There are, I have decided, very few dignified ways to walk into a trap.
This is unfortunate.
Because by the time the final bell rings, I am fairly sure that is exactly what I am doing.
I do not tell Charles. I do not tell Aaliyah. And I absolutely do not tell any of the very serious men with earpieces who now seem to appear every time I blink too dramatically in public.
I simply wait.
That, I have learned, is the first rule of surviving people like Madison: never let them see you rushing toward the answer. Let them think you are slower than you are. Softer than you are. More lost than you are.
Then watch what they reveal while they are busy underestimating you.
By the time the halls begin to empty, my pulse is too loud in my throat.
I tell Charles I need to stop by the library. He offers to wait. I tell him not to be ridiculous. Aaliyah narrows her eyes at me like she can smell bad decisions from across state lines. I smile too brightly. She hates when I do that.
"Monique," she says slowly, "what are you doing?"
"Homework," I reply.
She stares at me. "Wow. That was such a lie it almost offended me."
"Your faith in my academic discipline is touching."
"Your face is doing the thing," she says.
"What thing?"
"The 'I'm about to do something elegant and dangerous' thing."
Charles, unfortunately, hears that. He looks up from his locker immediately.
"She has a what now?"
"Nothing," I say quickly.
Aaliyah folds her arms. "Everything."
I would like, just for one moment, to have friends who are less observant.
Unfortunately, I seem to attract exactly the wrong kind of intelligent people.
"I am going to the library," I repeat.
Charles studies my face for one second too long. That careful, annoying, seeing-too-much look again.
"Want me to come with you?" he asks.
"No."
Too fast.
His expression changes. Not wounded. Just alert.
"Monique—"
"I said no," I reply more calmly. "I just want one quiet hour before I go back to the White House and become tonight's favorite crisis."
That lands. Because it is not entirely a lie.
He hesitates. Then nods slowly. "Okay."
Aaliyah, however, does not look convinced.
"Text me in twenty minutes," she says.
"I do not require supervision."
"Text me in twenty minutes," she repeats.
I give her a look. She gives me a better one.
"Fine," I say.
I do not mean it.
Naturally.
The library is nearly empty when I get there. Tall shelves. Soft lamps. A faint smell of dust and expensive paper. It is one of the only places in this school that does not feel like it is constantly auditioning for attention.
I stand near the back windows and wait.
Exactly four minutes later, Madison arrives.
Of course she is on time.
She enters without hurrying, closing the door softly behind her. She is still in uniform, but somehow she looks more polished than everyone else even after a full school day. Not a strand of hair out of place. Not a wrinkle where there should not be one.
Control, from head to toe.
"Monique," she says.
"Madison."
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then she glances around the empty room and says, "You came alone."
"Did you expect otherwise?"
"Yes," she says. "I expected Aaliyah to follow you like an angry shadow and Charles to appear three minutes later pretending it was a coincidence."
That is annoyingly accurate.
I fold my arms lightly. "You said we needed to talk. So talk."
Her gaze sharpens. No smile now. No performance. Just business.
"You got a message," she says.
Straight to it.
I do not blink. "Interesting opening."
"You got a message," she repeats. "With a picture from inside the White House."
Cold slides through me. Not because of what she says. Because of how calmly she says it.
"You know about it," I say.
She exhales once through her nose. "Yes."
"How?"
"Because I got one too."
That stops me.
She reaches into her bag, takes out her phone, and holds it out.
I hesitate before taking it.
On the screen is a photo. Madison, standing outside her own house after the party. Her head turned sharply toward someone off-frame. Her expression hard, stripped of polish. Not staged. Not flattering. Real.
Beneath it, a message: You should be more careful. Queens fall harder.
I look up.
She watches me steadily. "Now do you understand why I wanted to talk?"
I hand the phone back very slowly.
"Yes," I say.
And I do.
This is no longer about jealousy. Not just that. Not just school. Not just headlines.
This is someone watching all of us. Choosing moments. Choosing angles. Pushing.
"Who else knows?" I ask.
Madison slips her phone back into her bag. "No one."
"Not even Charles?"
Her jaw tightens very slightly. "Especially not Charles."
I stare at her. "Why?"
"Because," she says, "if he knows, he'll do what he always does when things get messy. He'll charge at the problem like being sincere for ten seconds counts as strategy."
I hate how much I understand what she means.
"And you?" I ask. "What do you do when things get messy?"
She gives me a cool look. "I survive them."
There it is.
The truth. One of them, at least.
I step closer. "Do you know who it is?"
"No."
I search her face. She does not look away.
"But you suspect someone," I say.
She hesitates. Not long. Just enough.
"Yes," she says.
"Who?"
She glances toward the library doors, then back to me. When she speaks again, her voice is lower.
"There's an account that's been around since last year," she says. "Private at first. Then public. It posts school gossip, party photos, rumors, scandals. Most of it is petty. Some of it is real. But every now and then…"
She trails off.
"Every now and then what?"
"It knows too much," she says quietly.
I feel my fingers curl into my palms. "Yes."
"I thought it was just students being awful," she continues. "At first. But then Homecoming happened. And things got posted that should have stayed private. Things from backstage. From committee rooms. From my car."
I go very still.
From my car. From inside the White House.
Not random. Not luck.
Access.
"What is the account called?" I ask.
Madison looks almost embarrassed. Which on her is deeply unsettling.
"Capitol Crown," she says.
I blink. "That is the stupidest name I have ever heard."
To my surprise, she nearly smiles. "Agreed."
Then the moment vanishes.
I take a breath. "Why tell me this?"
She looks at me like I've asked something obvious.
"Because now it's inside your life too," she says. "And because whoever is running it is escalating."
I think of the White House hallway photo. The angle. The timing. The message.
"Yes," I say softly. "They are."
Madison shifts her weight. For the first time since I have known her, she looks not polished, not smug, not irritated. Just tired.
"I know you don't trust me," she says.
"That is an intelligent observation."
She ignores that.
"But I'm not your enemy in this," she continues. "Not if someone is inside your house."
My heart beats once, hard.
Inside your house.
There is something awful about hearing it said aloud. It makes the danger real in a way a text message somehow didn't.
"And if I tell Charles?" I ask.
Her expression shuts down slightly. "Then he tells his parents. His parents tell security. Security tears the school apart. My name gets attached to all of it because of the party. And whoever's doing this disappears before we learn anything useful."
This is, irritatingly, not stupid logic.
"You've thought this through," I say.
"I had all night."
I look at her for a long moment.
Then I say, "You realize how suspicious you sound."
That makes her laugh. A short, humorless sound.
"Yes," she says. "I do. But if I were doing this, Monique, I wouldn't have warned you. I would have waited."
That lands. Because she is right. And I hate when she is right.
"So what do you want?" I ask.
She steps closer, lowering her voice again. "I want to find out who's behind Capitol Crown before they leak something worse."
"Worse than a picture from inside the White House?"
Her eyes hold mine.
"Yes."
The library suddenly feels smaller. The air thinner.
I think of Charles. His almost-kiss. His mother's warning. My father's anger. The First Lady saying protect yourself first.
And now this.
"What do you know that you're not telling me?" I ask quietly.
Madison's face changes. Not much. But enough.
"Not here," she says.
I stare at her.
"You are unbelievable."
"And you still came."
Before I can answer, the library doors swing open.
Both of us turn.
Aaliyah stands there, breathing hard like she walked fast and is angry about it. Charles is right behind her, expression dark enough to shut down weather.
Well. So much for secrecy.
Aaliyah points at me. "You did not text."
"Yes," I say. "I noticed that was your personality as well."
Charles is not looking at me. He is looking at Madison.
"What the hell is going on?" he asks.
Madison straightens instantly, all vulnerability gone. Her walls rise so fast it is almost impressive.
"I was talking to Monique," she says coolly.
"I can see that," he says. "Try the part where you explain why she needed to sneak off to do it."
"I did not sneak," I say.
Three heads turn toward me.
I lift my chin. "I moved privately. There is a difference."
Aaliyah stares. "That is the most royal way anyone has ever described bad judgment."
Normally, I would appreciate that. At the moment, my nerves are too raw.
"Enough," I say.
That gets their attention.
Good.
I look at Charles first. Then Aaliyah. Then, finally, Madison.
"She got one too," I say.
Charles frowns. "Got what?"
I take out my phone, unlock it, and hold up the image from the White House hallway. Then I nod toward Madison. "She got a message too. A photo. Different one. Same kind of threat."
Silence.
The kind that makes everything in the room feel suddenly too still.
Aaliyah steps forward first. "What?"
Charles takes my phone from my hand before I can stop him. His face drains of color as he looks at the image.
"What the hell is this?" he asks quietly.
Too quietly.
That is worse than yelling.
"It means someone was inside the house," I say.
He looks up sharply. At me. At Madison. Back at me.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
There it is. Not anger first. Hurt.
That is somehow harder to withstand.
"Because I needed to know if she was lying," I say.
Madison folds her arms. "She was right to check."
Charles rounds on her. "No one asked you."
"And yet," Madison replies coolly, "here I am, still being relevant."
Aaliyah steps between them before I have to. "Okay, no. Absolutely not. We are not doing ex-rich-people warfare while there is apparently a psycho with access and a camera."
That is, unfortunately, an excellent sentence.
Charles runs a hand through his hair, looking more shaken than I have ever seen him.
"Mom needs to know," he says immediately.
Madison's expression hardens. "No."
He looks at her like she has lost her mind. "Someone got a picture inside the White House."
"Yes," she snaps. "And if you blow this up now, whoever's doing it disappears before we find them."
"So?"
"So then they come back later," she says. "Smarter. Better hidden. Meaner."
That shuts him up for half a second.
Only half.
"That is not a reason to keep this from security."
"No," I say quietly. "But it is a reason to be careful."
He turns to me. And there it is again. That look. Not president's son. Not flirt. Not chaos. Just Charles. Worried.
"Monique—"
"I know," I say.
Because I do. I know this is bigger now. I know adults should probably step in. I know protecting myself first should mean exactly that.
And yet.
I also know that once this leaves us, it becomes a machine. And machines do not care who they crush while they solve a problem.
Aaliyah studies all of us, then sighs. "Great. Awesome. So the options are: tell the adults and start a federal incident, or don't tell the adults and start a terrible teen thriller."
"Yes," I say. "That appears to be the situation."
She rubs her forehead. "I miss when my biggest problem was chemistry."
Madison looks at me. "There's something else."
Charles makes an impatient sound. "Can tonight stop getting worse for one second?"
"No," Madison says. "Apparently not."
She reaches into her bag again and pulls out a folded piece of paper this time. Not a phone. Not a note.
Paper.
She hands it to me.
I unfold it carefully.
It is a printed screenshot. An old one. A private message exchange from months ago. The username at the top is blacked out, but the content below is not.
Got anything good from Homecoming? Yeah. Backstage stuff. And maybe something from Winchester's house if my source is right. Perfect. Send everything.
I go cold.
From Winchester's house.
Not this week. Not just now. Months. Maybe longer.
"Where did you get this?" I ask.
Madison's face is unreadable. "Someone slipped it into my locker this morning."
Aaliyah takes one look at the paper and mutters, "Oh, that's bad."
"Yes," I say faintly. "I had noticed."
Charles goes still beside me. Too still.
Then he says, very carefully, "What source?"
No one answers. Because the answer sits there between all of us, ugly and obvious.
Someone close. Someone with access. Someone who has been watching longer than we knew.
My fingers tighten around the paper.
And suddenly, all at once, I understand the real shape of the problem.
It is not one photo. Not one party. Not one account.
It is a leak.
Inside school. Inside Madison's world. Inside the White House.
I look up slowly.
"We are not dealing with one person just filming for fun," I say.
Madison nods once. "No."
Aaliyah exhales. "So what are we dealing with?"
Charles answers before anyone else can. His voice is flat now. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Someone selling us out."
The words land like a door locking.
And in that exact moment, I know this story has changed again.
Because gossip is one thing. Cruelty is another.
But betrayal?
Betrayal is personal.
And if there is one thing I understand better than American social politics, it is what people become when power and secrecy start eating at each other.
I fold the paper once. Then again.
And when I speak, my voice is calm enough to frighten even me.
"Then we find them first."