Part 3I'm the Real Son, and I Hit Back

When I pushed open the door to the dean of students' office, Ms. Winslow was frowning at a notice in her hand.

"Ms. Winslow," I began, pointing to the blood still drying on my forehead.

"Matthew Gould from Senior Class 1 pushed me down the stairs from the second floor this morning. That's attempted murder. I've already called the police, and they'll be here in ten minutes."

Ms. Winslow's head jerked up, her heavy black-framed glasses nearly slipping down her nose. "Aaron, you can't just throw around accusations like that! You're talking about a serious crime!"

"Whether it's true or not, we'll find out when the police get here," I replied, looking her straight in the eye.

"You've always been fair and principled. If something this serious happens at our school and the victim's family sweeps it under the rug, what does that do to the school's reputation? I just need your help with one thing."

Ms. Winslow stared at me in silence for a long moment before finally gritting her teeth and asking, "What do you want to do?"

…

Ten minutes later, Sierra Chase, an officer from the local precinct, strode into the academic building with two other officers behind her. Dressed in full uniform, she swept her hawk-like gaze down the hallway before it landed on the wound on my forehead.

She frowned and asked, "You made the call? Who's suspected of attempted murder?"

"I did," I replied, then turned to Ms. Winslow.

"Ms. Winslow, if you'd lead the way."

Under Ms. Winslow's conflicted gaze and Sierra's watchful eye, we walked down the hall and pushed open the door to the school's broadcast studio.

I stepped up to the console, expertly switched on the equipment, and cranked the microphone volume all the way up.

"Aaron, are you sure about this? There's no turning back once you do it." Ms. Winslow put her hand on the console, checking one last time.

"I just want him to know exactly what brought him down."

I brushed her hand aside, hovered my finger over the schoolwide broadcast button for a beat, then pressed it down hard.

A sharp burst of static blared through every speaker across campus.

I leaned toward the microphone, my voice calm and clear, drowning out the noise of the whole school.

"Fake heir Matthew Gould of Senior Class 1, you're suspected of attempted murder for pushing me, the real heir, down the stairs from the second floor. I've already called the police, and they're now on campus. Report to the broadcast studio immediately to assist with the investigation.

"I repeat…"

My voice echoed over the PA system, plunging the entire school into dead silence.

Just five minutes ago, Matthew had been brazenly smearing me as a servant's son.

But now, three explosive phrases—"fake heir", "real heir", and "attempted murder"—sent shockwaves through the campus.

According to the students who later rushed over to watch the drama unfold, the moment the broadcast came over the speakers, Matthew's aggrieved expression twisted.

The classmates gathered around comforting him all jumped back several feet, as if they'd been electrocuted.

"The fake heir? Matthew is the servant's son?"

"Didn't he just say Aaron was? Talk about projecting!"

"The real bombshell is the attempted murder! No wonder Aaron had a bandage on his head today. My God, that's sick…"

Disbelieving stares and scathing whispers tore through Matthew's fragile ego.

The image of the perfect young gentleman he'd spent 18 years building fell apart in an instant.

Driven into a frenzy, he shoved his desk aside and scrambled out of the classroom, desperate to reach the broadcast studio and stop me.

But just as he reached the stairwell, he ran straight into the two officers who were on their way to get him.