First Miles. Then the rumors. Then the threats. Now this.
It feels like the universe is conspiring to remind me exactly who I am—and who I can’t ever outrun.
I change clothes without thinking—jeans, hoodie, hair pulled back in a messy knot. My reflection in the mirror looks foreign. Tired eyes. Shaky hands. The ghost of a girl trying to keep from breaking.
As I grab my bag, my phone buzzes again.
A text from an unknown number.
Unknown:Can we talk?
I stare at the message, heart jumping to my throat. The number isn’t saved, but I know exactly who it belongs to.
Miles.
I delete the message without replying, shove the phone deep into my pocket, and walk out the door.
Because right now, the last thing I need is to talk to him.
And yet… the ache that follows feels a lot like wanting him anyway.
And then there’s Jamie…
I fucked up pretty badly.
The prison smells like bleach and metal. Even before I step inside, it clings to the back of my throat—that sterile tang that makes you feel smaller just by breathing it in.
The guard waves me through the metal detector, and I keep my chin up, pretending I’m not shaking. I’ve done this before, but it never stops feeling like walking into someone else’s nightmare.
When I reach the visiting room, I spot him immediately. My father. Same broad shoulders, same pressed posture that used to make waiters stammer and teachers overcompensate. But nowhis orange jumpsuit hangs loose on him, and his knuckles look raw.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice cracks, and I hate that it does.
He looks up from the table, eyes bloodshot, and for a second, I think maybe he’s going to smile. He doesn’t.
“Chloe,” he says, nodding once. His voice is rougher than I remember. “You’re late.”
“I— they took a while to clear me through security.”
“Excuses,” he mutters. “Sit down.”
I do. The metal chair screeches across the floor, drawing attention I don’t want.
He studies me for a long moment. “You’ve put on weight.”
The words hit harder than they should. I swallow, blink twice. “Cheer practice is still mandatory. I’m not—I’m not fat.”
He snorts. “You were never great with self-control. Still in that—what is it? Media major?”
“Communications.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Right. Useless, but I suppose business school was too much work.”
“Dad—”
He leans forward, the chain on his cuff clinking softly. “Your mother’s filing for divorce.”
The sentence lands like a slap. “What?”
