Roni was still holding her phone, the recording continuing to capture every word of this unfolding drama. I could practically see the calculations happening behind her gray eyes—weighing the entertainment value against the potential damage, measuring social media impact against personal loyalty.
“The question,” she said slowly, “is what to do with this information.”
“You could delete it,” I suggested.
“I could. Or I could leak it for maximum chaos potential.” Roni’s smile was sharp as winter. “Think about it—the headmaster’s son caught with European royalty while fake-engaged to a fashion heiress. The story practically writes itself.”
“Roni,” Nick’s voice was quiet but intense. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I? You’ve been lying to me for weeks about the nature of your feelings. Making me
