If I keep my head down, if I just move forward, maybe I can shed the skin of Chloe Ashford, daughter of disgrace. Maybe I can be just Chloe, communications major. Just Chloe, who shops secondhand and makes coffee at home because she can’t stand the pity in a barista’s smile. Just Chloe, who studies, graduates, disappears into New York someday.
That’s the dream.
My therapist says I should join a sorority. “Sisterhood,” she insists. “Community.” I almost laugh every time. Me, walking down Greek Row with my name dripping like poison from people’s lips? No.
But maybe. One day.
For now, all I can do is keep breathing. Keep stretching. Keep reminding myself that this tiny room, this mat, this silence—it’s mine. And I will not let the nightmares dictate the rest of my life.
Not anymore.
I collapse onto my back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The nerves hit then, sharp as a knife. What if everyone knows who I am? What if they see my name and connect it? What if they whisper?
I turn my head to the side. My phone sits by my bed, glowing faintly. Messages unopened. No friends to text me good luck. No mother to call. Just silence.
I close my eyes and breathe.
I can totally do this.
The Honda coughs before it finally gives in and rolls to a stop, the engine shuddering like it’s just run a marathon it wasn’t trained for. My hand lingers on the steering wheel, knuckles white around the cracked leather cover, the smell of hot oil bleeding through the vents. I close my eyes, count to three, then open them again.
The cherries dangle from the rearview mirror, faded red, their plastic stems twisted, one of the leaves missing. They bump against the glass as if reminding me,this is yours now. No chauffeur, no glossy black sedan with climate control and leather seats. Or my pretty red Audi that was stolen and dumped months ago. Just me and this Civic that sounds like it might fall apart on the highway if I dare ask too much of it.
I drag in a deep breath, shove the door open, and step into the morning light. The parking lot is buzzing, students spilling out of cars, voices weaving together in a low, excited hum. I hug mybag tighter to my side, fighting the urge to turn around and drive home.
Registration is a blur of forms and signatures, lines that crawl forward inch by inch, volunteers in matching T-shirts smiling with that too-bright, practiced friendliness that makes me itch. The gym smells like floor polish and paper, the squeak of sneakers against the court echoing above the chatter.
By the time I’m free, my nerves are stretched thin, buzzing under my skin like static. I’m standing outside, debating whether to make a break for it, when a girl approaches.
She’s sunshine wrapped in leggings—long blonde hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, bright white sneakers that somehow manage to stay pristine despite the dust, and a smile sharp enough to cut. She moves with the kind of easy confidence that announces she belongs here, that she’s been raised on pep rallies and spotlight applause.
“Hi.” Her voice is sing-song, a little too perfect. “You’re new, right?”
I blink at her, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah.”
“I’m Bella.” She offers her hand, manicured nails catching the light. “Head of Delta Phi. Cheer captain. And your unofficial welcome committee.”
Her grip is firm, practiced. She studies me like I’m a project she might take on if she’s bored enough. I feel the weight of it, the judgment tucked behind her practiced friendliness.
“Chloe,” I say, giving her the smallest version of myself.
“Well, Chloe.” She links her arm through mine before I can protest, steering me down the walkway like she’s decided I belong to her now. “Have you thought about pledging? Delta Phi is basicallythesorority on campus. Sisterhood, connections, parties. All that fun stuff.”
My throat dries. I picture myself in a Delta Phi jacket, walking Greek Row while whispers trail after me, my name dripping like poison from their lips. I can already feel the weight of it crushing me.
“I don’t think so,” I murmur.
She waves me off, too busy talking to really listen. “You’ll change your mind. Everyone does once they see what we’re about.” Her ponytail swishes as she tilts her head toward the far side of campus. “Come on. I’ll show you the fun part. The team’s practicing right now. You have to see them.”
“The team?”
Her grin widens. “Hockey. They’re everything here. Trust me, you’ll want to know their names.”
Hockey. My high school had football—the Friday night lights, the bleachers packed, cheerleaders flipping across the sidelines while the whole town roared. I’d clapped, pretended to care, but football had always felt like noise to me. Heavy bodies colliding, whistles blaring.
Hockey, though? I’ve never seen a game live. Just flashes on TV, men flying across ice with impossible grace, fights breaking out like storms mid-play.
Bella pulls me toward the rink, her chatter filling the space between us. The air grows colder as we step inside, a sharp bite that seeps through my thin shirt. The smell of ice hits me first—clean, crisp, with that faint chemical tang that lingers in the air.
