Chapter 117

Harrison had already pulled Rosalind out of the restroom, their footsteps echoing through the marble hallway as they headed toward the exit.

Her phone buzzed with a voice message from Alistair. Harrison quickly typed back, [Alistair, you've got this.]

In his study, Alistair's lips curved into a smile at the encouraging words. He responded immediately, "I won't let you down!"

Tucking her phone away, Harrison felt Rosalind grab her arm. "Let's move," Rosalind urged.

They were steps from freedom when the bathroom door swung open. Two figures blocked their path.

Isabella and Arabella.

The confrontation happened in a heartbeat.

Isabella's smirk was venomous. "Harrison, what a surprise. Heard Nathaniel threw you out of Falcon Manor. Dorm life at Willowridge treating you well?"

She'd been waiting for this moment since her humiliating fall down the stairs, desperate to gloat over her rival's downfall.

Harrison merely arched a brow, her smile razor-sharp. "Isabella, I've never seen someone so eager to claim my castoffs."

Castoffs? Isabella blinked in confusion.

Harrison's grin widened. "That bed you're sleeping in? My old one. Nathaniel? Secondhand goods. You're practically scavenging through my trash, and you call that a victory? How...pathetic." The barb hit its mark. Isabella's face went white.

Rosalind, silent until now, let out a chuckle. "So this is the famous 'mistress' you mentioned?"

The word stung. Isabella's glare shifted to Rosalind. "And who asked you?"

Then her eyes landed on the distinctive birthmark marring Rosalind's cheek. A cruel smile twisted her lips. "God, you're hideous."

Arabella linked arms with Isabella, adding fuel to the fire. "This is Harrison's new pet, Rosalind Fairchild. Campus joke, really." Her giggle was saccharine. "Perfect match, don't you think? The country hick and the circus freak."

Isabella nodded eagerly. "Like trash attracts trash."

The insults rolled off them like water. Harrison simply turned to Rosalind. "Let's go. The stench of desperation is overwhelming."

"Agreed," Rosalind said, turning on her heel.

Isabella's smile vanished. Her voice turned icy. "Arabella, you're Willowridge's golden girl. Handle this. I want them gone."

Arabella's eyes gleamed with malice. "Consider it done."

Satisfied, Isabella turned to the mirror to fix her lipstick. Then a thought struck her. "Any progress finding Professor Whitmore's daughter, Bebe?"

Alistair had married late and cherished his only child. Bebe Whitmore, youngest scion of the powerful Whitmore clan, was Nathaniel's beloved cousin. The Whitmores' influence stretched deep into Capitol politics.

Despite months of searching, Isabella had hit a wall. The Falcon and Whitmore families had buried the girl's trail completely.

Arabella frowned. "Rumor says she's at Willowridge, but I've checked every Whitmore on campus. Nothing."