even with a single finger—I was dead.

Chloe knew it too, which was why she was so brazen.

Heavy footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor, rushing toward us.

Chloe’s ears twitched. In a fraction of a second, her expression did a complete one-eighty.

The cruelty vanished. The smugness evaporated. In their place came that familiar, heart-wrenching terror.

Before I could even react, she hurled herself backward, slamming hard against the locker-lined wall with a loud bang.

"No... please, Mr. Miller, stay away from me!"

Her voice shook with sheer agony, choking through frantic sobs as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I know I was wrong! I shouldn't have reported you... but please, I beg you, don't touch me again...!"

The footsteps quickened into a sprint, and a portly figure rounded the corner.

Dean Richard Vance—in his late fifties, balding, belly spilling over his belt. A man who usually lost his breath climbing a single flight of stairs was now sprinting like an Olympic runner.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Vance threw his body in front of Chloe, glaring at me with beady, furious eyes.