CHAPTER-FOUR

AUTHOR'S POV

Evie made it out of the forest just over an hour later, guided by the faint green trail on her resurrected GPS screen. Her heart rate, which had been spiking dangerously for the past few hours, finally calmed to a manageable rhythm as she neared the outskirts of town.

She didn't go home right away. Instead, she found herself drifting toward an old park nestled between an abandoned factory and a cracked apartment complex. The kind of place no one really visited anymore—except the ghosts of better days and the occasional stray cat.

She sat on one of the rusted swings, the chains groaning under her weight. The cold metal chilled her thighs through her thin skirt. Her fingers clutched the ropes tightly as she swayed back and forth, just enough to feel motion—something she could still control.

Above her, the stars blinked through smog-choked skies, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, trailing off like a forgotten lullaby.

EVIE'S POV

Okay. Think.

I'm alive. I've seen things I can't unsee. I know the truth about my mother now—and about the monsters who wear crowns made of wealth and lies.

So what's next?

Firstly, I need money. Not just for rent, or groceries, or the next bus ticket—I need serious cash. Millions. I need to elevate myself from this life of barely-getting-by into a position where I can fight. Where I can infiltrate. Where I can destroy the legacy of the Farleys, Hollands, and Stevlers from the inside out.

Second, I need intel—detailed, unfiltered, ugly truth about the top three families. Especially the Farleys. I need to know where they are, what they're hiding, and most importantly, who they're protecting.

If my hunch is correct, Daphne Farley—now going by her married name, Daphne Holland—definitely has a child by now. Maybe more than one. If I can find out who they are, I can get closer.

But to do that, I need research tools. Real ones. Online access, archives, facial recognition if I can afford it—hell, I'd even take a decent spyware app.

Only problem? Those services cost a fortune. And at midnight in a dead country like Equestria, everything good is closed or costs triple. Except—

Wait. The library.

The old national library. Still technically open 24/7. It's the only public building left untouched by warlords and corporate buyouts. Built in 1990 with hopes of showcasing Equestria's value for education, it ended up being a forgotten relic. There were rumors the minister in charge had stolen most of the funds, and looking at the crumbling architecture, I believe it. The roof leaks. The books are moldy. Half the computers are cracked like eggshells.

But they still work.

And more importantly—they're free.

I leap off the swing, my decision made. The library's in the opposite direction from my house, but it's the only option I've got.

In my panic, I forget to message Mum.

AUTHOR'S POV

The walk is long, cold, and eerily quiet. The streetlights flicker like dying fireflies, and rats scurry across her path as Evie picks up the pace. The night smells like rust and fried oil, but her focus never wavers.

When she finally reaches the library, her chest aches and her legs burn—but she's still standing.

The building sits like a forgotten bunker on the edge of the city's historic district. Cracks run down its concrete walls, and broken glass crunches underfoot as she walks toward the entrance. She pushes open the creaking doors and is greeted by a blast of stale, paper-thick air.

Rows of broken shelves lean like drunk men. Dust coats every surface. The lighting flickers sporadically, giving the space a haunted glow.

But in the far corner of the single-story room, near the emergency exit, she sees it—one of the few functioning computers in the entire city. An ancient, boxy monitor the color of spoiled milk, humming to life like an old man waking from a nap.

Evie sits. The chair wobbles beneath her.

She types in her search: "Daphne Holland's Previous Farley Life"

The screen loads slowly, the fan wheezing like it's about to give out. But then, it happens—an avalanche of online tabloid headlines floods the screen.

"DAPHNE HOLLAND'S DAUGHTER TO OPEN LILLARE BALLET FESTIVAL WITH 'SWAN LAKE'" "DAPHNE HOLLAND'S TWINS ACCEPTED TO ELITE PHOENIX COLLEGE" "GOLDEN COUPLE: DAPHNE HOLLAND & GINGER HOLLAND DONATE BILLIONS TO THE POOR" "DAPHNE HOLLAND, WIFE OF LUXURY JEWELRY CEO ADRIANA STEVLER, HOSTS GLOBAL CHARITY BALL" "THE NATION'S PRINCESS: DAPHNE HOLLAND'S FAIRYTALE LIFE"

Evie scoffs aloud. "Nation's princess? More like Queen of Fraud," she mutters under her breath.

The articles gush about Daphne's grace, her generosity, her charity donations, her contributions to countries like Equestria.

Evie's fingers tighten on the mouse.

"Which billions are they talking about?" she growls. "Equestria's dying. Our population has shriveled to less than 500,000. Ninety-five percent of us are starving—malnourished beyond belief. These articles are lies. Glossy, expensive lies written for the rich by the rich."

Still, she keeps reading. And scrolling. And digging deeper.

After an hour and a half, she has enough to form the outline of her plan.

EVIE'S POV

Phoenix College.

The holy grail of education for the elite. Where power marries legacy, and money is just the beginning. According to the articles, all of the next-generation heirs—children of the Farleys, Hollands, and Stevlers—will be attending Phoenix College next year.

That's where I need to go.

I check my grades. Straight 90s. Not bad. With enough studying, enough obsession, I can ace the World Senior Exams.

If I score 100%—not impossible, just excruciating—I qualify for Phoenix's scholarship. It's only 15% off tuition, but that's still a crack in the fortress. A start.

Then reality hits.

Even with 15% off, tuition is 10 million peo. An absurd sum for anyone in Equestria.

I sigh, staring at the cracked screen.

Then something pops up—a cheap ad, blinking with garish red and gold font:

♤ BET 4 PEO FOR A CHANCE TO WIN 100 MILLION PEO ♤ Visit any participating supermarket to enter. Must be 16 or older to play.

My eyes widen.

Why didn't I think of this sooner?

I reach into my coat pocket, pulling out one of the five enchanted feathers given to me in the forest. They glow faintly in the light.

I close my eyes, holding it tight. "Show me the winning numbers for the lottery tomorrow."

The feather crumbles to dust in my palms—and the particles swirl before forming numbers midair:

54, 35, 20, 25, 14

Got it.

I sprint from the library like a bullet. Thankfully, there's a small corner supermarket still open—bright neon signs flickering above cracked windows.

Inside, I use my last 4 peo—the coins I'd been saving for food—to buy a ticket.

AUTHOR'S POV

On her way out, she crashes into a figure at the doorway—a familiar one.

Miss Anderson.

The landlord.

A sharp-dressed woman in her thirties with stressed eyes and a permanent frown.

"Evie? Is that you?" she asks, voice laced with exasperation.

"Hi, Miss Anderson," Evie says, trying to sound respectful despite the rising panic in her chest.

"Ask your mum when she's paying rent," Miss Anderson snaps. "It's been two weeks. If I don't get that money by tomorrow, you're both out."

Evie bows slightly. "I'm sorry, Miss Anderson. We'll pay everything tomorrow. I promise."

The woman crosses her arms. "I'm tired of promises, Evie. You're a bright girl, but bright doesn't pay the bills. Your mother's health is declining, and this isn't sustainable. Make it better."

Evie nods, shame burning her ears. "I understand. It won't happen again."

Miss Anderson exhales, already turning away—then pauses. "Oh—and your mother? She called the police. She thinks you were kidnapped."

Evie's eyes widen. "WHAT?!"

And with that, she takes off into the night—heart racing, feather ashes still in her pocket, and fate teetering in her hands.