Chapter 30: Chapter 30: Cracks in the Foundation
The printer beeped, papers sliding out into the tray, but Melanie barely registered them.
Though he had promised not to interfere, that didn’t mean he would stand by and do nothing.
“Send me names. Timeline. Any specific staff to monitor?”
“I don’t care about rumors,” she continued. “What I care about is responsibility and professionalism. If you can’t uphold those, you don’t belong here.”
Not openly, not cruelly—but enough to make it unbearable.
Melanie took a step back, unsure if the comment was a warning or a threat.
Are they avoiding me too? The question sat bitter on her tongue, but she didn’t voice it.
Melanie blinked. “Excuse me?”
A few seconds later, a smooth, even voice answered. “Mr. Westwood.”
She stood to get more pencils, but paused when she noticed something tucked beneath the edge of her sketchbook — a folded piece of paper she hadn’t seen there earlier.
Odd.
By noon, Melanie had gone to the design lab to reprint a few concept pages from her backup files — thank God she’d saved copies at home. As she stepped inside, the lab door swung shut behind her, and the room emptied of students.
Because someone was watching.
“Yes. Melanie Westwood. She’s being framed.”
The girl tilted her head. “No. But maybe someone wanted you out of the way. You’re talented. People hate that.”
Melanie brushed it off and walked to the printer station. As the machine hummed to life, she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she saw the same girl — now standing closer.
There was someone by the window.
Someone wanted her afraid.
***
And they weren’t done yet.
A girl from the advanced section — she couldn’t remember her name. She was tall, with blunt bangs and a quiet presence. Always watching, rarely speaking.
She had done nothing wrong.
She let herself fall into the comfort of his arms.
Some looked at her with suspicion, others with pity. But none of them looked at her the way they used to.
He dialed.
Their eyes met for a second. The girl looked away.
Melanie walked through the hallways of Harrington with her head held high, even if everything inside her felt like it was collapsing.
From the hallway, Leonard’s voice called softly, “Melanie?”
He stared at his phone for a beat before unlocking it and pulling up a contact.
“Understood.”
Leonard’s tone was clipped. “Focus on faculty office access logs, blind camera zones. Start with Professor Tara and Yara. And… check if any files were pulled or deleted between noon and evening yesterday.”
Even the ones who believed she was innocent were afraid to be seen siding with her.
Detective Rhys Callahan. Discreet. Efficient. Loyal to the Westwoods for over a decade.
Melanie’s jaw clenched.
“You know,” the girl said, voice low, “people are going to keep believing what they want to believe.”
Almost.
Callahan replied, “I’ll have something by tomorrow.”
And as she stared at the note, she felt it.
Just a shadow of the truth — enough to shake her all over again.
Leonard tapped his fingers against the polished desk in his private office, his mind far from spreadsheets and acquisition reports.
The tension clung to the walls like humidity after a storm. Every step she took seemed to echo louder than it should, and the glances were sharper now. Not just whispers — they were watching her.
You want war? You’ll get war.
Before Melanie could respond, the girl walked out.
It would’ve been easier to shout back. To defend herself. But she had learned the hard way that fighting too loud made people believe you had something to hide.
“Do you know something?” she asked carefully.
“Did you hear?” a voice whispered behind her.
“I need your eyes on Harrington Institute. Something’s off.”
She picked it up slowly.
He walked in, concern written across his face. “You okay?”
Don’t let them scare you out of it.
She slipped the note into her sketchbook before he reached her.
She kept thinking about that girl. The warning. The stares. It was like she was one misstep away from losing everything she’d fought to rebuild.
That night, Melanie was sketching alone in the manor’s sunroom. The shadows of leaves danced across her page as the wind shifted outside.
“Bet she did it to knock out competition.”
“She’s not telling me everything,” he muttered under his breath.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she pushed open the studio door. A few students were already gathered, going over their showcase sketches. The buzz of conversation faltered when she entered.
Instead, she stared at her page, willing herself not to cry, not here. Not now.
“Quietly,” Leonard added. “No one can know. Not even her.”
They’re staring.
The paper trembled slightly in her hand.
Just one line, printed in faint black ink:
He knew how easily a whisper could destroy a reputation. He’d built empires off perception. But someone had chosen the wrong person to corner this time.
There was no name. No handwriting she recognized.
Someone wanted her out of the way?
“I said,” she repeated, “it doesn’t matter what the truth is. Not in places like this.”
What if they don’t care about what’s true? What if no one ever will?
***
There was no pause, no hesitation. “Student-related?”
She could feel the shift. It was like someone had reached inside her chest and flipped a switch, turning familiarity into fear.
But her heart remained alert.
Meanwhile… at Westwood Corp.
***
“Quiet, everyone. Listen closely — anyone who hasn’t submitted a physical backup of their showcase entry, please do so by the end of today. And if anyone has any information regarding the missing drive, you are expected to come forward immediately.”
Still, the thoughts were relentless.
But it didn’t matter anymore. Perception was beginning to win.
Melanie’s steps faltered for a second before she steadied herself. Her throat was dry, her heartbeat uncomfortably loud in her ears. She reminded herself to breathe. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Just not yet.
Am I imagining it?
The call ended, but Leonard didn’t move for a moment.
Betty and Jason were both absent today.
You belong here.
Why say that now? Why say it like… she knew?
Someone was watching.
Her breath caught.
Professor Yara’s wasn’t in yet. But the assistant — Emma, a rigid rule-follower who rarely spoke — was already walking the rows, checking names on a clipboard.
You worked hard for this.
She nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
The next morning…
No.
“Grey hoodie. After you left. You weren’t alone.”
Melanie took her seat near the back and pulled out her sketchbook, flipping it open even though she couldn’t focus on a single line.
“No backup files,” another murmured. “Professor said the whole batch is gone.”
No signature. No explanation. No way to trace it.
Her eyes swept the room and landed, briefly, on Melanie.
Minutes passed before Professor Yara finally entered. Her expression was unreadable, but her tone was sharper than usual.
Melanie swallowed hard.
