Chapter 9

The courtyard was emptier than I'd ever seen it. The chestnut trees had shed their leaves in golden drifts, and she sat beneath them like a fallen ornament—all platinum hair and designer coat, looking nothing like the girl who'd tried to destroy me.

"Go away." Camille's voice cracked. "I know you want to gloat."

I didn't move. The gravel crunched under my worn sneakers as I stepped closer. "I don't."

She laughed, bitter and broken. "Then what? To tell me you forgive me? That you *understand*?"

"Should I not?"

Camille looked up, mascara smeared like bruises under her eyes. "You don't know what it's like. Being told your whole life you're not enough. That your brother's the smart one, your cousin's the pretty one, and you're just—" she choked. "Just *there*. And then you come along, with your scholarship and your perfect grades, and suddenly I'm invisible."

"They compare you too?" I asked quietly.

Her silence was louder than any confession.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel made us both turn. A black Mercedes pulled up, and Camille's parents stepped out—immaculate, cold, their faces carved from disapproval.

"Camille." Her mother's voice was ice. "Get in the car. We'll discuss this at home."

No hug. No concern. Just judgment.

Camille rose, shoulders squared, armor back in place. But before she walked away, she looked at me.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," she said. "I just wanted someone to see me. Not the villain. Not the rich girl. *Me*."

She got in the car. The door slammed.

I stood in the falling leaves, understanding something I hadn't before: some cages are gilded, but they're still cages.

Maybe forgiveness wasn't about her. Maybe it was about me letting go of the weight I'd been carrying.

But as the Mercedes disappeared, I couldn't help wondering—had I given it too easily? Or had I finally learned what real strength looked like?