Chapter 9 #2
We pull out of the Royal Oaks parking lot before I can say a word.
After a minute, Shani glances over at me and goes, “You know Leo’s not the only guy in that school staring at you, right?”
I bark a humorless laugh. “Please.”
“No, seriously. It’s like you’re allergic to male attention and refuse to see it. Even the nerdy AV club boys practically walk into walls when you pass.”
I shake my head. “The last thing I need is another bad romance.”
Shani smirks. “Or maybe you need more of them. No better way to get over Leo than getting wrapped up in someone else. Could be fun.”
I nudge her knee. “Stop.”
“Just saying.” She flicks on her blinker. “Options, babe.”
My phone vibrates.
It’s a text from Tristan’s PR girl — Lane.
Your first social post passed 100k views. 15k likes.
Do NOT let rumors define you.
You choose the narrative now.
Are you ready to use your own voice?
A chill runs down my spine.
My voice.
My story.
My power.
Shani raises an eyebrow. “PR Barbie checking in?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “She wants me to speak for myself.”
Shani taps the wheel thoughtfully, then grins. “You know what? I know where we’re going.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re in Newport, at the Cliff Walk, the ocean stretching endless and wild beneath us. The wind is sharp. The light is golden. It feels cinematic. Reborn.
“Perfect,” Shani says, pulling out her phone. “Stand there. No—there. Where the wind blows your hair like some tragic heroine.”
I give her a look.
She gives one right back.
“This is your moment, bitch.”
So I do it.
I stand by the railing, the sea roaring behind me, leather jacket snapping in the wind. Shani starts recording.
“Okay,” she says. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I inhale.
And then I talk.
“Hey. I’m Jade.”
I pause, staring into the lens like it’s a mirror.
“This is me… before.”
Shani cuts in a clip — a photo from homecoming night. Long blonde hair. Soft smile. Hope in my eyes.
“And this—” I gesture to myself. “Is me after.”
Shani zooms in on the haircut. The darker clothes. The steel in my eyes.
“I was bullied. Humiliated. Broken down in front of a whole school. And for a while, I thought they’d won.”
My stomach knots. I keep going.
“But here’s the truth.”
The wind lifts my hair.
My voice steadies.
“They didn’t break me. They revealed me.”
Shani’s grin widens behind the camera.
“I’m not here to hide. I’m not here to apologize. I’m not here to play small so other people can stay comfortable.”
I look right into the camera.
“They came for the old me. Too bad she’s gone.”
A slow, fierce smile pulls at my mouth.
“And the new me?
She’s not afraid of anyone.”
Shani ends the recording and lets out a whistle. “Damn, Jade. That was… wow.”
I swallow.
I feel lighter.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
But seen.
“Post it?” Shani asks.
I hesitate for half a second.
Then nod.
“Post it.”
The video explodes.
Twenty-four hours.
Half a million views across platforms.
Comments pouring in.
Girls from other prep schools, public schools, colleges — everyone sharing their own stories, stitching mine, saying same, same, same.
It felt good posting my own, unscripted video. No filters. No lights. Just me.
That’s when the panic started for everyone else.
Royal Oaks thinks they’re losing control of “the narrative.”
Lawyers start calling.
Parent board members start calling.
Administrators start calling.
All of them suddenly pretending like they care about my “well-being.” They wanted me to shut my mouth and shut it down—the truth. Exposing them and their litter of elite offspring.
Right.
Their real concern is obvious:
the school is now the villain in a public story they can’t silence.
By lunch, I get a message from Tristan:
T: The board’s freaking.
Get your ass to the lawyer’s office.
I’m coming with.
Great.
Because nothing screams “normal teenage Tuesday” like heading to a legal negotiation.
Shani drops me off downtown. Tristan’s already waiting, leaning against the glass doors in a blazer that probably costs more than my old car. He gives me a little nod, like he’s proud and amused and terrified for me at the same time.
Inside, the conference room is full.
School attorneys.
My attorneys.
Aunt Susan.
Board representatives.
A polished woman in pearls who once introduced herself as “fundraising chair.”
They all stand when I enter.
Fake.
Fake.
Fake.
We sit.
The biggest lawyer clears his throat.
“Miss Bryan,” he starts, “Royal Oaks Prep would like to resolve this matter peacefully. We are prepared to offer you a settlement.”
Then he slides a paper across the long table.
I glance at it.
Six figures.
My heart jerks.
Because for a second, for a microscopic beat— that number means safety.
College security.
A new car.
Aunt Susan’s house needs a new roof.
Tristan mutters low beside me, “Damn, girl.”
The lawyer continues, smug now that he assumes he has me.
“This offer includes a nondisclosure agreement. You will refrain from further public discussion of the incident. No more social media posts abut any of it. In return, the school will protect your enrollment and ensure a smooth remainder of your academic year.”
Translation:
Take our hush money and disappear quietly.
I sit back.
Take a breath.
Feel something old and something new rise inside me at the same time.
“I’m not taking it,” I say.
The room freezes.
“Excuse me?” Pearl Lady whispers.
“You heard me.”
The head lawyer sits forward, eyebrows up. “Jade, we understand you’re emotional, but—”
“No,” I cut in. My voice stays steady. “You can’t buy me back.”
A ripple moves around the table.
“You can’t buy back my sleepless nights. You can’t buy back the humiliation. You can’t buy back the trauma of having an entire school laugh at me. Or the ten inches of hair I had to cut.”
I look directly at each one of them.
“What’s the price of my tears? My trust? My sense of safety?
What’s the going rate for the scars left on my soul?”
Silence.
Heavy.
Thick.
“I’m not taking your blood money,” I say softly. “Respectfully, I just want to finish my year in peace. And when I find out who did this to me?” I shrug. “I’ll be pressing criminal charges.”
A few gasps.
One lawyer actually chokes.
Pearl Lady clutches her folder like it’s a shield.
Tristan leans back in his chair and whispers, loud enough for them all to hear:
“Damn, babe. They’re quaking. You can’t be bought.”
He grins wide. “Not even Leo’s mother managed that.”
The board members look at each other with panic blooming in their eyes.
Because they finally realize—
I’m not scared of them.
I’m not controlled by them.
I’m not for sale.
I stand, smooth my jacket, and walk out while they’re still trying to figure out how everything slipped through their fingers.
“And if you come after me or my scholarship—I’ll scream retaliation and take those NBC and Primetime interviews that so far—I’ve turned down.”
For the first time in a long time…
I feel powerful again.
I’m still shaking when we walk out of the lawyer’s office. Not scared-shaking.
Adrenaline-shaking.
Power-shaking.
The board tried to muzzle me with six figures.
Six.
Figures.
I said no.
Not because I’m noble.
Not because I don’t need the money.
But because if I take their hush money, I become exactly what they want…
Quiet.
Disposable.
Forgettable.
Tristan’s PR people — two stylish twenty-somethings with ring lights and a whole folder of “messaging strategies” — practically pounce the second we step outside.
“You ready?” one of them asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “But hit record anyway.”
The ring light clicks on.
The camera points at me.
My heart slams, but my spine stays straight.
“Okay… we’re rolling,” Tristan says, stepping out of frame.
I look into the camera.
“Hi. It’s Jade.”
I pause because the words matter.
“I just turned down hush money.”
The street noise softens, like the world itself is listening.
“And I didn’t do it for me,” I say. “I did it for every kid who’s ever been bullied and then pressured to stay silent. For every student who was told to ‘take a payout’ instead of getting justice. For every family who felt trapped between their child’s safety and signing an NDA.”
I swallow, but my voice doesn’t break.
“You don’t have to be silent anymore. I’m speaking for you.”
A few people passing on the sidewalk actually slow down to watch.
“I’ve been through this before,” I continue. “Back in Ohio, they used AI to make fake videos of me. They edited my face onto things that weren’t me. They used social media as a weapon. They humiliated me. And when I reported it… I was the one forced out.”
The camera captures everything— the shake in my breath, the steel behind it.
“So I moved. I started over. I worked my ass off. I studied harder than anyone. I trained harder than anyone. And when I outperformed kids with powerful last names and elite bloodlines, they didn’t clap for me.”
I stare directly into the lens.
“They tried to break me. Again.”
My new haircut blows in the wind. My jacket fringe dances. But my voice stays steady.
“Well guess what?”
I lean forward.
“I’m done letting rich schools and rich parents silence people like me.”
The PR team tries not to cheer — they’re professionals — but Tristan mutters, “Holy shit,” under his breath.
“And to every D1 and D2 coach watching this,” I say, lifting my chin, “I’m not just a victim. I’m a student athlete with grit. I’ve overcome things most players never will.”
My throat tightens, but I push through.
“I’m strong. I’m resilient. I don’t back down. And that toughness shows up on the field. If you want a player who doesn’t break under pressure, I’m your girl.”
I give the camera a confident half-smile — the first real smile I’ve felt in weeks.
“My reels and contacts are in my bio.
Let’s talk.”
I click off.
My pulse is hammering. My hands are cold. My lips tingle with adrenaline.