THE MASKED HEIRESS

Six

Emmelyn’s POV

I haven’t slept since we cracked the flash drive.

The files haven’t left my head, looping in the background like a corrupted track codes, names, my face, test logs, charts tracking emotion, biometric spikes, even voice recognition triggers.

Test Subject: **E. Blackwood**

I keep seeing those words like they’re burned onto the inside of my eyelids.

And today, I have to sit across from Riley Beckham like my life hasn’t just been peeled open by her family and picked apart like data points on a screen.

When I walk into class, the room feels smaller than usual. Brighter, somehow. Unforgiving. I spot Jaxon near the back, already seated, arms folded, staring at the empty desk beside him.

Mine.

I force my legs to move.

The third seat—Riley’s—is still unoccupied. Small mercy.

“Hey,” Jaxon says as I drop into the chair.

I don’t respond. Not because I’m mad—but because if I open my mouth, I might say something I regret. Like how I haven’t eaten since last night. Or how I almost told my father everything this morning. Almost.

I slide my laptop out of my bag and pretend to focus on the document we’re supposed to be building. It’s just easier than looking at him. Than thinking about the fact that our families are locked in a cold war we didn’t ask for, and we’re both being used in ways we barely understand.

The chair beside me screeches.

Riley finally arrives, dressed like she stepped off a yacht catalog. Her perfume hits before her voice does—sharp, expensive, suffocating.

She throws her designer tote on the table and flips her hair back as if we’ve all been waiting for her.

“Group three,” the teacher announces. “You’ll be presenting last, next Friday. Make it count.”

I catch Riley’s smug glance from the corner of my eye. The girl lives for the spotlight. It’s in her blood—or maybe just her ego.

“So,” she says, all business, “who’s doing what?”

I don’t answer. I open the shared slide deck instead and keep typing.

Jaxon finally speaks. “We’re keeping the original outline. Emmelyn already started it.”

Riley makes a face. “Seriously? That’s... *fine*, I guess. But if I’m going to be stuck on this with you two, we’re doing it my way. I’m handling visuals.”

Jaxon shrugs. “Fine by me.”

Of course it is.

She smirks at me like she’s won something.

I grit my teeth and keep working.

Minutes pass, mostly in silence, except for the occasional click of keys and the hollow tapping of Riley’s nails against the table as she scrolls through aesthetic templates like we’re preparing for a magazine shoot instead of a research presentation.

I’m halfway through a paragraph when she speaks again.

“You know,” she says casually, “Jaxon told me he thought you were smarter than this.”

My fingers freeze.

She keeps going, voice coated in innocence. “Didn’t think you’d fall for the whole ‘mystery girl’ thing. Guess everyone has a type.”

I close the laptop.

“Is there a reason you’re talking?” I ask without looking at her.

Riley blinks, feigning surprise. “I’m just making conversation.”

“You’re poking.”

She leans in, voice dropping. “You really think you’re different? You’re just the next girl who caught his eye. He’ll move on. That’s what guys like him do.”

I finally look up.

“Guys like him?” I repeat.

She shrugs. “You don’t know him. Not really. But you think you do. That’s what makes it sad.”

“You know what’s sad?” I ask. “You. Sitting there acting like someone who’s already lost but too proud to admit it.”

Her jaw twitches. “Excuse me?”

I don’t stop. I’m done holding back.

“You cling to people like Jaxon because you don’t know who you are without them. You’re obsessed with being wanted because you’ve never had to be anything else.”

Her face hardens, but the edges c***k for just a second.

“You think you’re above everyone,” she spits. “Because you hide behind sketchbooks and fake humility. But newsflash, Emmelyn—your whole life is just as fake as mine. Maybe worse.”

The room is quiet now.

Too quiet.

I stand up.

She doesn’t expect that.

“You want to play this game, Riley? Fine. Let’s talk about what’s real.” I pull a folded sheet from my bag—the printed contract. I lay it flat on the table. “This is real.”

Her eyes flicker over the paper—and I see it.

Recognition.

Fear.

“You and your family have been involved in a project that tracks students—illegally. It’s all here. The surveillance program. The data logs. Your name.”

She pushes back her chair. “You’re bluffing.”

I shake my head. “No. But I’d love to see you try to explain this to the headmaster. Or the press.”

“Where’d you even get that?”

“Let’s just say not everyone in your little circle is loyal.”

Riley’s composure breaks, just slightly. Her lips part, a shaky breath escaping.

“You have no idea what you’re messing with,” she whispers.

“Neither do you,” I say. “But you’re about to find out.”

The teacher looks like he wants to intervene but doesn’t know where to begin. Everyone else in the class? Dead silent. Watching. Absorbing every word.

I gather my things, tuck the contract back into my bag, and look at Jaxon. He hasn’t said a word—but his expression is clear.

He’s proud.

That should scare me.

It doesn’t.

---

I don’t go to my next class. I find an empty stairwell and sit on the cold steps, letting the adrenaline drain out of me like blood. My heart’s still hammering, and my fingers ache from how tightly I was gripping my pen.

I’ve never done anything like that.

Confronted someone.

Used my voice.

But today? I was tired of silence. Tired of watching people get away with things because I was too polite to make noise.

Riley crossed a line.

So I burned the rope.

And Jaxon... he didn’t stop me.

I don’t know what that means yet.

But for now, I don’t feel powerless.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel real.