The breathing on the other end of the line changed.

Victor Swanson.

He had been listening the entire time. Now, realizing I wasn't going to back down, he couldn't stay silent.

His tone was as lofty and arrogant as ever. "Do you still not realize you are wrong?"

I scoffed. "You have money—why didn't you lend it to me when I was desperate?"

"You—"

"Eighty-eight tables. Fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars a table. You have a fortune to help her show off, but not a dime to help your daughter in an emergency."

True to his professorial nature, Victor remained infuriatingly calm. "That is my money. I have the right to dispose of it as I see fit."

"I know." My grip tightened on the phone. "It's your money, your connections. Use them on whoever you want."

A breath. Steadying.

"Then how I use my future money and my time is also my business."

I hung up and turned off the phone.

Finally, the world was quiet.

...

In the adult world, there is no time for self-pity.

After being blocked from Yanda, I went to another grad school. Unwilling to settle, I tried starting a business with friends. Predictably, it failed, leaving me with several hundred thousand dollars in debt.

I had tried to borrow from my parents, but they preferred throwing banquets for strangers.

I was on my own.

I moved into the graduate dorms at my university. A cramped double room, inconvenient and loud, but I only had to pay utilities. It saved me a fortune in rent.

Without my parents, I would still pay off this debt.

Despite the business failure, I had built a network. Outsourced projects started coming in. The profit margins were decent.

I became a machine.

Intense schoolwork and freelance projects blurred together. I woke up working and collapsed into bed working. Even in the shower, my mind raced with data models and code.

My mother, unable to reach me by phone, eventually ambushed me at the school gate. She brought Aunt Lucy as a mediator.

"Isabella, why are you living in a dorm?" Mom's eyes swept over my tired face. "You hate living with other people. Why did you give up your apartment?"

I checked the time on my phone. Twenty minutes until my meeting.

"Because I can't afford rent. The dorm is free aside from utilities."

Her eyes reddened.

Aunt Lucy chimed in. "Isabella, you and your parents need to talk this out..."

"Talk about what?" I snapped. "Aren't I doing exactly what they wanted? I'm avoiding suspicion. Mom, you shouldn't be seen here. People might say I used connections to get into this school, and we wouldn't want to smear Professor Swanson's reputation, would we?"

I brushed past them and ran for the bus.

If I missed this one, I'd have to take a taxi. Until my debt was paid, every penny had to be spent with surgical precision.

A shout rang out.

"Watch out!"

*BANG.*

An electric scooter whipped around a blind corner and slammed into me.

Instinctively, I curled around my laptop bag, taking the brunt of the impact. The pavement rushed up. I rolled.

My laptop was safe.

Fire shot up my left leg. My ankle—twisted. The pain so sharp I couldn't stand.

"Daughter! Are you okay? Don't move!" Mom screamed, rushing over. "I'm calling an ambulance! You—watch where you're going!"

I gritted my teeth against the agony. "Give me the phone first. I need to send the files for the meeting."

My phone had skidded across the ground when I fell. Mom snatched it up before I could reach it.

"At a time like this, you're thinking about work? About money?" She glared at me, trembling with indignation. "Is money more important than your life?!"

She held my phone out of reach and ended the call.

My voice cracked, raw and ragged.

"Because I'm *drowning* in debt! Because my parents would rather throw a lavish banquet for a stranger than lend their own daughter a single cent!"

The words ripped out of me, each one a blade. "What choice do I have except working myself to death?" I thrust my hand out, palm up. "Give me the phone."

The outburst stunned Mom into silence. Aunt Lucy fumbled, snatching the phone from Mom's frozen grip and shoving it into my hand.

I dialed back immediately.

A brief, humiliating explanation. Then I hung up and planted my feet, waiting.

The woman on the electric scooter glanced between us—me, rigid with fury; Mom, pale and mute. She read the room. Without a word, she transferred me a thousand dollars and patted my shoulder. One pitying look at Mom, and she drove away.

Nothing needed to be said.

The silence said everything.

Mom's face burned crimson. Shame. *Finally.*

She stayed, hovering on the roadside until my ride arrived. But old habits die hard.

"Isabella, your priority right now is your studies. Once you finish your master's, you'll have your pick of—"

I pulled up my call log and shoved the screen in her face.

"I get at least a dozen debt collection calls a day." The numbers glowed, accusing. "Do you really think I can study with this noose around my neck?" I pocketed the phone. "I'm not asking for your help anymore. Just stop interfering with my work."

Her lips parted. Dry. Brittle. "Isabella... do you hate us?"

I looked her dead in the eye.

"I'm just disappointed."

She left in a daze, like she'd been slapped.

---

Not long after, Dad appeared on the local news.

Charlotte Fox was on screen, choking back tears, thanking him. Calling him her "second father."

Dad dabbed at his eyes, playing the benevolent mentor to perfection.

I watched with hollow eyes. Then I turned off the TV and threw myself back into the grind.

---

My last project paid out fifty thousand dollars. The noose loosened—just a little.

The cash injection was gasoline on a fire. I worked with renewed fervor. If I could have split every minute in two, I would have.

A few days later, a notification lit up my phone.

Mom had transferred eighty thousand dollars.

I stared at it for a long time.

*Pride says send it back. Reality says take it.*

I needed money. Desperately.

I accepted the transfer. Then I wrote a formal IOU and mailed it to her.

Her call came immediately.

"Isabella, that money is a gift. Keep it. There's no need for—"

"We need to keep the accounts clear." My voice was flat. "I will pay you back."

A sigh. She knew she couldn't win this one. So she pivoted.

"Charlotte feels terrible. She thinks she's the reason your relationship with your father is strained. She wants to apologize in person. Can you make time for a meal?"

Eighty thousand dollars sat in my account. The refusal died in my throat.

A transaction. Take the money, endure the dinner.

"Fine. Send me the time and address."

---

I rearranged my schedule and took a taxi to the restaurant.

But when I pushed open the private room door, my stomach dropped.

Dad sat at the head of the table, relaxed and authoritative. Beside him—Uncle Tyler. My second aunt.

My gaze cut to Mom.

She ducked her head, avoiding me, but her hand clamped around my wrist and dragged me to a chair.

"Sit," she whispered.

Silence descended like a wet blanket. The air thickened, suffocating.

Charlotte stood, raising her glass to break the tension.

"Isabella... the Professor helped me because he didn't want to hurt you, not because he favors me. The culprit here is me. I've let you down."

She lifted the wine to her lips.

Dad reached out and stopped her hand. Then he turned to me.

That look.

The familiar, crushing disappointment—the look one gives a piece of iron that refuses to become steel.

"Look how sensible Charlotte is," he said, his voice dripping with comparison. "Unlike you—throwing tantrums at the drop of a hat. We'll let it go this time. But in the future, you need to help Charlotte more. She's from a small town. She isn't used to city life."

Mom chimed in, echoing the sentiment. She rambled on about Charlotte's hard life, her grit, her success against all odds.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat.

I reached into my bag, pulled out the official suspension notice, and slapped it onto the rotating glass table.

"I'm not doing so great either." My voice was steady. "The university forced me out. Since we're handing out pity—how about you spare some for me?"

Dad's gaze snapped to the paper. His finger, pointing at the bold **SUSPENDED** stamp, began to tremble. Rage flooded his face.

His palm slammed the table. He shot to his feet.

"It wasn't enough that you threw a fit and stopped coming home? Now you've *quit school*?!" Spittle flew. "Even if it isn't Yanda, it's still a top-tier university! How dare you waste it!"

"I didn't have a choice." I stayed seated. "My parents had plenty of money to host a gala for a stranger but nothing to lend me when I was drowning. I fell behind on tuition. On credits. Suspension was the only option."

I leaned forward, mocking. "I'm so pitiful, Dad. Why don't *you* help me?"

"I really don't get it." My voice dropped, quiet and dangerous. "You pour your heart and soul into an outsider, yet you're ruthless to your own flesh and blood."

"I used to think you were a man of integrity. Rigid, but fair." A sneer twisted my lips. "But after watching what you did for Charlotte Fox, I realized the truth. My father isn't noble. He's just a politician playing a game."

I had figured out his angle a long time ago.

Dad was up for full professorship next year. He'd failed the evaluation multiple times. Yanda was shark-infested waters—talent everywhere, his credentials merely average. He needed an edge. He needed *hype*.

What generated more "positive energy" than a heartwarming story? The noble professor sponsors a poor student—who then gets into the very university where he teaches.

At such a critical juncture, he couldn't afford to let *me* get into Yanda. People might whisper. They might say he pulled strings for his daughter, tainting his "impartial" reputation.

But I could have passed that entrance exam on my own merit.

In his grand scheme, he got the fame. Charlotte got the benefits.

And I?

I was the sacrificial lamb. Played like a fool.

Now suspended. Drowning in debt.

Exhaustion seeped into my bones. "If you want to avoid suspicion so badly, let's make it permanent."

My gaze hardened. "From today on, act like you don't have a daughter."