Chapter 47
Raven
Karen's face froze, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish struggling for oxygen. Cindy's eyes welled with tears, her carefully maintained social facade crumbling under the weight of my words.
"What did you just say?" Karen finally sputtered, her face transforming from shock to rage in seconds. She shot up from her chair, palm raised and ready to strike.
I didn't flinch. I'd faced down arms dealers in Moscow and cartel leaders in Colombia. A suburban trophy wife with too much plastic surgery hardly registered on my threat assessment scale.
"Karen!" Sarah jumped between us, voice high with panic. "Raven's just talking nonsense! She's a teenager, for heaven's sake. Don't take it personally!"
Karen's hand remained suspended in the air, her French-manicured nails trembling with restraint. "Control your daughter," she hissed.
Sarah glanced at me apologetically. "I'm sorry, it's just—she's struggling in school. She's probably jealous of Cindy's achievements."
I shot my mother a look that could have melted steel. Defending me was one thing; throwing me under the bus was another.
"I'm sorry, Raven," Sarah whispered, eyes pleading for understanding.
Karen lowered herself back into her chair with exaggerated dignity. "Well, that explains everything," she said, smoothing her designer dress. "People always envy what they lack most. It's simple psychology."
I leaned forward, elbows on the table—a deliberate breach of etiquette that made Karen's eye twitch. "Is that so?" I asked with honeyed malice. "Then what if I told you my grades are actually better than Cindy's?"
Karen's laugh was shrill and immediate. "That's absurd! If your grades were better than Cindy's, then—" she gestured wildly, "—then I suppose next you'll claim your father is wealthier than Ben, or that your mother was a beauty queen!" She dissolved into cruel laughter. "Just look at your mother's... features."
Sarah flinched beside me, her face flushing with humiliation.
"Raven," she whispered, "please don't antagonize them further."
Something cold and familiar stirred inside me. In my previous life, I'd killed men for far less disrespect than what Karen had just shown my mother. The sudden protective instinct surprised me—this wasn't even my real mother—but it felt genuine nonetheless.
"All of that could become reality," I said quietly, my smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Karen was mid-laugh when my phone rang, its shrill tone slicing through her mockery. I glanced at the caller ID: Mrs. Johnson, my homeroom teacher.
Perfect timing.
I answered, immediately activating speakerphone with an innocent smile directed at Karen.
"Raven! Thank goodness I reached you!" Mrs. Johnson's voice was breathless with excitement. "Where are you? The school administration has been trying to contact you for hours!"
I kept my expression neutral. "I'm at a family dinner. Is everything alright?"
"Alright? It's more than alright! Your practice SAT results came back—you scored a perfect 1600! You're ranked first in the entire district!"
I suppressed a smile as Karen's face drained of color.
"There are representatives from Harvard and Yale in the principal's office right now," Mrs. Johnson continued. "They want to discuss early admission possibilities once your official scores come in!"
Cindy's mouth hung open, her previously smug expression replaced by stunned disbelief.
"I know I wasn't supportive before," Mrs. Johnson added, her voice dropping with shame. "I judged you unfairly. If you don't want to talk to me now, I completely understand—"
"Thank you for letting me know," I interrupted smoothly, ending the call with a practiced flick.
Sarah turned to me, eyes wide. "You got a perfect score? Why didn't you tell us?"
I shrugged, taking a delicate sip of water. "It didn't seem important." I turned to Cindy with an innocent smile. "It's just a test, after all. I mean, 1300 is... adequate for someone who actually studies."
Karen's face contorted with fury as she struggled for a response. Before she could formulate one, commotion erupted at the head table. A young man dressed in designer streetwear adorned with glittering jewelry strode into the room, commanding attention with his mere presence.
Leonard Fischer jumped to his feet, face transformed into an obsequious grin. "Mr. Almeida! What an honor! Just one moment—" He turned to his assistant with barely contained frustration. "Where's the translator? How are we supposed to communicate with Mr. Almeida if the translator hasn't arrived?"
The assistant stammered apologies while Leonard continued berating him.
I watched the scene with amusement. The power dynamics in the room had shifted dramatically—Leonard, who had dismissed David minutes earlier, was now panicking over impressing this newcomer.
"Almeida," Karen whispered, her eyes calculating. She suddenly brightened, seeing an opportunity to recover her dignity. "That's a Portuguese name! Cindy is fluent in Portuguese, you know." She turned to her daughter with expectation. "Cindy, dear, perhaps you could help Mr. Fischer communicate with his important guest?"
I bit back a laugh. Having spent three months extracting information from a Brazilian arms dealer in Rio de Janeiro, I knew exactly where this was heading.
Cindy's face paled as she looked from her mother to the Brazilian businessman. "I—I don't—"
"She'd be delighted," Karen announced, already standing to gain Leonard's attention.