Mr. Brown, our homeroom teacher, came running at the noise. But the moment he saw Maxwell Northcott, his face drained of authority.
"Sir Maxwell," he said quickly, his tone shifting into obsequiousness. Then he turned on me with a glare.
"Clara! Starting trouble again?"
I could only stare at him, trembling, as the truth hit me like a second blow—this university belonged to the Northcott family. And I was nothing to them.
Mr. Brown, servile and blind to my pain, didn’t even glance at my mangled fingers. I forced myself to look up at him through the haze of agony.
"They were clearly bullying me, yet you accuse me of causing trouble. Are you blind?"
His face stiffened for a moment, but then he recovered with shameless ease.
"Maxwell was simply correcting your arrogance—teaching you how to behave. That’s not bullying."
The way he turned to Maxwell after speaking, eyes gleaming with flattery, made my stomach churn.
"Maxwell, am I right?"
Maxwell snorted.
Colette crossed her arms, her voice dripping with condescension.
"Mr. Brown’s right. Everyone here can vouch for it—Maxwell was just helping Clara learn her place."
Her hangers-on jumped in instantly.