Chapter 4 - The University Dean's Worst Nightmare—Deleted Footage Recovered from Orbit
St. Jude University was an ivy-covered sanctuary for the children of the ultra-wealthy. With tuition exceeding eighty thousand dollars a year, its stone archways and manicured lawns were designed to insulate the elite from the consequences of the real world.
At 03:30 a.m., Dean Horatio Vance-Smith—no relation to me, merely a pretentious academic who had sold the soul of the university to private donors—sat in his mahogany-paneled office inside the historic administration hall. He was typing a prepared public statement on his computer:
"St. Jude University deeply regrets the off-campus altercation involving student Chloe Sterling. Preliminary findings indicate an isolated incident involving non-affiliated individuals. St. Jude remains the safest campus in the nation..."
"A beautifully crafted lie, Dean Vance-Smith," a voice remarked from the shadows of his private library balcony.
The Dean jumped out of his leather high-back chair, knocking over a cup of black coffee. "Who’s there?! Security! Security!"
"Security is currently taking an involuntary nap in the guardhouse," Hayes said, stepping out of the dark alcove with his arms folded across his tactical vest.
I walked through the French doors of the balcony, the damp night wind billowing my dark coat behind me. I dropped a heavy, sealed manila folder onto his pristine desk.
The Dean adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his chest heaving with indignant rage. "Do you have any idea who I am? I am the Dean of this university! You are trespassing on private property! I will have you expelled, arrested, and sued into oblivion!"
"Open the folder, Horatio," I commanded. The simple force of my voice made his voice die in his throat.
With trembling fingers, the Dean opened the clasp. Inside were twenty glossy, full-color photographs.
They were not just pictures of the attack on Chloe. They were financial balance sheets showing the St. Jude Endowment Fund laundering millions of dollars through construction contracts awarded exclusively to Arthur Kensington’s shell corporations. Tucked behind those were compromising photographs of the Dean himself at private yacht parties hosted by Holbrook Global Defense.
"You thought if you covered up for Chad, Brantley, and Wyatt, Arthur Kensington would fund your new twenty-million-dollar athletic center," I stated calmly. "You thought an ordinary girl on an academic scholarship was an acceptable casualty to keep your billionaire benefactors happy."
The Dean fell back into his chair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "This... this is blackmail. This is illegal surveillance!"
"No," Leo’s voice spoke through the room's high-end Bluetooth audio system. "This isn't blackmail, Dean. This is an unsealed federal indictment. As we speak, every board member, every major news network in the United States, and the Department of Education's Ethics Committee have just received this entire dossier via an automated broadcast."
"Look out your window, Dean," Hayes whispered with a cold smile.
Dean Vance-Smith scrambled to his grand bay window.
Pulling back the heavy velvet curtains, his jaw dropped. Outside on the quad, the massive four-story electronic billboard—normally reserved for displaying university athletic triumphs and donor names—was blazing brightly against the night sky.
Playing on a continuous, un-censorable loop in ultra-high-definition 4K was the unedited security footage of Chad Kensington, Brantley Sterling, and Wyatt Holbrook attacking Chloe. Beneath the video, in ten-foot-tall glowing red letters, was the text:
ST. JUDE UNIVERSITY: WHERE BILLIONAIRES' SONS COMMIT FELONIES AND DEANS COVER IT UP FOR CASH.
ALL EVIDENCE FORWARDED TO THE FBI & THE HAGUE.
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"My God..." the Dean gasped, clutching his chest as he sank to his knees on the Persian rug. "You’ve destroyed the university... You've destroyed everything..."
"No, Horatio," I said, looking down at him with eyes as cold as deep space. "You destroyed it the moment you let three monsters break an innocent girl's bones and thought a father would do nothing. Now, call Arthur Kensington. Tell him his son is next."
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