"I have evidence of sexual harassment, revenge pornography, blackmail, and a drug distribution network operating through this university."
I place the folder on Dean Morrison's desk with the theatrical precision of someone detonating a bomb they've been building for months. Inside: printed emails, screenshots, photos, delivery schedules, everything Kilian thought he was using to own me, now repurposed as the match I'm using to burn everything down.
Morrison's face cycles through expressions like he's speedrunning the stages of grief. "Miss Valenti, these are serious allegations—"
"They're not allegations when I have receipts," I interrupt, sliding the first document forward. "This is the original email Kilian Blackwood sent to Professor Larsen before I even enrolled. Those intimate photos were taken when I was eighteen, sent as revenge porn to destroy my academic career before it started."
"And you're saying Professor Larsen received these?"
"He deleted them and said nothing, which started this whole disaster." I pull out the next set. "These are surveillance photos Kilian had taken of me—timestamps included. He's been stalking me since August."
Morrison studies the photos, his bureaucratic composure cracking. "This appears to be criminal harassment."
"It gets better. Or worse, depending on your perspective." I spread out the delivery schedules like tarot cards predicting everyone's doom. "Kilian's been using me to distribute pharmaceuticals on campus. Adderall, Xanax, Oxy. I can give you dates, locations, amounts. I was his mule because he owned me with those photos."
"You're admitting to drug distribution?"
"I'm admitting to being blackmailed into it. Big difference." I lean back, watching him process the magnitude of what's landing on his desk. "I'm not asking for immunity. I'm asking you to stop him before he does this to another nineteen-year-old with daddy issues and a scholarship to protect."
Morrison reaches for his phone, probably calling legal, maybe calling security, definitely calling in reinforcements for this level of chaos.
"We'll need to involve law enforcement," he says, already dialing. "Both for the drug operation and the revenge pornography."
"Good. While you're at it, you should know Professor Larsen was fully aware of the blackmail situation when he chose to pursue a sexual relationship with me." I stand, my scorched earth mission complete. "I'm not saying I was innocent. I'm saying nobody in this story is."
The next three days blur together in a haze of police interviews, lawyers, and watching my phone explode with the fallout. Kilian gets arrested in his penthouse, the image of him in handcuffs making the local news. Of course, his lawyers have him out on bail within hours, money lubricating the justice system like it always does.
Victor's suspension becomes termination. Twenty years of tenure evaporated because he couldn't keep his hands off another student, though this time the student fought back.
"You destroyed everything," Liv says when she finally agrees to see me, her voice hollow as an abandoned building. We're standing in the empty quad, appropriate setting for the funeral of our friendship. "The investigation triggered the moral turpitude clause. My inheritance, my future, everything I've been waiting for—gone."
"I'm sorry about the money—"
"You think this is about money?" She laughs, but it sounds like breaking. "You fucked my father. You sat at my dinner table, called me sister, held me while I cried about my parents' marriage, all while you were fucking my father."
"I never meant for—"
"For what? For it to go this far? For anyone to find out? Which part didn't you mean, Elisa?" Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, like she's cried so much there's nothing left. "You destroyed my family for what? A few orgasms? Some daddy issue validation?"
I have no defense that doesn't sound like an excuse, so I offer none.
"I'm transferring to Berkeley," she continues. "Mom's moving back to Norway. Dad's keeping the house he can't afford anymore. You did that. You took my dysfunctional family and turned it into scorched earth."
"Your parents did that to each other—"
"But you lit the match." She turns to leave, then stops. "I actually loved you, you know. Like a real sister. That's the part that hurts the most—I don't even know if any of it was real for you."
"It was all real," I tell her retreating back, but she doesn't stop walking. "The friendship was real."
Jess appears beside me like she's been waiting for this moment, her timing impeccable as always. "Told you girls like you don't get happy endings."
"Thanks for the reminder. Really helpful."
"Oh, I'm not gloating. Well, not much." She adjusts her bag, designer leather catching the light. "I'm actually impressed. You went full nuclear. Most girls in your position would have just slunk away in shame."
"Most girls in my position don't have revenge porn and drug distribution as leverage."
"True. Though using it means you destroyed yourself too." She starts walking away, then turns back. "For what it's worth, Victor was always going to ruin someone. At least you ruined him back."
Morrison's office sends the official letter: I'm not expelled, the extenuating circumstances of blackmail considered, but they strongly suggest I'd be happier elsewhere. The subtext is clear—leave before we have to make you.
State college accepts my transfer application within a week. Nobody there knows my name, my story, my reputation as the girl who destroyed the Larsen family for sport.
One Year Later
My new phone buzzes during Organic Chemistry. Unknown number: "I think about you."
I know it's Victor without needing confirmation. The words carry his specific flavor of regret mixed with persistent desire. I don't respond, but I don't block him either, letting the message sit there like a bruise I keep pressing to see if it still hurts.
Twenty minutes later, another unknown number: "You're still mine, princess. See you soon."
Kilian. Because of course he found me. Men like him don't accept rejection, they just consider it delayed acceptance.
I walk to the campus tech center that afternoon, getting my fourth new number this year. I change my major from Literature to Biochemistry, something so far from philosophy that Victor's ghost can't follow. I dye my hair blonde, buy clothes that look nothing like what I used to wear, become someone else entirely.
But that night, lying in my single dorm room that smells like industrial cleaner and other people's choices, I know the truth: some girls are poison, and some men can't resist the taste. You can change your number, your major, your entire existence, but you can't change your nature.
My phone—new number, clean slate—sits silent on the nightstand. But I know it's temporary. They'll find me again. They always do.
The question isn't whether they'll find me.
The question is whether I'll poison them this time.