A laugh, cut off too quickly.
A whisper that stops the second I turn my head.
A girl at the edge of her group stills when she sees me, her eyes widening before she leans in to murmur something to her friends.
A cluster of football players immediately start nudging one another as I pass, shoulders bumping, grins spreading as they try– and fail– not to laugh.
My stomach swoops and my thoughts start racing, tripping over themselves as I try to make sense of it.
Did something happen? Did the other students find out about the Dollhouse, about what I am now, about what was done to me? Do they know my own stepfather sold me off like livestock?
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe, my fingertips starting to tingle.
I’m about two heartbeats from a full blown panic attack by the time I reach the quad, scanning the crowd desperately for anything familiar, anyone safe. But I’ve only got one real friend here, and Bryce is nowhere in sight.
I’m so overwhelmed that I almost miss the cluster of bodies closing in ahead of me, barely catching myself before I slam straight into them. My boots skid against the pavement as I jerk to a stop, breath hitching hard in my chest. I look up, an apology on the tip of my tongue…
And freeze.
Because Chelsea Carson is standing directly in front of me.
She’s blocking just enough of the path to force me into her space, staring down her surgically straight nose at me, lips curling slowly into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I try to step around her, but she’s flanked by two friends who shift with eerie precision, just enough to box me in.
My stomach drops.
It’s a trap.
My mouth goes dry, the panic that’s been simmering under my skin snapping into something sharper, more focused.
Chelsea lets the silence stretch just long enough for people to notice. I can feel it happening– the subtle shift of attention, the way heads start to turn, bodies angling toward us like flowers chasing sunlight.
“Wow, Ava,” she purrs, her voice pitched just right– loud enough to carry, soft enough to feel intimate. “I knew you were desperate, but throwing yourself a party to celebrate losing yourvirginity?” She tilts her head, eyes flicking over me in a slow, deliberate sweep that lingers just a second too long. “That’s next-level tacky. Even for you.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the people closest to us, quiet but unmistakable.
I blink at her, my brain lagging a half a step behind, struggling to catch up. For a split second, I think maybe I misheard her… but she’s still smiling, her friends giggling, exchanging glances with each other like they’re sharing a private joke.
Like they know something I don’t.
“I…what?” I stammer, shaking my head to try to clear the fog. “What are you even talking about?”
Chelsea exhales a soft, disappointed sigh, folding her arms like I’ve failed some kind of test.
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs. “Nobody’s buying the innocent act anymore.” Her gaze sharpens, locking onto mine. "Not after this."
Something cold slides down my spine as my phone vibrates against my hip. The timing is almost too perfect.
I fumble for it, fingers clumsy as I drag it out of the pocket of my cardigan, my pulse hammering in my ears. A message from Bryce flashes across the screen, and I quickly swipe it open, finding a forwarded image.
At first, I think it’s a joke or some meme I don’t get, because the graphic is so aggressively hideous it looks like it was designed by a five-year-old on a sugar high. Bright teal background, red cherries everywhere, a cartoon bottle of whipped cream at one corner. In giant, bubble letters across the middle, it reads:
CHERRY POP PARTY
This Saturday Night @ The Boathouse
Be there to celebrate the Doll
finally getting de-virginized!
