Chapter 15
Serena Whitmore stepped out of the Hawthorne Group’s towering headquarters, squinting as the sharp East Coast sun stung her eyes. She was focused on reviewing a notarized copy of a mineral deed when a sudden, sharp whiff of perfume hit her like a slap.
“Miss Whitmore!”
A pair of hands, nails lacquered in glaring red, suddenly grabbed her wrist. Serena glanced up to see Evangeline Hart–Evie, as she was sometimes called–standing uncomfortably close. Her perfectly made–up face was streaked with tears that clung stubbornly to her lashes.
I know I messed up…” Evie’s voice trembled but was loud enough for the gathering crowd. “I shouldn’t have set my sights on Julian Blackwell after the Whitmores sponsored me…” Then, with a dramatic sweep, she dropped to her knees. “Please… have mercy. Let me go!”
People stopped and stared, a crowd instantly forming around them.
Serena met Evie’s performance with a cool, detached gaze, noting how slowly she sank down, careful not to wrinkle her six–figure Chanel suit.
“My grades? Earned every bit through hard work,” Evie sobbed, her voice cracking, clearly playing to the audience. “You can’t just bully someone like me from a poor family just because you’ve got money and power.
The words landed like a spark in a powder keg. The crowd buzzed with whispers.
Phones were raised. Flashes popped as bystanders recorded the scene.
“Whoa, that’s the Whitmore heiress?”
“Heard she picks on poor students ‘cause of her family’s influence…”
H
“Gross.”
Serena’s brow twitched slightly.
“Evangeline Hart.” Her voice cut through the murmurs like a blade–sharp, clear, and cold, A subtle, almost amused smile tugged at her lips. “Poor, huh?” Her eyes scanned Evie’s head–to–toe designer outfit. “Looks like your wardrobe’s dripping with luxury, but your brain’s running on empty.”
Η
The crowd erupted with laughter.
Sharp–eyed office workers quickly recognized the brands.
“Tut’s Chanel’s new fall collection–I saw it in Vogue last week!”
“That’s a Cartier Ballon Bleu watch, isn’t it?”
“And a Hermes Birkin bag!”
Evie’s face went pale. She scrambled to hide her watchs but fumbled, dropping her bag. High–end cosmetics spilled out–Dior, La Mer, the whole lip–scattering across the pavement.
Serena looked down at her, expression cool and superior. “You’re not the only student I sponsor, but you’re definitely the only one ungrateful enough to pull this stunt.” She tapped her phone a few times. “All my sponsorship records are public on the Whitmore Group’s website. Feel free to check”
The crowd buzzed as people acrambled to verify. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“It’s true! The Whitmore Group funds hundreds of low–incorne students every year!”
“Look at X–someone just exposed Evie for stealing another girl’s identity and SAT scores to get into Cambridge!”
“You’re late on the news,” another voice said. “I heard the girl whose scores were stolen works right neartar
Suddenly, a young woman with a simple ponytail and plain clothes pushed through the crowd.
“Evangeline Hart!” Her eyes blazed with fury. “Remember me? Three years ago, you stole my name and SAT scores to apply to Cambridge. That night, my mom almost jumped off a bridge!”
Before anyone could react, she swung her arm- and slapped Evie hard across the face.
Crack!
The sharp slap echoed through the plaza. Evie screamed, stumbling back, and the two women tangled in a chaotic scuffle. Evie’s Chanel jacket tore, her Birkin bag crushed underfoot, and her perfectly styled curls turned into a wild mess.
Serena watched the spectacle with detached amusement before turning to her car. As she reached for the door, her phone buzzed nonstop.
Julian Blackwell’s name flashed on the screen.
She answered, and his furious voice exploded through the speaker. “Serena! How dare you humiliate Evie in public? She’s been through enough already, and you–with everything you have–why do you have to-
Serena cut him off, hung up, and blocked his number with a flick of her thumb.
Outside the window, chaos unfolded. Evie, tear–streaked and disheveled, crawled on the ground, scrambling for her lost stiletto. Her phone erupted with notifications: #EvieHartAcademicFraud had shot to the top of X’s trending list, flamed by dozens of emojis. Serena let out a soft scoff. “Let’s go,” she told the driver.
The car had barely passed two blocks when her phone rang again. This time, it was Wesley Hawthorne.
“Handled?” His deep voice came through, calm but steady,
Serena raised a brow. “News travels fast, Mr. Hawthorne.”
Wesley chuckled lightly. “Hard to miss when the video’s trending on X. ‘Brain running on empty‘–nice vocabulary, Miss Whitmore.” Serena gazed out at the passing city streets. “You called just for that?”
A pause stretched over the line.
“Julian Blackwell just froze two of your accounts in the South End, “Wesley said, tone sharpening “He moved quickly this time.” Serena’s fingers tapped the armrest light
“Doesn’t matter. My key assets were moved ages ago.”
“Smart,” Wesley said, a hint of respect in his voice. After a brief silence, his tone grew almost hesitant. “Don’t forget… dinner at home Tonight”
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