The music swelled, and we made our entrance—Cecilia gliding gracefully, me waddling behind in my furry prison. The audience erupted in laughter at the sight of me.

Cecilia twirled and pirouetted like a swan, throwing condescending glances my way between movements.


Though we were supposedly dance partners, she'd never bothered to rehearse with me. So I ignored her completely, improvising my own ridiculous routine.

To my surprise—and clearly to Cecilia's horror—the audience couldn't take their eyes off me.

"That mascot is killing it!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Looked ridiculous at first, but now I'm loving it!"


"Right? It's weirdly adorable! Now THIS is college entertainment!"

"Meanwhile, that ballet dancer looks like she's trying way too hard."


Cecilia must have caught these comments—her face darkened, and in her distraction, she twisted her ankle. Her perfect rhythm was shattered for the remainder of the performance.

As the music faded, the entire class flooded onto the stage for final bows. I didn't even get a chance to remove my sweaty mascot head.

The host stepped forward and invited the dean to share a few words.

A distinguished man rose from the center of the front row. His presence commanded immediate attention, his voice resonating through the hall: "First, I'd like to commend all the students on their performances. However, I have one question—who coordinated the rehearsals?"

The hall fell into immediate, deafening silence.

Though his words seemed complimentary, his tone carried unmistakable displeasure.

The counselor stepped forward, visibly nervous. "I was, Dean."

The dean fixed her with a piercing stare. "Didn't you tell me the finale would feature Selena's performance? Why the last-minute change?"

"What? But it was Cece... I mean Cecilia..." The counselor's face drained of color.

The dean scanned the stage, his expression hardening. "Do you think I wouldn't recognize someone I've watched grow up since childhood? Where is she? What have you done?"

Beads of sweat broke out on the counselor's forehead. "Dean, everyone is present on stage..." her voice quavered.

The dean looked ready to erupt when I yanked off my mascot head, my hair tumbling out in a sweaty mess. "Uncle Dean! I'm right here!" I called, waving cheerfully.

A collective gasp rippled through the audience. Cecilia and the counselor froze in horror.

The dean blinked in shock, then his brow furrowed deeply.

He strode onto the stage and approached me, gently smoothing my tangled hair.

"Sweetheart," he said, concern evident in his voice, "why on earth are you stuffed into this ridiculous costume? You've won international dance competitions—what is this nonsense?"

I glanced at the shell-shocked faces around me and smiled innocently. "The counselor said it was for school pride. I had to wear this to support my classmate's dance." I shrugged. "After all, her mom donated an entire dormitory building."

The dean turned slowly toward the counselor. "I'm not aware of any building donations except from Selena's mother. Who exactly are you referring to?"

Every eye in the hall swiveled to stare at me.

"That's impossible!" Zoe blurted out, her voice cracking with disbelief.

She spun toward Cecilia. "Cece, isn't Ms. Sinclair YOUR mother?"

Cecilia darted a glance at me—shock and raw jealousy flashing across her face—before dropping her gaze to the floor.

"Shut up!" Wendy hissed, yanking Zoe's arm. "The dean is right there!" Though equally stunned, she at least maintained some composure.

The counselor dabbed at her forehead with a tissue, stammering, "But wasn't it Cecilia Sinclair? You mentioned someone named Cece..."

The dean let out a derisive snort. "I said 'Selena,' not 'Cecilia'! If your hearing is that poor, perhaps you should consider a different profession!"

"But Cecilia Sinclair claimed her mother was Ms. Sinclair!"

The counselor grabbed Cecilia's arm and thrust her forward. "Cecilia, tell the dean! Isn't your mother Ms. Sinclair from Legrand Group?"

Cecilia kept her head bowed, mumbling, "I... I never actually said that. You all just... assumed."

"That's absurd! If you hadn't confirmed it yourself, why would I have helped you target Selena?" the counselor shrieked, panic rising in her voice.

"Interesting," I cut in with an icy laugh. "So you're openly admitting you help wealthy students bully 'ordinary' ones?"

Before she could stammer out a response, I pulled out my phone and hit play. The recording of her earlier threats about forcing me out of the dorm blasted through the air.

Thanks to the hall's Bluetooth speakers, her arrogant, contemptuous voice boomed through the entire auditorium.

The dean's expression hardened to granite. "Our university has no place for educators like you," he declared, each word like a hammer blow. "Pack your office immediately. As for the psychological damage you've inflicted on our student, expect to hear from our legal team."

The counselor's legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor, her eyes vacant with shock.