Chapter Seven: Reckoning
1103 Words
Leonel Virell stood in front of the full-length mirror in his walk-in closet, adjusting the silver cufflinks on his charcoal dress shirt. The room smelled of cedarwood cologne and fresh-pressed linen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Beverly Hills estate, the city lights glittered like scattered diamonds across the LA basin. He exhaled slowly, trying to shake the knot in his chest. Business lessons tonight. Another hour of his father’s voice drilling numbers and strategy into his head. Another reminder he was expected to inherit everything.
The door slammed open.
“Leonel Virell!” Marcus’s voice cracked like a whip. “Downstairs. Now.”
The door shut with enough force to rattle the framed photos on the wall.
Leonel sighed. He pulled down the cuffs one last time, met his own eyes in the mirror—dark, tired—and left the room.
Downstairs the living room felt smaller than usual. Lexis paced in front of the marble fireplace, heels clicking against the hardwood, arms crossed so tightly her knuckles were white. Marcus stood near the bar cart, pouring bourbon into a glass with deliberate slowness. The TV was muted, but the screen showed a paused social media feed—screenshots of the leaked results, comments scrolling like wildfire.
Lexis spun toward him the second he appeared at the bottom of the staircase.
“How dare you,” she said, voice trembling with fury. “How dare you let that Azul girl beat you? A zero, Leo? A zero?”
Marcus set the glass down hard enough that bourbon sloshed over the rim.
“Sit.”
Leonel sat on the edge of the leather sofa, hands resting on his knees. He stared at the rug.
Marcus picked up his phone, swiped, and tossed it onto the coffee table. The screen lit up with comments:
“Handsome without brains 😂”
“Virell money can’t buy IQ”
“Bro decided school was optional cause daddy’s billions incoming 🤣”
“Zero? That’s gotta hurt more than the wallet”
“I see why the Virells and Azuls fight… one has brains, one has cash”
“Rich kid privilege = zero consequences… until now”
“Someone please tell him brains > Bugatti”
Lexis snatched the phone back. “This is embarrassing. Look at what everyone is saying. All because of your results.”
Leonel clenched his fists so hard the knuckles cracked. “Enough.”
Both parents froze.
He stood slowly, chest rising and falling. “Azul. Azul. Azul. That’s all you know.” His voice cracked on the last word. “You don’t even want to ask what happened. Mom—you know me. Since the day I started school, when did you ever get a call about bad grades? When? I was framed. They reported I was copying. They planted answers in my locker. I spent a sleepless night going through equations that would make most people cry. And the car…” He looked at Marcus. “You bought it for me. I sang about it day and night. Do you really think I’d destroy the one thing I actually loved? Look at me—up and down—and tell me if that makes sense.”
Silence.
Lexis’s mouth opened, closed.
Marcus stared at him for a long moment. Then he stood, walked to the window, hands in his pockets.
“They framed you.”
Leonel nodded once.
Marcus turned. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Kane wouldn’t say who reported it. But I’m suspecting Jordan.”
Marcus exhaled through his nose. “Alright, son.” He paced once. “What about the car? Did anyone say anything?”
Leonel shook his head. “No.”
Lexis folded her arms. “What about that small Azul girl?”
Leonel: “That’s the hardest part. She didn’t attend class yesterday.”
Marcus stopped pacing. “Jordan didn’t attend?”
Leonel: “No.”
Lexis: “Ummm… then who else could be against us? Or against Leo?”
Marcus stayed quiet for a long beat. Then:
“There’s no one else apart from the Azuls. And Jordan’s too young to do that on her own.”
Lexis: “Obviously Elena had a hand in this.”
Leonel: “But Jordan missed class. How can she be a suspect?”
Marcus: “That doesn’t make her clean. Or innocent.” He looked at his son. “Monday we go to your school. The Azuls have crossed a line this time.”
Lexis stepped forward, pulled Leo into a hug. “Come on. You’re late for business lessons.”
Leonel hugged back—brief, stiff—then left.
Marcus waited until the front door closed. He pulled out his phone, dialed, put it on speaker as he climbed the stairs.
“Hack the school’s security system,” he said into the receiver. “I need to know what transpired last Friday.”
The line crackled. “On it.”
Marcus ended the call.
Meanwhile—across the city in a sleek downtown LA studio with white walls and blinding lights.
“Action.”
Jordan stepped onto the mark, chin high, shoulders back. The camera flashed. She walked the line—slow, deliberate, hips swaying just enough, lips parted in that practiced half-smile. The silk dress caught the light like liquid silver.
Obama, the director, nodded from behind the monitor. “Good. Keep your head up.”
Talia, the coach, called out: “Chest out, princess. Eyes on the lens—make love to it.”
Jordan adjusted. Turned. Smiled wider. The room smelled like hairspray and hot lights.
“Cut!” Obama high-fived her. “Excellent. You’re going for semi-finals in Dubai—we’re selecting the best. Look confident.”
Jordan exhaled, wiped a bead of sweat from her temple. “So I start again?”
Timothy, holding the secondary camera, grinned. “Yes. Start again.”
She walked back to the mark, paused, rolled her shoulders. Ready.
Obama: “Chest out. Head up. Action.”
She moved—fluid, fierce, beautiful. The smile reached her eyes this time.
Elena watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, lips curved in quiet pride.
An executive called out: “Tania, you’re next.”
Obama turned to Jordan. “Good job, princess.”
Jordan smiled—small, tired, but real.
On the other side of the city, Marcus stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window in his Century City office, hands in his pockets, earbud in.
“You found something?” A pause. “Good.”
He ended the call.
The real game begins.
- Writer
