Chapter 3: The Genius Girl Showdown

She tossed her hair, all confidence and charm. The applause was building. "I'll balance my time between acting and research. They won’t get in each other’s way!"

The comment section instantly blew up. Of course it did.

The chat was moving so fast, it was almost dizzying.

[As expected! Our Queen Camila is straight out of a movie!]

[Guess I'm just an NPC!]

[So the little sister doted on by the Physics Department is Camila!]

Me: What?

My face must’ve said it all. Confusion, disbelief, maybe a little bit of annoyance. First of all, I’m the older one. Second, I’m the older one.

I mouthed the words under my breath, hoping the camera wouldn’t catch it.

And sure, the gender ratio in the Physics Department is lopsided. But just counting Professor Monroe’s students—besides me, there are two other girls.

We’re not unicorns—we exist. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. We exist, okay?

It’s not like there’s only one girl in the whole department, and everyone dotes on her, right?

Sometimes I wonder if these people have ever set foot in a real lab. What is this, some kind of ridiculous pampered princess fantasy?

It felt like I’d stumbled into someone else’s daydream, and I was the villain. Great.

But someone in the comments noticed my odd expression. Of course they did.

If I could use an emoji right now, I’d totally send that meme of the little kid looking speechless.

I wanted to hold up a sign: “I’m just here so I don’t get fined.”

Everyone’s lost their minds. Seriously.

It was like logic had left the building and taken all the facts with it. Gone.

The legend was growing by the second.

I couldn’t keep up.

The host spotted a comment. “Camila, someone in the comments just said you won national first in the physics olympiad. Is that true?”

She read it out loud, smiling like she’d just found the juiciest piece of gossip.

She said it with a little shrug. Like national first was just another day at the office. "Past honors don’t matter to me anymore. From now on, I’ll focus on perfecting my acting."

The chat erupted into more praise. Like watching a coronation in real time.

Here we go again.

I snorted. The internet will ship anything that moves.

She didn’t finish. The comment section went wild.

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost gave myself a headache.

The hashtags kept multiplying.

I felt like I was drowning in them.

My hands clenched in my lap. I wanted to scream at the ceiling.

It’s like everyone’s living in a fairytale, and I’m the evil step-sister.

Everyone’s lost their minds.

Seriously. Has everyone forgotten how to use Google? I don’t know if Camila ever got national first.

I tried to remember the winner’s list from back then, but her name just didn’t ring a bell.

But my national first was something I earned myself. All those sleepless nights, all the practice exams—I did that. Me.

It was like my whole life had become someone else’s backstory.

I ground my teeth in frustration.

My jaw ached, but I couldn’t stop. I just wanted to shout the truth, but I knew I couldn’t. Finally, the host remembered I was still sitting there.

She turned to me with that fake-sweet smile, and I braced myself. So she asked, “Savannah, how do you feel about being compared to Camila Rivera?”

Her tone was syrupy, but I could hear the trap underneath. I was already simmering, and this host was just trying to set me up.

It was like being asked to clap for your own execution.

Honestly, if looks could kill, she’d be toast.

Mess with me, and you’re asking for trouble.

My voice was sweet as pie, but my heart was pounding.

I could practically feel the handcuffs of my contract tightening.

But it’s fine. After all, she’s only talking about herself—she never said I’m not great, right? I told myself that over and over, like a mantra.

If others want to get mad, let them. If I get sick from anger, no one’s going to take my place.

It’s not like anyone’s lining up to pay my rent if I lose my job. That’s reality.

I blinked back tears. For the first time in forever, someone was actually defending me online.

Seeing that someone was finally speaking up for me, I was almost moved to tears.

My throat tightened, but I kept my face blank. No way was I giving them more ammo. I don’t cause trouble, but I’m afraid of it too.

I’ve learned to keep my head down, swallow my pride, and just survive.

If you bully me, I’ll just grit my teeth and swallow it. I’ve gotten good at pretending not to care. It’s my best role yet.

Thirty million in penalty fees is something I could never pay off.

I did the math once. Even if I worked every day for the next ten years, I’d still come up short. I know the difference between a moment’s satisfaction and a lifetime of debt.

Some days, that’s the only thing that keeps me quiet.

I nearly dropped my phone. Mason never posts without a reason.

I hurried to check Twitter. Marcus Dorsey had posted just eight words:

[Not as skilled as others, I willingly admit defeat.]

I stared at the screen, mouth open. Was he… was he trying to help me?

Then Marcus sent me a DM. [Just let her say what she wants! I’m crashing the interview. If you won’t clear things up, I will.]

My heart skipped a beat. My fingers flew across the keyboard. I could barely breathe. [Wait, wait, wait, don’t come! If I break character, I’ll have to pay the penalty! Bro, I’m begging you!]