Chapter 2 - The Syndicate in St. John Knits
The principal’s office at Oakridge Academy smelled like aged mahogany and vanilla wax.
Headmaster Harold Thorne sat behind his antique oak desk, sipping black roast from fine porcelain.
Across from him sat Richard Vance, Brianna’s father and chief executive of Vanguard Land Group.
Between them lay a pristine blue folder stamped with the municipal seal of Crestview County.
“The rezoning permits are cleared, Harold,” Richard said smoothly.
His cufflinks clicked against the wood as he leaned forward.
“The public park land behind the lower soccer fields is officially deeded to Oakridge.”
“And the environmental preservation clause?” Harold asked in a hushed, nervous tone.
Richard waved his hand dismissively through the air.
“Buried in appendix C. Nobody in local planning reads two-hundred-page environmental riders.”
“We break ground next month on the new science pavilion bearing the Vance name.”
“Which guarantees Brianna’s valedictorian legacy, I trust?”
Harold cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Her academic marks are slightly below Emily Ross’s cumulative GPA, Richard.”
“Emily has a 4.0 across every AP subject, and her state exam scores are flawless.”
Richard chuckled—a low, predatory vibration that made Harold’s collar feel two sizes too small.
“Emily Ross is a ghost from the municipal housing project down in the valley.”
“Her father is dead, and her mother reportedly works administrative shifts for state logistics.”
“Nobody writes a multi-million-dollar endowment for a ghost, Harold.”
“Adjust the curving rubric for the honors seminar.”
“Make sure my daughter stands on that podium on graduation day.”
Harold hesitated for a single second, thinking of the state audit board.
Then he looked at the blueprint of the ten-million-dollar stadium waiting on his credenza.
“It will be handled,” Harold whispered.
Outside in the quad, Brianna walked down the stone stairs with her inner circle.
She held a paper coffee cup from the local roastery, her laughter carrying across the manicured lawn.
She felt untouchable because the entire architecture of the school had been engineered for her comfort.
She believed rules were things written for scholarship kids and custodians.
May you like
She had no idea that Harold Thorne’s private phone was already tapped by a federal inquiry.
Nor did she notice the black unmarked sedan parked under the oak trees across the street.
