I escape, leaving her with daydreams of rich suitors whisking her daughter down the aisle. A new bunch of nerves hit as I fold my legs into the car, heart racing like I stepped in a trap. But it’sthe same vehicle he drove me home in last night. There’s comfort in the familiarity.
“Come on, then. Let’s go.”
While I’m out,Mum messages to let me know she’s visiting friends, so when I return, the house is empty. I check in with Clare and her thousand and one texts detailing every attraction that Wilder’s body had on offer. From the sounds of it, she enjoyed her initial exploration and would like to schedule another visit as soon as possible.
Much as I try to act as cheerleader, it’s hard to think of Wilder without thinking of the party, and that’s the tranche of memories I’m desperate to avoid.
My thoughts are still scattered, still going where I don’t want them to venture, not until I’m stronger. I stream a few shows on tv that I’ve seen before, letting their familiarity soothe my roughest edges.
When mum comes home and I still can’t find the words to talk to her, I fake stomach cramps and retreat to my bedroom, snuggling under the covers and closing my eyes, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist.
Three a.m. rolls around, then I must fall asleep because next time I check, the bedside clock shows ten minutes until my alarm. The day ahead is an unwelcome burden, but I rally, sitting upright and counting my blessings.
My best friend.
My mum.
My rekindled passion for art along with the mentor I need to reach my goal.
I’m even a little proud of myself for yesterday for putting my foot down about the NDA. Even if I never tell a soul, I feel stronger for holding onto the option. Stronger for resisting his demands.
The girl I was a year ago would be in awe of me now. I want to keep heading along that same track. Whatever today brings, I can get through it.
Clare texts to let me know she’s running late, so on arrival, I go straight to my locker, loading it with the books I took home for the weekend and never once cracked open.
A boy walks past, murmuring something under his breath. I eye him with suspicion as he continues down the corridor, but he shows no sign his muttering is directed at me.
Then a girl along the hallway catches my eye and smirks, elbowing her friend to get her attention.
I whip back to face my locker, cheeks already aflame.
It’s nothing. Zane won’t have told anyone. He wants this to be public knowledge even less than you.
My eyes close. I concentrate on my breathing, waiting until I’m steady before I chance another peek around.
No one’s staring. No one’s laughing. No one’s catcalling the pink-haired freak.
And I chuckle, rubbing a hand over my hair as I make the connection. Of course, they’re looking at me. My hair is dyed a fantastic new colour.
With a happier smile, I pick out the books for morning lessons, stifling a yawn against the back of my hand. My phone buzzes with a new message.
Clare
Why didn’t you tell me, you slut??? I want to hear every detail!!!
Tell her?I come to a stop.Tell her what?
Halfway through typing the question, she sends a link. The screen opens on a girl, balanced on her knees while Zane fucks her doggy style. A redheaded young man, vaguely familiar, thrusts into her mouth, turning her into a spit roast.
My body freezes. The woman has the same shade of bright pink hair as me.
Comments are below the video; new ones being added every second. The screen flickers then refreshes. The view number in the corner jumps to over a thousand.
I glance up and every pair of eyes in the hallway stares my way. Bile burns my throat at the knowing glances. One girl snaps her fingers in quiet applause, then turns back to her phone, giggling.
While I hide behind the inadequate shelter of my locker door, struggling to breathe through the panic, one thought pulses in my mind.
Zane Beaumont just destroyed my reputation in one fell swoop.
