On her fourth visit to Brad's home, Emily's heart pounded with trepidation. Fortunately, whatever deal Roger brokered this time seemed to change Brad's demeanor. No longer was she made to stand or sit on the floor; today, to her surprise, Brad called for the housekeeper to bring her a chair, placing it beside his desk.

Brad's expansive bedroom remained spacious even after filling it with glass cabinets, a bed, and an extra set of furniture. As Emily worked through her assignments, Brad sat nearby engrossed in another English novel. She watched him silently read, the lamp casting his profile into a perfect silhouette. Annoyance bubbled up in her as she asked, “Do you actually understand all those words?”

Brad, slightly irked by the interruption, retorted, “Do you think I'm as dim-witted as you?”

Emily pursed her lips but refrained from retaliating. Tonight, Brad seemed to be in an unusually good mood. After snapping at Emily, he even took her workbook and started marking errors—a departure from his usual method of simply scribbling the correct answers. This time, he explained the solutions, even asking if she understood.

Emily was taken aback by this unexpected generosity and later called Roger with suspicion lurking in her mind. “What did you offer Brad to make him help me like this? It must have been a lot of money.”

Roger chuckled. “Brad's not all that bad. I just agreed to help him with a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” Emily asked, wary.

But Roger deftly changed the subject. “How do you find his tutoring methods? I can always arrange for a private tutor if you’re not comfortable.”

Household tutors cost a fortune, and Emily didn't want to trouble Roger with more expenses. To be fair, despite Brad's temper, his tailored teaching style actually suited her well, often proving more efficient than school classes. She declined Roger’s offer gently.

Days at school were a grind of hard work, followed by intense nightly study sessions with Brad until ten. Weekends were reserved for specialized training programs. Under these rigorous conditions, even the weakest student would show improvement. Emily, inherently bright, was merely shackled by a gap in foundational education, a gap she was rapidly bridging. Her results from the second monthly exams were proof. She cleared the pass mark in all subjects but still hovered near the bottom in her top-tier class. Her classmates’ resentment grew; regardless of her progress, she still wasn’t deemed worthy of a spot among them.

Her misfortune compounded on days she was on cleaning duty. On this particular day, she found herself dealing with an unusual pile of classroom trash. Gritting her teeth, Emily rolled up her sleeves, tidying up before hauling a bucket to fetch water to clean the mop.

While she diligently mopped the floor, the classroom buzzed with chatter during the dinner break. A loud crash startled her, followed by the sensation of cold, dirty water trickling down her pants.

Turning around, she faced Charlie, grinning with faux innocence. "Oops. My foot slipped."

A metal bucket spun on the ground as students around pretended not to see, some even snickering at her misfortune. Emily glared at Charlie, a small wolf pup baring its teeth in anger.

Lucas, one of Charlie's friends, tugged at his sleeve. "C'mon, let's leave her alone."

Charlie, however, showed no interest in stopping. "Mike's already left, and we’re stuck with this hillbilly. Just seeing her annoys me."

Squaring up to Emily, he challenged, "What, gonna hit me? Go ahead, try it!"

Emily's eyes filled with tears. She couldn't hold them back. The absence of teachers only emboldened Charlie, who sneered, "Crying won't do you any good!"

Emily’s lips trembled with suppressed fury. 

The aftermath wasn’t pretty—water pooled around the front of the classroom, and Tom, the class rep, stepped in to defuse them. "Emily, clean this up. The teacher's going to ask who’s on duty today."

Quietly, Emily retrieved the mop, dragging the water outside step by step. But as she reached the door, Charlie wasn’t done. He snuck up and kicked the back of her knee, sending her tumbling to the ground.

Pain flared as her knee made contact with the floor. She tried to stand but found no strength to support her weight, collapsing in agony once more.

Charlie's voice echoed with a hint of panic, "I didn’t kick you that hard. Stop pretending."

Lucas, disapproved of his friend's actions, approached to help Emily, only to have his offer rebuffed. Emily preferred leaning against the doorframe over accepting his aid.

Emily tidied up the water bucket and mop, limping back to her seat. During the evening study session, Sarah returned to find Emily sitting in damp pants, her left knee visibly bruised, and the floor beneath them wet. Emily quickly apologized, "It's from my pants."

Sarah, who had heard the hallway gossip, leaned over, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Karma’s a bitc—"

Emily cut her off with a frosty glare.

Sarah continued regardless, "If you can't keep up here, why don’t you move to a regular class? You’d probably do great there, maybe even be a top student."

Emily said nothing. The chill of her wet clothes matched her somber mood. 

After washing up at home, she returned to her routine, heading to Brad's house. He stood at the door, apple in hand, dressed in a crisp white V-neck sweater, deftly peeling one skin into a continuous spiral, fingers a pristine white that made the fruit appear juicier.

Ignoring her, he finished slicing the apple, taking a bite without offering a second. Emily, familiar with his cold disposition, focused on her studies at a separate table in his room.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her knee, and she glared at Brad. “What’s your deal?”

He met her gaze with a nonchalant shrug, “Thought you didn’t feel pain.”

In truth, Brad had seen everything that happened before evening class but had anticipated her absence, expecting a night spent sobbing for release from the day’s ordeal.

Unfazed by his comment, Emily dug back into her work.

“Why is studying so important to you?” Brad asked.

“They say I don’t belong in the top class. But I’m staying. I won’t just stick around; I plan on making those who bullied me pay,” she declared, fiery eyes gleaming with determination.

The resolve that crackled in her voice captivated Brad. Her vivacity stunned him; it was a welcomed contrast to his lifeless doll collection.

However, his perspective on Emily changed for another surprising reason. An ordinary fruit knife, its absence unnoticed, had become her silent companion—a blade she nearly used against Charlie.