Chapter 6 The Final Revenge

# Chapter 6: The Final Revenge

The next three days passed in a strange haze of normalcy and secrecy. On the surface, I was the same Alicia Greene—attending my final classes, practicing piano, having dinner with my mother. But underneath, I was methodically preparing for disappearance.

I sorted through my possessions with clinical detachment, selecting only what was truly irreplaceable—photographs of my father, my mother's old locket with a strand of my baby hair, a few favorite books. Everything had to fit into a single backpack that wouldn't draw attention.

Richard returned from Washington the day before the debate, bringing with him an air of tense excitement. His poll numbers were up, and he was confident about his performance against his main primary challenger.

"This debate could seal the nomination," he announced over dinner, his voice brimming with self-assurance. "My team has prepared responses for every possible attack."

I caught my mother's eye across the table. She smiled supportively at her husband, but I could see the strain around her eyes. These political campaigns took a toll on her, though she'd never admit it.

"That's wonderful, dear," she said, refilling his wine glass. "Alicia and I will be watching, of course."

Richard turned his attention to me, his politician's smile firmly in place. "Speaking of which, Alicia, I'd like you to join me at the post-debate reception. Several university board members will be there, including the Dean of Admissions from Dartmouth. It would be good for you to make connections."

My heart stuttered. "Tomorrow night?"

"Yes, immediately following the debate. Your mother has already selected an appropriate dress."

This wasn't part of the plan. Veronica and I were supposed to meet at midnight, after my family was asleep. If I was at the reception...

"I'm not feeling well," I said, pressing a hand to my forehead. "I think I might be coming down with something."

My mother frowned with concern. "You do look a bit flushed, darling. Perhaps you should rest tomorrow."

Richard's smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened slightly. "I'm sure it's just nerves about college. Some fresh air and social interaction will do you good. I insist."

The word hung in the air, brooking no opposition. I knew that tone well—it wasn't a request.

"Of course," I acquiesced, my mind already racing to find a way to contact Veronica.

After dinner, I excused myself early, claiming fatigue. In the privacy of my bathroom, I texted the number Veronica had used before.

*Problem. Richard wants me at post-debate reception. Won't take no for an answer.*

Her response came almost immediately: *I'll handle it. Be ready at the original time. Trust me.*

Trust me. Two simple words that asked for so much. But what choice did I have?

The day of the debate arrived with a flurry of activity. Campaign staff came and went from the house, Richard was constantly on the phone, and my mother fluttered about ensuring everything was perfect. By late afternoon, the tension was palpable.

I was in my room, ostensibly getting ready for the reception but actually ensuring my escape bag was properly packed, when my mother knocked on my door.

"Alicia? May I come in?"

I quickly shoved the bag under my bed. "Of course, Mom."

She entered, looking elegant in a navy dress she'd already selected for the evening. In her hands was a garment bag.

"I thought you might like to wear this tonight," she said, laying it across my bed and unzipping it.

Inside was a simple but stunning black dress—not the matronly, conservative style Richard usually approved for political functions, but something more sophisticated, more me.

"It's beautiful," I said, genuinely surprised.

"I saw it last week and thought of you." She smiled, a touch of mischief in her eyes. "Richard prefers you in pastels, but I think you're old enough to graduate to something more grown-up."

The unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture made my throat tighten. In less than twelve hours, I would disappear from her life without a proper goodbye. The letter I'd written—vague assurances of my safety but no real explanations—seemed woefully inadequate in the face of her love.

"Thank you," I managed, hugging her impulsively.

She seemed startled by the display of affection but returned the embrace warmly. "You're welcome, darling. Now, let's get you ready. The car will be here in an hour."

The debate was being held at the state university's main auditorium, televised live across the region. Richard and my mother traveled in the campaign car, while I followed in a separate vehicle with his communications director, a harried woman named Janet who spent the entire ride on her phone, barely acknowledging my presence.

The auditorium was packed, buzzing with anticipation. We were escorted to reserved seats in the front row. As we made our way down the aisle, I scanned the crowd for Veronica, but didn't see her.

"Ms. Reed will be backstage with the campaign team," Janet informed me, noticing my searching gaze. "Last-minute prep."

The debate began precisely at eight. Richard was polished, prepared, every inch the seasoned politician. His opponent, a younger state senator, held his own but lacked Richard's practiced charisma. Under different circumstances, I might have been impressed by my stepfather's performance.

Forty-five minutes into the debate, during a discussion on financial transparency in government, my phone buzzed with a text.

*It's happening. Now.*

I looked up just in time to see a stagehand approach the moderator and slip him a note. The moderator's expression changed as he read it, his professional demeanor slipping momentarily.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've just been informed of a breaking news story that may be relevant to tonight's debate," he announced, looking uncomfortable. "Multiple news outlets are reporting the release of documents alleging financial misconduct by Congressman Greene's campaign."

A murmur swept through the audience. On stage, Richard's opponent looked as surprised as everyone else. But it was Richard's face that captured my attention—the flash of panic quickly masked by indignation.

"These are baseless accusations," he declared into his microphone, his voice steady despite the beads of sweat now visible on his forehead. "Clearly a last-minute smear tactic."

The moderator, clearly flustered, tried to regain control. "We haven't had time to verify these claims, but in the interest of transparency—"

"I refuse to dignify anonymous accusations," Richard interrupted. "My financial records are open to appropriate regulatory bodies, as required by law."

But the damage was done. The audience was now abuzz, many people looking at their phones as the news spread across social media. I glanced at my mother beside me, her face pale with shock.

"It's not true," she whispered, gripping my hand. "It can't be."

The debate disintegrated from there. The moderator attempted to continue with the planned questions, but every answer now circled back to the allegations. Richard maintained his innocence, growing increasingly defensive. His opponent, sensing blood in the water, pressed the attack.

By the time the closing statements came, it was clear the night had been a disaster for Richard's campaign. As soon as the broadcast ended, we were hustled backstage by his security team, away from the press that had begun to gather like vultures.

The campaign headquarters had been transformed into a crisis center. Phones rang incessantly, staff members spoke in urgent whispers, and Richard's campaign manager was shouting at someone on his cell phone. In the midst of the chaos, I finally spotted Veronica, her expression perfectly composed as she spoke quietly to a group of senior staffers.

Our eyes met across the room, and for a brief moment, I glimpsed satisfaction in her gaze before she looked away, returning to her role as the concerned advisor.

Richard emerged from a back office, his face ashen. "The FBI is executing a search warrant at the campaign finance office," he announced to the stunned room. "And apparently at our home as well."

My mother gasped. "What? Richard, what is going on?"

"A setup," he snarled. "Someone has fabricated evidence. Planted documents."

His eyes swept the room, landing on each face as if searching for the traitor. When he looked at Veronica, she met his gaze with concerned professionalism.

"Sir, we need to get ahead of this," she advised calmly. "I suggest a press conference first thing tomorrow morning to address the allegations directly."

He nodded, clinging to her advice like a drowning man. "Yes, yes. Draft a statement. Something strong, unequivocal."

"Of course," she agreed. "In the meantime, I think it's best if your family returns home. They shouldn't be exposed to this circus."

Richard seemed to suddenly remember our presence. "Yes. Catherine, Alicia, take the car. I'll be home when I can."

My mother moved to his side, touching his arm gently. "Richard, perhaps you should come with us. We can face this together."

For a moment, I saw genuine emotion cross his face—fear, vulnerability. Then the political mask slid back into place. "I need to stay and manage this. Janet will escort you home."

As we were led away, I risked one last glance back at Veronica. She gave me an almost imperceptible nod. The message was clear: Everything was proceeding as planned.

The ride home was silent, my mother staring out the window, her face reflecting in the glass like a ghost. Janet sat across from us, constantly on her phone, the blue light illuminating her grim expression.

"It's a nightmare," my mother finally whispered. "This will destroy him."

I reached for her hand, guilt twisting in my stomach. "Mom, whatever happens, you'll be okay."

She looked at me, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Oh, Alicia. You don't understand politics. There's no coming back from something like this. Not if even a fraction of it is true."

But I did understand—better than she knew. I understood that by this time tomorrow, Richard Greene's career would be in ruins, his reputation shattered. And I would be gone.

When we arrived home, the FBI was already there, agents carrying boxes from Richard's study to waiting vehicles. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, met us at the door, her face lined with worry.

"They've been here for hours," she told my mother. "I tried to call you."

"It's alright, Mrs. Winters," my mother said with a dignity that broke my heart. "Please make us some tea."

As the night wore on, the full scope of the scandal unfolded on every news channel. Financial fraud. Bribery. Offshore accounts. The evidence was overwhelming and damning. Richard didn't come home.

Around eleven, my mother finally took a sleeping pill and retreated to her room. I waited until I was sure she was asleep before retrieving my backpack from its hiding place. At precisely midnight, my phone buzzed with a text:

*Back garden. Now.*

I crept downstairs, past the kitchen where Mrs. Winters had finally dozed off in a chair, and out through the garden door. The night was clear and cool, stars glittering overhead with indifferent beauty.

Veronica was waiting by the old oak tree, dressed in dark clothes, her hair covered by a cap. Without a word, she pulled me into a fierce embrace.

"You did it," I whispered against her shoulder. "You destroyed him."

She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine. "We're not done yet. Are you ready?"

I thought of my mother, sleeping upstairs, unaware that I was about to vanish from her life. I thought of Richard, his carefully constructed world crumbling around him. I thought of the life I was leaving behind—the expectations, the pretense, the gilded cage.

"Yes," I said firmly. "I'm ready."

Veronica took my hand, her fingers warm and steady against mine. "Then let's disappear."

Together, we slipped through the garden gate and into the waiting car, leaving behind the ruins of Richard's empire and the only life I had ever known.

The revenge was complete. Our new life was about to begin.