I couldn’t prove anything. I couldn’t tell anyone. But in the pit of my stomach, I knew.

The First Lady was the most dangerous player in this game.

“In the past weeks, each and every one of you has demonstrated the qualities that the Hardwicke School values above all else: integrity, perseverance, courage.” The new headmaster spoke from the front of the chapel. “With the start of the new semester,” she continued, “we are looking forward, as a community, as a family, as a school. You are all survivors. I feel awed to be standing here in front of you, with you, as we move into the future.”

Beside me, Vivvie slipped a hand into mine. Asher sat on my other side, folding what appeared to be an origami flamingo. He bumped his shoulder into mine. On his other side, Henry eyed the flamingo with some level of distrust.

Henry’s eyes flitted briefly toward mine. I looked away.

“You are all changed,” the headmaster said. “What happened at this school will never leave you. You will carry it with you—but it isn’t a burden that any of you have to carry alone. You are part of a long tradition of excellence, a family of scholars, a community that will come through this stronger than ever. You,” the headmaster said, emphasizing the word, “are the leaders of tomorrow.”

Leaders. My mind went to the president, to the First Lady, to everything I suspected and knew and couldn’t tell.

“To that end, next week, we will begin anew with a fresh round of student council nominations. I hope that many of you will run, that your pride in your school—and yourselves—is stronger than ever, for what you have survived.”

My gaze found its way to Emilia. She was sitting a few rows in front of us, between Maya and Di.

Stronger than ever, for what you have survived.

Emilia deserved to win.

As chapel let out, and we began to walk back to the main campus, Henry fell in step beside me. “I won’t run,” he told me.

I heard what he didn’t say: Emilia deserves it. I don’t. I’m not what they think I am. I’m not what I thought I was. I don’t know who I am anymore.

I heard all that in those three words of Henry’s. I also heard the underlying assumption: that if he ran, he would win.

“Go ahead,” I told Henry. “Run.”

Emilia would beat him. Somehow, some way, I would make sure of it. Just like somehow, some way, I would find a way to prove what I suspected about Georgia Nolan.

Power. The First Lady had it. I didn’t. But I was Ivy Kendrick’s daughter. I’d been raised by Gramps and taught strategy by the kingmaker. When I saw a problem, I solved it.

I wouldn’t stay powerless for long.