Oxford, second year, late November. The air smelled of wetstone and mulled wine drifting from college bars. Mia had been at the university for fourteen months and still felt like a guest who’d forgotten to leave. The scholarship covered tuition and a narrow college room; it did not cover the way other students looked through her when she spoke, or the way they looked at her when she didn’t.
Emma had been the exception. Emma with her easy laugh, her old-money wardrobe, her instinctive way of making every room feel like it belonged to her. They met in a first-year seminar on Victorian literature—Emma had leaned over during a dull lecture on Middlemarch and whispered, “If Dorothea Brooke had Instagram, she’d be insufferable.” Mia had laughed louder than the tutor liked, and that was it. They were inseparable.
Emma’s birthday fell on a Friday in late semester. The party was at her parents’ townhouse—three storeys of Georgian brick, high ceilings, and a garden lit with paper lanterns. Everyone was there: the rowing boys with their broad shoulders and louder laughs, the English students who quoted Donne while drunk, the international crowd who pretended they weren’t homesick. Mia wore the one nice dress she owned—black, simple, bought second-hand from a charity shop on Cowley Road. She felt pretty in it. Emma told her she looked dangerous.
Henry was already there when Mia arrived—Emma’s boyfriend since the end of first year. Tall, blond, rowing blue, the kind of boy who’d grown up with trust funds and ski chalets and never once doubted he belonged anywhere. He handed Mia a drink without asking what she wanted. “Vodka soda,” he said, smiling the smile that made people forgive him everything. “Emma said you like them.”
She took it. She was trying to be easy, trying to fit.
The night moved in soft fragments: laughter in the kitchen, dancing in the living room, someone putting on Arctic Monkeys too loud. Mia drank slowly—she’d learned early thatalcohol made her tongue loose and her judgement blurry. But Henry kept pressing fresh glasses into her hand. “Come on, it’s a party. Live a little.”
Around midnight the room began to tilt. Not dramatically—just a slow, syrupy slide. Mia excused herself to the bathroom upstairs. She splashed water on her face, stared at her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror, told herself she was fine. When she came out, Henry was waiting in the hallway.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah. Just… dizzy.”
He smiled. “Let’s get you some air.”
She didn’t remember walking down the corridor. She remembered the guest bedroom door closing behind them, the click of the lock. She remembered trying to say no—her tongue thick, her limbs heavy. She remembered his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed. She remembered thinking, very clearly, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
Then nothing.
She woke to grey light seeping through heavy curtains. Her dress was twisted around her waist, knickers gone. Pain throbbed between her legs—sharp, unfamiliar. Her mouth tasted like metal and shame. Henry was dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like nothing had happened.
She tried to sit up. The room spun.
“You’re awake,” he said, not looking at her. “Good. You were pretty out of it last night.”
Mia’s voice came out cracked. “What… what happened?”
He glanced over, expression mild. “You came on to me. Pretty aggressively, actually. I tried to stop you, but you were insistent. Emma’s downstairs. You might want to get yourself together before she sees you like this.”
The words landed like punches—each one precise, each one designed to make her doubt her own memory.
“I didn’t—” she started.
He cut her off, voice gentle, almost kind. “You did. You were drunk, Mia. It happens. Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. Let’s just… keep this between us, yeah?”
She stared at him. He looked so reasonable. So calm. Like he was doing her a favour.
She dressed in silence, hands shaking. When she stumbled downstairs, Emma was in the kitchen making coffee. The party debris was still everywhere—empty bottles, confetti, the faint smell of cigarettes. Emma looked up, smiled brightly.
“There you are! You disappeared last night. Henry said you weren’t feeling well. He kept checking on you. Sweet boy!”
Mia opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Emma frowned. “You okay? You look awful.”
“I… I think I drank too much,” Mia managed.
Emma laughed—light, careless. “Classic Mia. Lightweight.” She handed her a coffee. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
Henry appeared behind Emma, slipped an arm around her waist, kissed her temple. He met Mia’s eyes over Emma’s shoulder. The look was calm. Certain. He had already won.
Mia left shortly after. She walked back to college in yesterday’s dress, heels in her hand, bare feet on cold pavement. Every step felt like evidence against her. By the time she reached her room she was crying—quiet, choking sobs that hurt her throat. She locked the door, sank to the floor, and stayed there until the light changed.
The rumours started on Monday.
