Chapter 1 – The Withdrawal

The champagne bottle popped in the next room, followed by a chorus of laughter and clinking glasses.

Jessica’s laughter rang out above the rest.

“Oh my God, I’m in!” she’d squealed ten minutes earlier.
“Johns Hopkins, guys! I got into Hopkins!”

My parents were ecstatic. Our father, especially. Johns Hopkins (or “John’s Haw-kins,” as Mom still mispronounced it) was his alma mater. He’d talked about it since we were kids. The vaulted ceilings, the intensity, the pride of wearing that emblem.

Now Jessica had been accepted there. His youngest. His golden child.

Meanwhile, I sat alone in my childhood bedroom, my laptop glowing in front of me, my heart slowly falling through the floorboards.

Application Status: Withdrawn by Applicant.

Withdrawn.

I stared at the words, reread them, clicked refresh, reread them again.

Withdrawn.

I hadn’t withdrawn anything.

My application to Johns Hopkins had been my North Star for four years. I’d submitted three months ago. Every section triple-checked. Every essay revised until it sang. I’d curated recommendations, crafted a compelling narrative around my clinical experiences, triple-checked transcripts.

I’d earned a 4.0 GPA.

Scored in the 99th percentile on the MCAT.

Volunteered at three hospitals.

Assisted in a pediatric oncology research project that resulted in two peer-reviewed publications.

I’d done everything right.

Now my future was one word: withdrawn.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Jessica.

I opened it.

deleted your med school app lol now u see we can’t compete
guess you should’ve password protected your laptop better
only room for one Dr. Morgan in this family

I read it once.

Then again.

Then again.

My hands started shaking.

My own sister—my genetics study buddy, my MCAT practice partner, the girl I’d sat with at the kitchen table explaining Orgo mechanisms until midnight—had sabotaged my medical school application.

I stood up so fast my chair scraped the floor. The sounds from the living room bled through the walls—pops, laughter, Dad’s booming voice, Mom’s excited squeals.

I was about to storm out of my room when my phone rang.

The caller ID made my heart stop.

James Thornton
Johns Hopkins School of Medicine – Admissions

I froze.

I answered.

“Hello?”

“Miss Morgan?” a deep, calm voice said.
“Is this Amelia Morgan?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

My stomach clenched, bracing for impact—for him to confirm it was over, that the withdrawal had processed, that I’d be free to pursue… whatever people pursued when their lifelong dreams vanished at the hands of their sister.

“I’m calling about an extremely serious matter,” Dr. Thornton said.
“Our portal tracking system flagged unusual activity on your application twenty minutes ago.”

I clutched the phone tighter.

“Unusual…activity?”

“Yes,” he said.
“Someone logged into your account from a different IP address and attempted to withdraw your application.”

Attempted.

I sank back onto the bed.

“Attempted?” I repeated.

“Yes,” he said.
“Attempted. Our new security protocols don’t allow one-click withdrawals for submitted applications. They log keystrokes, IP addresses, and, where permissions are granted, screen and webcam data. We saw exactly what happened on your account.”

My brain scrambled to catch up.

“You… saw it?”

“Every second,” he said.
“Your sister used your saved password to access the portal from her laptop. We have a recording of her logging in as you, withdrawing the application, then sending a text message bragging about it.”

He paused.

“We also have screenshots of a group chat she’s been part of for weeks where she discussed sabotaging your application.”

For weeks.

I swallowed hard.

“So… my application…”

“Was never actually withdrawn,” he said.
“The system requires email confirmation. Since you didn’t confirm, the process was incomplete. You are still under full consideration and always have been.”

Tears burned behind my eyes.

“I…”

“Furthermore,” he continued, his tone softening,
“based on your exceptional qualifications, you were already selected for admission. With a full scholarship. The Harrison Merit Scholarship. It covers tuition, room and board for all four years.”

The Harrison.

Dad had talked about that one, too.

“You were…”

“You are,” he corrected gently.
“Congratulations, Miss Morgan. Or I should say, future Dr. Morgan.”

My throat closed up. Tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable.

“Thank you,” I managed.

“However,” he said, his voice cooling,
“regarding your sister Jessica Morgan…”

I wiped my eyes.

“She… she’s my sister,” I said weakly.

“A sister who attempted to destroy your future out of petty jealousy,” he replied.
“This isn’t just about sibling rivalry. Someone capable of this level of deception should not be in medicine.”

He continued, each word landing like a gavel.

“Jessica Morgan’s admission to Johns Hopkins School of Medicine is hereby revoked,” he said.
“She will be reported to the American Association of Medical Colleges for attempted sabotage of another applicant. She will be flagged in their system. No accredited medical school in the country will be able to admit her without seeing that record.”

From the living room, Jessica’s laughter carried down the hallway as she recounted her “acceptance story” to relatives for the fifth time.

“She… she doesn’t know,” I whispered.

“She will,” Dr. Thornton said.
“And Miss Morgan—this is not vindictive. Medicine requires trust, integrity, and ethical behavior. Imagine what she would do if a colleague got a better residency match than she did. Or if a nurse challenged her. Or if a patient chose another doctor.”

He was right.

The realization settled over me with a cold weight.

“Can you come to my office tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“We need to document what happened and finalize your admission. Also, the FBI’s cybercrime division may want a statement from you. Unauthorized access to an educational portal and identity fraud is a federal offense.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

After we hung up, I sat on my bed for a long moment, phone limp in my hand, listening to the muffled sounds of celebration in the living room.

Then I stood.

And walked toward the noise.

Chapter 2 – The Party

The scene in the living room was like something out of a brochure for “Happy, High-Achieving Families.”

Jessica stood in the center in a navy dress, Hopkins acceptance letter held like a trophy. Mom and Dad flanked her, glasses of champagne in hand, smiles so wide they looked painful. Our aunts, uncles, and cousins formed a circle around them, adding layers of congratulations and jokes.

“Amelia!” Mom called when she saw me.
“Come celebrate with your sister! She’s going to be a doctor!”

I stepped into the doorway.

“No,” I said quietly.
“She’s not.”

The room went still.

Jessica’s smile faltered. A flicker of something—fear?—flashed across her features before she rearranged it into a smirk.

“Someone’s jealous,” she said, raising her voice for the crowd.
“Sorry you didn’t get in, Amy. I told you Hopkins was a long shot. Not everyone’s meant for med school.”

I held up my phone. Dr. Thornton’s name still glowed on the screen.

“That was the dean of admissions at Johns Hopkins,” I said.
“He called to talk about my application. You know, the one you tried to delete.”

Jessica’s fingers tightened around her letter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“They saw everything,” I said.
“The system logs it all. The keystrokes. The screen. The IP address. The webcam feed. They saw you log into my application portal from your laptop and click ‘withdraw.’ They watched you do it while laughing.”

The champagne glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the hardwood.

“What?” Dad said slowly, looking from me to Jess.
“Amelia, what are you saying?”

I opened my messages and held my screen out to him.

“She sent me this right after she tried,” I said.

He read aloud.

“‘Deleted your med school app… only room for one Dr. Morgan in this family.’ Jessica?”

Mom put a hand to her mouth.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

Jessica’s shoulders stiffened.

“I was joking,” she said.
“God, do none of you understand humor? I never actually did anything. You can’t even take a joke now?”

“The dean said you did,” I replied.
“He also said my application was never fully withdrawn. Because I never clicked confirm. Because I was already accepted. With the Harrison Merit Scholarship.”

Dad’s eyes widened.

“The Harrison?” he said softly.
“They only give one of those a year.”

“Yes,” I said.
“And he revoked your acceptance, Jess. Effective immediately. You won’t be going to Johns Hopkins. And you won’t be going to any other medical school either. You’ve been reported for sabotage. Every admissions office will see it.”

Jessica made a sound between a scoff and a scream.

“You’re lying,” she said.
“You’re making this up because you’re bitter and jealous.”

My phone buzzed again in my hand.

“Want to hear it from him?” I asked.

I swiped and put it on speaker.

“Miss Morgan?” Dr. Thornton’s voice came through, calm and clear.
“I just wanted to confirm that the formal revocation email has been sent to Jessica Morgan’s address. Our system shows delivery. We’ve also submitted an incident report to the AAMC. For your records, your own admission and scholarship are unaffected and fully confirmed.”

The entire room could hear him.

“Thank you, Dr. Thornton,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.
“And congratulations again.”

When the call ended, nobody moved.

Jessica’s face had gone chalk white.

“This is insane,” she whispered.
“You can’t do this to me. You can’t just take it away.”

“You did that yourself,” I said quietly.

Dad stepped closer to her.

“Tell me the truth,” he said.
“Did you access Amelia’s application?”

Jessica’s chin quivered.

“I—”

“Did you or did you not?” he pressed.

“Yes, okay?” she snapped.
“Yes, I did. But I was going to fix it. I was going to tell her. It was just a stupid moment. I was stressed.”

“When?” I asked.
“When were you going to tell me? After the deadline? After all the spots were filled?”

She glared at me.

“You always get everything,” she spat.
“Perfect grades. Perfect scores. Perfect praise. I’m so tired of competing with you.”

“This wasn’t competing,” I said.
“It was attempted murder of my future. That’s not what sisters do.”

Our cousin Mark, an attorney, stood slowly.

“Jessica,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp,
“what you did is not just unethical. It’s a crime. Unauthorized access. Identity fraud. Sabotage. If the FBI pursues this, you’re looking at actual charges.”

Jessica laughed bitterly.

“Oh, of course you all take her side,” she said.
“Perfect Amelia. The saint. The genius. The one you always told me to be more like.”

Mom burst into tears.

“We never said that,” she cried.

“Yes, you did,” Jessica shot back.
“‘Why can’t you study like your sister? Why can’t you be more organized like Amelia? Amelia got straight A’s again.’ You think I never heard that?”

I inhaled slowly.

“I never asked them to compare us,” I said.
“I never wanted that. But what you did—that wasn’t about them. It was your choice. You could’ve been there with me. We could’ve both been Dr. Morgan.”

Jessica’s shoulders slumped.

“I wanted something that was just mine,” she whispered.

“So you tried to destroy mine,” I said.

Dad’s voice cracked.

“You didn’t need to compete,” he said.
“There was room for both of you. You’re both brilliant.”

She shook her head.

“Not like her,” she muttered.

Mom moved toward her.

“Jessica,” she said, reaching for her.
“We can fix this. We can call them back, explain—”

“No,” I interrupted.
“We can’t. And we shouldn’t. If they walked this back, what message would that send? That she can cheat, sabotage, commit fraud, and still be allowed to care for patients?”

Mark nodded grimly.

“Medicine isn’t just about grades,” he said.
“It’s about character. And right now, your sister’s shown a serious deficit there.”

Jessica sobbed.

“I made a mistake,” she said.
“One mistake.”

“Planned over weeks, executed in seconds,” I said.
“That’s not an impulsive slip. That’s premeditated.”

The party was over.

The congratulations banner above the mantel looked pathetic, sagging slightly where the tape had come loose. A few aunts and uncles slipped away quietly, shoes soft on the hardwood. Our grandmother wiped her eyes and shook her head, muttering prayers under her breath.

I went upstairs. Not because I was giving up, but because I couldn’t stand to look at the person who’d just tried to torch my future.

Later that night, I found Jessica sitting on the edge of her bed, suitcase open, clothes strewn everywhere.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Away,” she said.
“I don’t know. I can’t stay here. Not with everyone knowing.”

Her eyes were swollen. Her acceptance letter lay ripped in half on the floor.

“It’s all over that premed forum,” she said.
“Someone posted about it. Screenshots and everything. ‘Med School Sister Sabotage.’ That’s what they’re calling it. Twitter, Reddit, Facebook… everyone knows.”

“It doesn’t have to be the end,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

She laughed humorlessly.

“I’ve been reported to the AAMC,” she said.
“That’s the main application system. Every med school in the country sees it. Do you understand? I will never be a doctor now. Four years of undergrad. Hundreds of hours of MCAT prep. Shadowing, volunteering, everything—wiped out.”

“You made that choice,” I said.

Her shoulders trembled.

“I know,” she whispered.
“God, I know.”

We were quiet for a long minute.

“What are you going to do?” I asked at last.

“I don’t know,” she said dully.
“Research, maybe. Teaching. Something adjacent. Somewhere the AAMC doesn’t matter.”

She looked up at me.

“Will you ever forgive me?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
“Maybe. One day. But I’ll never trust you like I used to. That’s gone.”

She nodded.

“I don’t trust me either,” she admitted.

Chapter 3 – White Coat

The next morning I took the train to Baltimore.

The Johns Hopkins campus was even more beautiful than the photos—red-brick buildings, manicured lawns, the dome of the hospital glinting in the sun.

I carried a folder with the email from Dr. Thornton, my “provisional” acceptance confirmation, and a million what-ifs rattling around in my brain.

In his office, surrounded by shelves of medical texts and framed degrees, Dr. Thornton was exactly the kind of person you want running an admissions committee—sharp eyes, calm presence, the kind of kindness that didn’t come at the expense of firmness.

“Miss Morgan,” he said, standing to shake my hand.
“I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” I replied.

He gestured for me to sit.

“First things first,” he said, sliding a thick envelope across the desk.
“This is your official acceptance packet. Including the Harrison Merit Scholarship offer. You were selected before any of this happened. I want you to understand that your sister’s actions neither helped nor hurt your candidacy. You earned this entirely on your own merit.”

I picked up the envelope like it might crumble if I squeezed too hard.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“Second,” he continued,
“I wanted to apologize on behalf of the institution that our system allowed someone else to attempt to access your account using your credentials. While our security measures prevented the withdrawal from going through, we’re updating our protocols to force two-factor authentication on all major actions, including logins and withdrawals.”

“I’m just glad it didn’t work,” I said.

“So am I,” he said.
“We’ve already turned over our logs to the appropriate authorities. The FBI’s cybercrime division may call you to confirm some details. All you’ll need to do is tell them the truth, which from what I’ve seen, you’re quite good at.”

He gave me a brief smile.

“I also want you to know that we did not take the decision to revoke your sister’s acceptance lightly,” he said.
“But medical training demands a baseline of integrity. Someone willing to undermine a fellow applicant this way? We cannot in good conscience entrust them with patients.”

“I understand,” I said.

He leaned forward.

“Your file impressed all of us,” he said.
“Not just your grades and MCAT scores, but your research in pediatric oncology. Your work on improving chemotherapy protocols for neuroblastoma patients was particularly notable.”

My chest warmed.

“That project came out of volunteering in the pediatric ward,” I explained.
“I watched too many kids suffer through side effects. I wanted to understand how to help them better.”

He nodded.

“Exactly the kind of mindset we want here,” he said.
“Curiosity aligned with compassion.”

We went over logistics—orientation dates, financial aid paperwork, housing options.

As I left his office, envelope of my future tucked under my arm, my phone buzzed. A notification from a premed forum where I’d browsed advice for years without ever posting.

Thread: Med School Sister Sabotage – Hopkins Case

I clicked it.

The first post:

Did you guys see that story about the Hopkins admits where one sister tried to withdraw the other’s application? The portal recorded everything. Older sis got the full ride, younger sis got her acceptance revoked. Brutal.

Comments poured in beneath it—shock, outrage, speculation.

Then one reply caught my eye.

If the story is true, I’m glad the school handled it. Medicine needs less cutthroat sabotage and more ethics. There’s enough suffering already without us destroying each other.

I closed my phone.

Six months later, I put on a white coat.

Orientation week was a blur of names, lecture halls, icebreakers, and imposter syndrome. We stood in a line, each of us called up one by one to receive our coats while family members snapped photos and beamed.

My parents came.

Jessica did not.

Dad clapped until his hands were red.

“The Harrison Scholarship,” he murmured afterward, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I applied for that. Never got it. Seeing you win it… it’s like some kind of full-circle joke.”

Mom hugged me so tightly I could feel her heart racing against mine.

“We’re so proud of you,” she said, eyes shining.

I smiled for the camera. For them. For me.

But behind the joy, there was a hollow ache for the sister who wasn’t there.

Chapter 4 – Scars and Support

Three years into medical school, I’ve seen enough to know that betrayal isn’t rare.

Patients betrayed by their own bodies.

Families betrayed by systems that don’t see them.

Students betrayed by peers, professors, even themselves.

I started the support group in my second year after another meeting with Dr. Thornton. He’d pulled me aside after a lecture on medical ethics.

“Miss Morgan,” he said.
“I thought you’d like to know—since your case went public, we’ve had seventeen students across various schools report similar sabotage attempts. Applications withdrawn, letters altered, recommendation emails intercepted. Your story gave them the courage to come forward.”

“Seventeen?” I echoed.

He nodded.

“That’s just the ones we know about,” he said.

I went home that night and couldn’t sleep.

I kept thinking of all the ways this could have gone differently. If Johns Hopkins hadn’t upgraded their system. If they hadn’t noticed. If someone in admissions had not been paying attention.

If my application had actually been withdrawn.

It would have looked like I’d given up.

It would have looked like I didn’t want it enough.

No one would have known the truth.

The next day, I knocked on Dr. Thornton’s door.

“I want to start something,” I said.

“A club?” he asked.

“A support group,” I said.
“For students who’ve experienced academic sabotage or family betrayal. A place where we can talk about it openly. Med school is already competitive enough. The pressure breaks people in quiet ways.”

He considered it for all of two seconds.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said.
“We’ll give you a room, a faculty sponsor, and a budget. The rest is yours to build.”

We call it Integrity in the Fire.

We meet once a week. Sometimes five people show up. Sometimes twenty.

A classmate whose roommate hid his MCAT flashcards out of jealousy.

A PhD student whose advisor took credit for her entire thesis in a grant application.

A resident whose attending publicly humiliated him and then blocked his letter of recommendation.

We talk.

We cry.

We plan next steps—reporting, documenting, legal routes, or sometimes just healing.

I don’t lead the group as some heroic victim. I lead it as someone who knows how a knife feels when it’s between your shoulder blades and the hand holding it belongs to someone you trusted.

Sometimes, after everyone has left and I’m stacking chairs, I think of Jessica.

Of what she lost.

Of what she could have been if she’d chosen differently.

She lives in Portland now. She took a job as a lab tech in an oncology research facility, according to Mom.

“That’s something,” Mom said on the phone once.
“She’s still doing science. Just… from a different angle.”

I don’t ask for details.

But I keep her in my peripheral thoughts.

Because for all the damage she did, part of me still remembers the girl who used to drink hot chocolate with me at the kitchen table and talk about being “Dr. Morgan, sisters in medicine.”

Maybe that’s naive.

Maybe that’s the part of me that refuses to let betrayal erase everything else.

Chapter 5 – Letters and Futures

The letter arrived last month.

My name written in Jessica’s handwriting on a plain white envelope. No return address. Postmark from Oregon.

Mom’s voice crackled on the phone the week before.

“She sent you something,” she said.
“I told her I’d tell you. She said you don’t have to open it if you don’t want to.”

I tucked it into a drawer.

Med school third year is unforgiving—rotations, call nights, exams that seem designed to prove how much you still don’t know. I told myself I’d open it when I had a moment.

I haven’t had one yet.

Maybe I’m stalling.

Maybe I’m not ready to read whatever she wrote.

An apology?

An explanation?

A justification dressed up as insight?

I don’t know.

What I do know is this:

No matter what’s inside that envelope, my path is already set in motion.

I’ve passed pharmacology. Survived surgery. Fallen in love with pediatrics just like I thought I would back when I was a volunteer reading picture books to kids too sick to go home.

I’ve held the hands of patients facing diagnoses that would shatter most people.

I’ve told parents things no parent should ever have to hear.

I’ve looked at lab results and imaging studies and learned to see stories in numbers and shadows.

I’ve sat with a classmate whose own sibling tried to tank their chances by sending anonymous rumors to our professors.

We drank coffee in the student lounge and I told them,

“They didn’t break you. They just revealed themselves.”

Sometimes people ask me about my personal statement.

Did I write about what Jessica did?

No.

I wrote about a seven-year-old boy with leukemia who drew superheroes on his chemo bag. And about my grandfather, who died of heart failure while I watched helplessly over Zoom because of pandemic restrictions. I wrote about how medicine, at its heart, is about trust. Between doctor and patient. Between colleagues. Between institutions and the people who depend on them.

Trust is what Jessica shattered.

And trust is what I choose to build.

One day, after graduation, after residency, after the whirlwind of early attending life, I might open that letter.

Maybe I’ll sit in a small office as Dr. Morgan, pediatric oncologist, and read my sister’s words.

Maybe I’ll cry.

Maybe I’ll shred it.

Maybe I’ll write back.

Or maybe I never will.

Some scars form around foreign bodies. They keep the splinter walled off, contained, so it can’t hurt you anymore. Removing it isn’t always necessary to heal.

What I will do is remember the lesson in all of this.

That integrity isn’t an optional accessory for a doctor.

That the pressure to succeed should never justify harming someone else.

That jealousy left unchecked can turn love into something sharp and ugly.

Dr. Thornton said once, in one of our ethics lectures,

“At the end of the day, your degree, your rank, your salary, all of that can vanish. The only thing you truly carry with you for life is your name. Protect it. Because when you introduce yourself as ‘Doctor,’ you’re asking people to trust that name with what they hold most dear.”

I will introduce myself that way someday soon.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Morgan.”

They won’t know that, once upon a time, there were almost two of us.

They won’t know the story of a champagne celebration that turned into a confession.

They won’t know about a text message typed in petty jealousy that changed two lives forever.

They won’t know about the screenshots, the revoked acceptance, the support group that grew from the wreckage.

But I will.

And because I do, I will never forget how fragile trust can be—
and how fiercely it must be protected.