Blurb：
When **Corinne Lockwood** infiltrates **Alderidge Institute** to avenge her sister **Felicity "Faye" Lockwood**’s brutal torment, she discovers **Jocelyn Crestwell** and **Bridget Sutton** rule these gothic halls with cruelty. But Corinne’s weapon isn’t violence—it’s manipulation. By ensnaring **Lennox Crestwell**, Jocelyn’s artist brother, in a web of calculated vulnerability, Corinne turns sibling against sibling. Every tear, every whispered secret, tightens her grip on the Crestwell dynasty.
The bathroom where Felicity was chained.
The art studio where Lennox paints his twisted obsessions.
The **Lockwood-Crestwell blood feud** reignites—but this time, **Nathaniel Lockwood**’s billions can’t shield his daughter.
As Corinne replays **Felicity’s humiliation**, Jocelyn strikes back with ice buckets and torn uniforms. But Corinne’s secret weapon? Photos of her own manufactured trauma, texted from a burner phone to **Lennox’s** bleeding heart. When **Bridget’s bullying** crosses into criminal territory, the **Crestwell siblings’ bond shatters**—and Corinne’s revenge goes viral across **Alderidge**’s gossip app.
Who will break first: the girl wielding **Felicity’s ghost**, or the Crestwells drowning in their sins?
Content：
§PROLOGUEThe video was the first thing my father showed me.
Not a photo from her stolen childhood, not a memory he’d clutched for thirteen years.
A video.
It was grainy, shot on a phone in a filthy, tiled room that echoed with jeering laughter.
The girl on the screen, my sister, wore a dog collar.
A metal chain was clipped to it, held by a girl whose face was a blur of cruel glee.
“On your knees,” the girl holding the chain commanded.
“Bark for us, Faye. Bark like the little bitch you are.”
My sister, Felicity, knelt.
She was seventeen, a ghost I’d never met, and she was being broken on a bathroom floor.
Her body was a fragile collection of angles, thin and brittle under a private school uniform that hung off her frame.
Her face, the one my father always said was the mirror of my own, was swollen, bruised, a canvas of someone else’s hate.
I watched, my own face impassive.
My father, Nathaniel Lockwood, a man who could shatter boardrooms with a single word, was shattering beside me.
A choked sob escaped him, a sound of such profound agony it seemed to tear the air in his billion-dollar penthouse.
“They… they did this to her,” he whispered, his hand gripping my arm so tight I could feel the tremor in his bones.
“Corinne. They did this to my little girl.”
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know that in that moment, watching the ghost who wore my face, I wasn’t feeling grief.
I was feeling a purpose, cold and sharp and absolute, crystallizing in my veins.
They had hurt what was mine.
A debt had been incurred.
And I, Corinne Lockwood, always collected.
§01
Two months later, I stood before the iron gates of Alderidge Institute.
The place looked less like a school and more like a fortress for the children of the damned.
Gothic spires clawed at a perpetually grey New England sky, and ancient ivy choked the stone walls like a possessive lover.
This was where they broke my sister.
This was where I would break them all.
“Nervous?” my father asked from the driver’s seat of his Bentley.
His face was still etched with a grief that had aged him a decade in sixty days, but today, his eyes held a flicker of hope.
Hope in me.
I gave him the smile I had perfected.
Sweet, a little shy, completely harmless.
“A little,” I lied.
“But everyone’s been so kind so far.”
He squeezed my hand.
“You’re a Lockwood, Cori. You’ll own this place.”
Oh, I would.
Just not in the way he imagined.
The Headmaster’s office smelled of old leather and entitlement.
Dean Albright was a man whose spine had been replaced by a copy of the school’s endowment fund report.
He offered me platitudes about ‘a fresh start’ and ‘our supportive community,’ his eyes occasionally flicking to the name ‘Lockwood’ on my file.
My transfer had been… expedited.
A generous, unprompted donation to the new arts center had greased the wheels.
“We’ve placed you in all honors classes,” he said, steepling his fingers.
“And your advisor, Mrs. Gable, will show you to your dorm.”
He slid a class schedule across the polished mahogany desk.
I glanced at it, my heart a cold, steady drum.
Calculus BC. AP Literature. Advanced Art History.
Every single class, a perfect match to the schedule they’d found in Felicity’s empty room.
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The End