Page 3 of For the Plot

I wasn’t planning on going out. But something in my gut told me to. Maybe it was the text I saw from an unknown number on his phone asking if he was going tonight. Or maybe it was the way his eyes shifted when he told me he’d be stuck at the library all night. Either way, my stomach has been a bubbling pit of acid the last few hours and no amount of times I tell myself thathe wouldn’t lie to mewill convince me tonight.

When I push open the door to Beta Chi, I’m hit with warmth, sweat, and the overwhelming stench of spilled beer and testosterone.

The music is deafening, a loud thumping beat that gives me an instant headache. Lights strobe over too many bodies, and I hate myself for coming the second I step inside. Still, I look for him. I check the couch, the beer pong table, and the kitchen. Nothing.

“Hey,” I say loudly—so loud it hurts my throat and I can still barely hear myself—to a few guys standing by a makeshift bartop. “Have you guys seen Archer Blackwood here tonight?”

They shake their heads and shrug, so I push on.

I head upstairs, taking the narrow staircase two steps at a time. Maybe he’s actually studying. Maybe they moved the group session here. Maybe I’m just paranoid because he’s stressed and I’m— Laughter. Familiar. His. It comes from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. Room 206. I pause, stomach dipping.

Maybe he’s watching something. Maybe his study group is up here. Maybe— A soft moan cuts through the door. High-pitched. Feminine.

I freeze. Then I softly tiptoe closer until my ear is pressed firmly against the door. The music isn’t as loud up here; in fact, it’s almost nonexistent. I hold my breath, and my hand shakes as I reach out and press it against the wood.

Then I hear it… Another laugh. Lower this time. His again. Then a whisper. Skin rustling against fabric. The creak of the mattress. The sound of my heart shattering in real time.

My hand is on the doorknob before I realize what I’m doing. I don’t knock. I open the door. And the world ends… my world ends.

Archer’s shirt is half-open, his jeans unzipped. There’s a girl on top of him. Her blond hair spills over his shoulder like liquid gold. She’s straddling him, her mouth on his neck, her hands digging into his chest.

He looks up. Sees me. And everything stops. His eyes go wide. Her lips freeze on his collarbone.

“Skye,” he says, like my name is a question he wasn’t expecting to ask tonight.

I take one step back. Then another. The hallway tilts. The door slams shut behind me, though I don’t remember touching it. I stumble down the stairs, tears blurring the lights into streaks of neon and shame. Someone calls my name—I think. But I don’t stop. I can’t. I just keep walking.

I don’t stop until I’m outside. Until the cold hits me like a slap and I realize I can’t breathe. I make it back to my dorm on autopilot. Don’t remember how. Don’t care.

By the time I collapse onto my bed, my lungs are heaving and my face is soaked. My fingers are numb and my knees are bleeding from where I slipped on the stairs, but I don’t even feel it.

I curl into myself like maybe if I get small enough, the pain won’t find me. But it does. It always does.

The door creaks open. Then I hear a quiet, familiar voice. “Skye?”

I can’t speak. I just sob.

Maya shuts the door behind her and crawls into bed with me, fully clothed, mascara smudged from wherever she was before this. She doesn’t ask what happened. She already knows.

Instead, she pulls me into her arms like a child and lets me cry until there’s nothing left but shaking. Her hand strokes my hair. Her voice is soft. Steady. “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t believe her. Not yet. But I cling to her anyway. Because love is supposed to be enough. And tonight… I learned it’s not.

Chapter 1

Skye

"Ifeel like a broken vibrator."

Maya nearly snorts her lemon drop martini through her nose. "Jesus, Skye."

I shrug and swirl the straw in my drink, watching the last of the ice melt like my dignity over the past month. "I mean, think about it. All the pieces are there: looks decent on the outside, made to bring joy, solid performance history… but now? I’m just sputtering along. Burnt out. Destined for the junk drawer."

She snorts again. "Okay, now I'm picturing you vibrating down the hallway in a sad little shuffle. Thanks for that."

"Anytime," I mutter and take another sip of my very mediocre vodka cranberry.

Maya had offered to go somewhere closer to her office to celebrate at one of our usual spots near the financial district with overpriced cocktails and familiar faces. But I couldn’t stomach it tonight.