Page 15

Things aren’t making sense anymore.

I feel like I’m trapped in one of those smut filled thriller mafia romance books that Cassidy is always trying to get me to read.

You know, the ones where the girl ends up being owned by some dark, brooding guy who claims her like some prize.

And here I am, stuck in my own sick, twisted version of it where the brooding guy is replaced by some green eyed, golden boy, nepo baby, entitled hockey playing douchebag dickface.

What even is this? He’s got me cornered, playing the role of the untouchable villain looking like he could probably be the face of ‘I live off my daddy’s money’ magazine while I’m just here waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A part of me can’t believe this is happening. One minute I’m at a party, trying to fend off a creep, and the next, I’m dealing with blackmail and some insane “deal” where my freedom depends on whether I’m willing to become some kind of puppet for some sick psychopathic hockey player.

He actually thinks I’ll just fall in line like I’m some pawn in his twisted little game. That smug look on his face like he’s already won. It makes me sick.

How did I even get here?

I wasn’t looking for trouble. Hell, the worst thing I had done before this was shoplift a lip gloss from the mall because I really liked the shade but that was when I was 12. I didn’t ask for any of this.

But now, I’m stuck in this nightmare, being threatened with jail because of a self-defense incident, and all Thatcher sees is an opportunity.

Like my entire life is some power play for him to enjoy.

He wants me to play by his rules, to be his—what does that mean exactly? Be His little secret? His possession?

He said he’d “take care of me.” As if I need taking care of, as if I’m some fragile thing that can’t survive without his protection.

Like I’m supposed to be grateful for his offer to keep me out of jail, to be thankful that he’s not letting my entire life implode.

It’s disgusting, how he just assumes I’ll fall in line, like every part of this is about his control—his terms, his game.

He gets to play the savior, the one pulling the strings, while I’m just supposed to smile and nod, trapped in this cage he’s built around me.

Maybe I should go to the cops…I could say it was self-defense which it actually was…

Would that work?

It’s not like I wanted any of this to happen—I was just trying to protect myself. But would that even work? Would they believe me, or would they see me as some reckless girl who got in over her head?

Thatcher’s right about one thing, though—Jack’s parents are rich and powerful, and they’d probably bury me under a mountain of legal fees and lies. They could twist everything around, make it seem like I was the aggressor, like I wanted this. They could even use Dad…

But what if I don’t go? If I stay silent, I’m playing right into Thatcher’s hands, letting him control the narrative. Either way, I feel like I’m walking into a trap.

I hate this. I hate him. And most of all, I hate that he’s right—because the truth is, I can’t afford to turn myself in, and that’s the one thing he’s banking on.

Cassidy is blasting Taylor Swift at seven in the morning, and I swear the universe is testing me.

I groan and roll over, almost squishing Gregory in the process.

He yelps and hisses, pawing at my arm as if reprimanding me in his own cat way.

I reach out groggily and pet his soft, fluffy ears before pulling the covers tighter around me, trying to block out the music, the sunlight streaming in through my window and the sinking feeling that’s been in my chest for days.

Of course, Cassidy belts out the chorus of ‘Anti hero’ like it’s her personal anthem, while I’m just trying to figure out how to get through the day without completely losing my mind.

After tossing and turning for hours last night, the anxiety that seems to be brewing right under my skin these days forced me to pace my bedroom, wearing down the soles of my piggy slippers as my mind raced, flipping between a thousand different versions of how my life could blow up.

Thatcher’s offer lingers like a bad taste in my mouth, and no matter how hard I try to push it away, it keeps creeping back. I can’t believe I’m even considering accepting that dickwad’s offer. The thought makes my skin crawl, but at the same time, I feel cornered.

What happens if I don’t? If I refuse, Thatcher could destroy me. He knows everything, and all it would it take is one word from him to turn my life into a scandal bigger than OJ Simpson’s.

People wouldn’t care about the truth; they’d only see the headlines– college girl kills frat boy– and the whispers would follow me around everywhere again. Just like before…

Daughter of incarcerated murderer kills frat boy—genetic affair perhaps?

I can already hear it. The rumors, the side glances, the whispers behind my back. It wouldn’t matter if it was self-defense; they’d dig into my past, drag my dad’s mistakes into it, and everything I’ve worked for would be ruined. Everything my dad tried his hardest to prevent for me would be gone.

Gregory lets out a small purr and snuggles against my face, his rough tongue scraping against my cheek as he licks me.

He’s hungry. Typical cat–completely unaware that my life is unraveling.

I roll onto my back and scratch his ears absentmindedly, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get out of this without losing everything.

Outside, Cassidy switches to Charli XCX, and I can hear the vacuum turn on and off as she belts out the lyrics.

I should probably stop her before the neighbor comes banging on the door, complaining about the noise.

But instead, I just lie here, paralyzed by the mess that’s spiraling further out of control.

One wrong step, and everything comes crashing down.

I finally get up when Gregory starts pawing repeatedly at my covered arm, his persistent meows getting louder and more insistent.

“Alright, alright,’ I mutter, kicking off the covers and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

He looks up at me expectantly, his calico fur glinting in the sunlight. Those green feline eyes, the ones I used to find comforting, now just remind me of someone I’d rather forget. Thatcher.

Every time Gregory looks at me like that, I’m jolted back to those bottle-green eyes, the same intensity, the same calculating gleam that unnerves me.

I sigh, shaking my head as I stand. “You’re not him,” I whisper, trying to remind myself. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to push Thatcher from my thoughts. His offer, his threats—they loom over everything.

I shuffle out of my bedroom, still half asleep, to find Cassidy doing a crazed half ballet, half possessed fish dance routine right in the middle of the living room, the vacuum in her hand.

Well, that woke me right up.

“What the fuck?” I let out, the rest of my words dissolving into giggles. Cassidy whirls around, her strawberry blond Dutch braids flying, her eyes wide and wild. A grin stretches across her face like she’s just spotted her long-lost soulmate.

“Morning roomie!” she chirps as if she’s not currently in the middle of an interpretative dance with a vacuum cleaner. “I figured it’s time for a cleanup dance party”

“Dance party at seven am?” I shake my head, still laughing as I try to dodge her flailing limbs. “How much coffee did you drink?”

“Just a smidge, but that’s beside the point,” she spins in place, the vacuum making a sputtering noise as it almost tips over. “I’m trying to dance my worries away. I believe the experts call it DMT.”

“This isn’t that. This is an exorcism.” I can’t help but roll my eyes, even though a smile breaks through. Cassidy is a whirlwind of chaos, and sometimes I wonder how she hasn’t been committed yet.

She pauses mid-spin, putting her hands on her hips. “You know what? You need to lighten up! Just because you’re dealing with your own shit doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy life! Now be a supportive friend and join me!”

The absurdity of the moment pulls me out of my head, at least for a second. “I don’t know if I can dance like you without breaking something,” I reply, glancing nervously at the coffee table.

“Who cares? Break a few things! Live a little!” Cassidy insists, already starting to sway back into her dance. I take a moment to consider, knowing that for all my worries, her wild energy might be just what I need to forget everything for a little while.

“Fine! But if I break something, you’re paying for it,” I say as I grab her hand and allow her to draw me into her ridiculous dance routine.

Cassidy’s voice cuts through the soft classic rock song playing, catching me completely off guard. “Have you ever been spanked?”

I freeze, the ponytail I am in the middle of perfecting falls apart, my hair slips through my fingers as I turn to face her.

“What?”

What the hell kind of question is that?

We have less than an hour before class, so I’m getting ready at my vanity. But now everything has paused because her tone of voice is speaking volumes. Does my best friend like to be spanked?

She’s sprawled out across my bed, left ankle crossed over her right knee, her eyes glued to her phone as her fingers dance across the screen like this is the most normal conversation ever.

Without looking, she says, “You haven’t right?

Oh my god! You’ve got to try it.” She pauses to sit up, folding her knees underneath her.

She brushes the ends of her Dutch braids over her shoulder and grins mischievously at me.

“I was with Dylan from the hockey team and…” she lets out a long exaggerated whistle, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

I stare at her, wide eyed. “Cassidy!”