Chapter 109
Elara
I took the exam with hands that wanted to shake but didn't. The final problem was dense—a multi-variable calculus question involving partial derivatives and Lagrange multipliers. It required setting up a complex model and solving for optimal values under constraints. The kind of problem that would stump most high school students.
Victoria was smirking. "There's no way you can solve this. Last year's correct response rate was only twelve percent at Phillips Exeter."
Tristan leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his expression cold and expectant. "Begin, Miss Vance. Let's see if you're truly capable, or if you're simply an opportunistic fraud."
I ignored him and focused on the paper. My mind shifted into the analytical space I'd been inhabiting for the past week—the place where formulas made sense, where logic flowed clean and pure.
I'd taken advanced mathematics in college during my previous life. The rebirth had left me with clearer recall and deeper understanding of the underlying principles. I could see the solution path immediately:
1. Construct the Lagrangian function
2. Calculate partial derivatives and set them to zero
3. Solve the system of equations
4. Verify second-order conditions
My hand moved across the paper, formulas unfolding in neat rows. I was dimly aware of the teachers clustering around me, their expressions shifting from skepticism to surprise. Tristan remained by the window, his face unreadable, but his eyes had gone sharp and focused.
Two minutes later, I set down my pencil and looked up. "Done."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Tristan and the teachers stared at me as if I'd performed a magic trick. Most students needed five minutes just to parse the problem statement.
Dr. Pemberton picked up my work, scanning it with increasing intensity. His expression transformed from doubt to shock.
"This..." he murmured. "The solution is elegant. She used vector methods to simplify the algebra—more efficient than the standard approach in the answer key."
Mrs. Caldwell leaned over his shoulder, her eyes widening. "I taught at Columbia for fifteen years. I rarely saw high school students think to use this technique."
Tristan crossed to the desk and took the paper. He studied it in silence, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Victoria made a strangled sound of protest. "Maybe she looked up the answer beforehand!"
Tristan shook his head slowly, his voice flat. "No. Her method differs entirely from the Phillips Exeter official solution. This is her own work."
He set the paper down and looked at me. His expression was inscrutable, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or reassessment.
"It seems I underestimated you, Miss Vance."
Dr. Pemberton straightened, his face coloring slightly. "Miss Vance, I apologize. You clearly did not cheat. I'm sorry the school subjected you to this suspicion."
I kept my voice level, though my hands were shaking now with delayed adrenaline. "So I'm free to go?"
"Yes. I'll immediately restore your scores and post your ranking as first in the grade. Additionally, I'll recommend the board award you the academic excellence scholarship."
I turned toward the door without responding.
Victoria's voice rose behind me. "This isn't fair! Dr. Pemberton, she obviously—"
I spun back, cutting her off. "What isn't fair? That you accused me of cheating without any evidence? That you assumed 'good grades' and 'dishonesty' were the same thing just because they came from me?"
I let my gaze sweep across everyone in the room before settling back on Tristan. "I work eight-hour shifts selling art at Brooklyn Flea to earn money. Every dollar I make comes from my own skill. And I study until midnight in public libraries, working through practice problems you all dismiss as 'too difficult.' But you—"
I looked directly at Tristan. "You sit in this office using your family's power and your own prejudices to judge me, without needing evidence or proof. You just assume."
Tristan's expression darkened fractionally, but he said nothing.
"That," I finished, "is what's truly unfair."
I pushed through the door and out into the hallway.
---
The corridor erupted in cheers as I emerged. My classmates had apparently been waiting outside the entire time—Raven, Emily, and a dozen others I barely knew, their faces bright with vindication.
"Elara, that was amazing!"
"You're incredible!"
"Did you see their faces? I bet they're choking on their words right now!"
Raven threw her arms around me, nearly lifting me off my feet. "I heard everything through the door! You solved that Phillips Exeter problem in two minutes! Dr. Pemberton's jaw literally dropped!"
I found myself laughing despite the adrenaline still singing through my veins. "You were listening?"
"Hell yes we were listening!" Raven pulled back, grinning fiercely. "We were ready to film everything and blast it on Twitter if the principal tried anything shady. But you handled it yourself."
Other students crowded around, voices overlapping:
"That was so badass!"
"Victoria looked like she wanted to die!"
"Our class finally proved we're not inferior!"
Emily pushed through the crowd and handed me a bottle of water. "You were brilliant in there. I know some people in the honors track look down on everyone else, but what you did today proves that grades have nothing to do with which classes you're assigned to. It's all about effort."
A few minutes later, the school's electronic bulletin board updated with the official midterm rankings:
1. Elara Vance - 97.8%
2. Tristan Vane - 96.3%
The star beside my name included a note: "Only student in the grade to solve the Phillips Exeter Academy advanced problem."
My classmates stood taller, their shoulders squared with pride. The students who'd mocked me as "that poor girl from the Bronx" now avoided my eyes in the hallways.
---
I'd barely made it ten steps down the hallway when a familiar figure materialized in front of me, blocking my path so completely that I had to stop short.
Julian.
He stood in the center of the corridor in a black Brioni three-piece suit, his tie knotted with mathematical precision, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of the Wall Street Journal. His presence commanded immediate attention—students stopped mid-conversation to stare, several girls actually gasped audibly.
"Oh my God, is that Julian Vane?"
"What's he doing here?"
"He's even more gorgeous in person than on Instagram!"
I tried to step around him, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist. His fingers were cold, his grip firm enough to stop me in my tracks. Then, as if burned, he released me just as quickly.
"Stay," he said. It wasn't a request.
I bit back my first response—which would have been to tell him exactly where he could shove his orders—and forced myself to remain calm. We were in a public hallway. Half the student body was watching, and several people had their phones out.
Teachers began emerging from nearby classrooms, their expressions transforming from surprise to obsequious pleasure when they recognized him.
"Mr. Vane! What a pleasant surprise!" Dr. Pemberton hurried over, his earlier severity replaced by an ingratiating smile. "We weren't expecting you today."
Julian inclined his head in acknowledgment, his voice taking on the polished, impersonal tone he used for business. "I heard Elara achieved first place in the midterm examinations. I came to see for myself."
The teachers immediately launched into effusive praise:
"Oh yes, Miss Vance performed exceptionally well!"
"She even solved a Phillips Exeter Academy problem that stumps most college students!"
"Only student in the entire grade to get it correct!"
"Her art history essay was nearly graduate-level work!"
Julian's gaze shifted to me, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he said simply, "Well done."
I froze. Praise from Julian was rarer than snow in summer. In my previous life, he'd never acknowledged my accomplishments—not even when I'd ghost-painted award-winning pieces for Sloane. The most I'd ever gotten was a dismissive "adequate" or "keep trying."
But I caught myself before the old, pathetic gratitude could take root. This wasn't genuine praise. This was performance—Julian maintaining the Vane family image in front of the school administration.
I turned to leave.
"Elara."