I woke up with a bloodied newborn beside me and no memory of giving birth. Before I could sit up, my roommate Marissa burst in with the dean, the residence director, and three phones already recording. She had spent weeks building her case: a bought-off clinic nurse, fabricated medical files, and my boyfriend Owen ready to swear the baby was mine. If I denied it, the internet would call me a liar. If I stayed silent, I was guilty. Then a strange blue message appeared: Don’t deny. Don’t confirm. Demand a DNA test on camera. So I did. The doctor’s report proved I had never given birth. But the video was already online, and Marissa wasn’t done. Now I have one chance to expose the frame-up before the court of public opinion destroys me—and before her final move lands.