Bella's SAT score was sky-high, but cases of students being rejected by top universities due to a lack of social experience were all too common. Just thinking about it gave her a headache.
She wasn't some clueless newbie. She could more or less guess why Victoria Hand had invited her out for coffee. Bella had mentioned Stanford largely because Victoria herself was a Stanford graduate.
She wasn't about to make assumptions, but alumni circles on the East and West Coasts probably worked the same way. Being alumni naturally created social connections.
Yet Victoria Hand didn't react at all to the mention of Stanford. Instead, she asked:
"Isn't Harvard's history program better?"
Bella let out an awkward laugh. "I don't want to go that far. My mom's planning to move to California with her husband. My dad's in Washington State, which is also close to California, so…"
Victoria saw through the excuse instantly. "Regional prejudice, huh…"
Bella put on a nonchalant expression, emphasizing her firm identity as a Westerner.
"I know a girl in her twenties back in Forks. She studied in Philadelphia. She said people in Washington State are warm and friendly, but people in Philly are cold—and mean."
Bella used the word mean, which was already a pretty harsh accusation.
Normally, Victoria would have corrected her phrasing when it came to Native Americans and settlers. But hearing Bella criticize East Coasters? Victoria simply took a sip of her coffee, completely relaxed.
"Those East Coasters worship their Ivies. They think New York is the center of the universe. Reality? In high-tech and entertainment, they can't compete with the West Coast. A bunch of bookworms—stingy nerds obsessed with calculating their retirement annuities!"
Bella didn't hold back at all.
America was funny like that. Discrimination and prejudice were taboo—absolutely untouchable. But regional discrimination? Perfectly acceptable. Talk show hosts joked nonstop about people from Georgia or Texas, and nobody cared.
States despised each other, and East–West grudges ran even deeper. Anyone could insult the other side without batting an eye.
Victoria's lips curled slightly in amusement. She liked Bella's stance. After all, she herself had been pushed out by those New York people. What was Coulson good at? Nothing—he was just from New York.
Victoria said, sounding almost objective, "The Ivy League does have a strong academic atmosphere. You might be influenced by media bias."
Bella waved her hands. "No, I'm just afraid they'd discriminate against me. Someone like me in an East Coast city… I wouldn't survive."
Victoria had read Bella's file multiple times. She knew Bella wasn't lying.
Girls whose personalities didn't fit mainstream expectations were often ostracized. Many couldn't handle the pressure and ended up committing suicide.
Despite promoting heroes, America was fundamentally anti-hero. The country didn't want individuals who stood out—whether in beauty, bravery, or talent. Mediocrity made people easier to manage.
Victoria made no promises, and Bella pretended not to understand anything. They chatted casually, then exchanged polite farewells.
That evening, Bella boarded a plane back to Phoenix, Arizona.
She retrieved her old pickup truck from the stadium, drove around the city twice, and finally—after some painful searching—found her house.
Well… technically, her mom's house.
Her mom was busy in California making babies with her boyfriend and clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon. Staying here for a few days wasn't a problem.
Bella called her mom to say she'd be staying for a while, then called Charlie to let him know she was safe.
Only then did she finally relax.
For the next few days, she stayed in Phoenix to participate in the survivors' "social practice activity"—suing Global Airlines for sky-high compensation.
According to the 1999 Montreal Convention, airlines and their insurers were supposed to pay enormous sums to victims and survivors.
But America had its own brand of "magical operations."
The U.S. signed piles of international treaties… then simply didn't ratify them. They were members but not binding parties. The government's excuse was always that Congress hadn't approved them yet.
If Congress delayed forever, the treaties applied to everyone else—but not to them.
So did Flight 180 qualify for compensation under the Convention? A giant question mark.
Compensation—yes. But how much? That was the real battlefield.
The airline and the insurance company wanted to pay as little as possible. The survivors wanted to "rob the rich and divide the spoils," getting rich overnight. The two sides were irreconcilable.
Bella attended two meetings and immediately realized she had no place in this circus.
Watching uncles and aunties scream into cameras, tearfully describing how terrified and helpless they and their families had been, how monstrous the airline was—she cringed.
She knew perfectly well that the airline was also a victim. Asking her to denounce them as some evil empire? She couldn't do it.
Faced with massive payouts, many airline employees had been fired and lost their livelihoods. They were suffering too.
So Bella withdrew from the leadership circle of the compensation group. The uncles and aunties happily took over.
The survivors killed by the Reaper were also blamed on the airline. After all, capitalists had black hearts! Obviously the shareholders had hired assassins! Sue them to death!
While reviewing the death list, Bella made another discovery—neither major nor trivial.
That arrogant Black coroner had also died.
Judging by the time of death, he must have died during the latter half of the clash between the Reaper and the Native curse. No wounds. Just… died in his sleep.
Bella no longer cared about the lawsuit process—only the result. She desperately needed the sinful money of the capitalists to fill her painfully empty wallet.
She was so poor that even when Natasha invited her out shopping, she didn't have the mood to go.