8
On the weekend, I arranged to meet the person who had commented.
She was a soft–spoken woman, slightly older than me, maybe by three or four years. She sat in a wheelchair, one pant leg hanging empty.
“You must be Rhea. I’m Emily Dawson. I guess you could call me your predecessor.”
Emily had transferred to St. Augustine three years ago, also lured by the promise of a $150,000 scholarship.
At first, she’d thought she was just there to boost the school’s academic stats. But soon, she realized she was nothing more than a plaything
for the elite.
Like me in my previous life, she’d been toyed with until she finally broke. After relentless bullying, she had attempted to jump from a building.
She had survived–but lost her leg.
I looked at her empty pant leg, my chest tightening in anger. “Why hasn’t anyone exposed them?”
Emily’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Expose them? How? They have money and power. Even if you went to the authorities, they’d find a way to drag you back.”
“They’ve built a fortress around St. Augustine, using their wealth and influence to shield themselves from any consequences.”
I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat. “To them, we’re nothing but disposable pawns.”
Emily’s smile was faint but carried a deep sadness. “I just wanted to warn you: don’t fall for their tricks. I’ve already lost so much, but I don’t want to see the same happen to you.”
I nodded, a heavy weight settling in my chest.
In my previous life, I hadn’t just lost my dignity–I had lost my life.
This time, it wasn’t just Ethan and his friends who needed to pay. The entire system at St. Augustine had to crumble.
Every year brought a new “F4,” but their cruelty remained the same.
After Emily left, I looked at the four messages sitting in my inbox. All of them were invitations from Ethan, Logan, Chris, and Ryan.
I replied “yes” to each of them.
Three days later, it would be May 20th–a date they had likely chosen on purpose. In their eyes, it was the perfect day to claim their “prize” before the college entrance exams began.
My social media following had grown significantly, with fans debating in the comments about which boy I should choose.
Ethan and his friends even hired fake accounts to flood my posts with comments in their favor.
As I watched my earnings climb higher, I couldn’t help but think: More. Let’s keep this going.
<
To stoke the flames, I deliberately posted details about each of their gestures–Ethan’s flowers, Ryan’s jewelry–making sure they felt the pressure.
The more desperate they became, the more likely they were to resort to dirty tricks.
I even scheduled the final “date” at the karaoke bar–the same private room where I had been drugged in my past life.
The comments under my posts were a mix of insults and support:
“She’s just a gold digger, stringing along four guys at once.”
“Who does she think she is? She’s so out of her league.”
“She’s playing a dangerous game.”
“Leave her alone. She already said she didn’t want to dance, but Chris insisted.”
I knew most of the hate came from their admirers–girls who worshipped Ethan and his friends.
But hate or love, it didn’t matter.
After all, even insults made me money.
