I knew something was wrong the moment I walked onto campus.

The air felt heavier, eyes lingered longer than usual. It wasn’t just curiosity—there was something sharp in their stares, something they weren’t saying out loud.

Then I heard it.

“That’s her… the florist’s daughter.”

“Can you believe it? Tax fraud.”

My phone buzzed nonstop in my bag until I finally pulled it out. Notifications flooded my screen—articles, screenshots, campus threads already dissecting every detail.

Emily Smith accused of tax fraud.

My chest tightened as I scrolled through page after page. Documents, numbers, damning words bolded in headlines. Everything looked legitimate, like a case already tried and judged.

I wanted...