I hesitate for half a second.
Then nod.
“Post it.”
The video explodes.
Twenty-four hours.
Half a million views across platforms.
Comments pouring in.
Girls from other prep schools, public schools, colleges — everyone sharing their own stories, stitching mine, sayingsame, same, same.
It felt good posting my own, unscripted video. No filters. No lights. Just me.
That’s when the panic started for everyone else.
Royal Oaks thinks they’re losing control of “the narrative.”
Lawyers start calling.
Parent board members start calling.
Administrators start calling.
All of them suddenly pretending like they care about my “well-being.” They wanted me to shut my mouth and shut it down—the truth. Exposing them and their litter of elite offspring.
Right.
Their real concern is obvious:
the school is now the villain in a public story they can’t silence.
By lunch, I get a message from Tristan:
T: The board’s freaking.
Get your ass to the lawyer’s office.
I’m coming with.
Great.
Because nothing screams “normal teenage Tuesday” like heading to a legal negotiation.
Shani drops me off downtown. Tristan’s already waiting, leaning against the glass doors in a blazer that probably costs more than my old car. He gives me a little nod, like he’s proud and amused and terrified for me at the same time.
Inside, the conference room is full.
School attorneys.
My attorneys.
Aunt Susan.
Board representatives.
