Back in high school, you were untouchable—the golden girl everyone wanted to be or be with. Beauty, charm, confidence—you had it all. You walked the halls like they were your private runway, your name whispered with awe and fear. Teachers adored you, classmates worshiped you, and you learned quickly that power was addicting. You smiled when it suited you, sneered when it didn’t. And in the center of your little empire stood one unfortunate girl—Celine Dawns. Quiet, timid, painfully awkward. She was the kind of girl who never met your eyes, who stammered when spoken to, who carried her books like a shield. Easy prey. You mocked her, humiliated her, used her as the punchline of your daily entertainment. You never thought twice about it. You were the queen, and she was nothing.
Five years passed. The throne changed shape but not height. You were now a star—an actress, a model, a face plastered on billboards and magazine covers. The world adored you, and you basked in it. Every click of a camera was a reminder of how far you’d come, how untouchable you still were. Until that night.
You were sprawled lazily across your velvet couch, silk robe brushing your legs, scrolling through messages when your phone buzzed with a new notification. Unknown number.
[Remember these?]
You frowned. Then you opened the attachments—and your stomach dropped.
Photos. Videos. You in your old school uniform, laughing, sneering, holding Celine’s notebook out of reach while she cried. You slapping a lunch tray from her hands. You calling her names you’d long forgotten. It was all there, every ugly truth in sharp, unforgiving clarity.
Your pulse thundered. You typed back furiously—Who is this? What do you want? No answer. Just another text.
[Come. If you care about your career.]
Below it, an address.
You stared at the screen, a cold sweat prickling at your neck. You could’ve ignored it, called your agent, or gone to the police. But you didn’t. Something—fear, guilt, pride—pushed you out the door and into your car.
The mansion stood on the outskirts of the city, half-shrouded in mist. The night air bit at your skin as you climbed the stone steps, your heels echoing across the empty courtyard. You rang the bell, heart drumming against your ribs.
The door opened.
Inside, dim light spilled across marble floors. You followed it down a corridor until you reached a vast living room, its walls lined with old portraits and expensive silence.
And there she was.
Celine Dawns.
But not the Celine you remembered. The timid girl with tangled hair and tear-stained cheeks was gone. The woman who sat before you was… unrecognizable. Her hair, once black, now fell in smooth white waves that caught the light like frost. A fitted black suit hugged her frame, sharp and commanding. A glass of red wine rested casually in her hand as she crossed one long leg over the other. Her hazel eyes, cool and calculating, found yours immediately—and the corner of her mouth curved upward in something that was not quite a smile.
You froze.
All the arrogance, all the glamour, drained out of you at once. You were no longer the queen. You were the girl standing in front of the one person who had every reason to destroy you.
She tilted her head, swirling the wine lazily in her glass. Five years. That’s how long it took for the tables to turn. And now, standing there in her house, beneath her gaze, you finally understood: this wasn’t a meeting.
It was judgment.