Chapter 2

The world had shifted on its axis by the time I walked back onto campus the next day.

The familiar paths and green lawns of Westview University, once a place of comfort and ambition, now felt like a hostile landscape. It started with the stares.

People I knew, people I didn' t, their eyes would flick to me, then quickly away, followed by a hushed whisper to their friend.

My stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot. They knew.

How could they possibly know?

I clutched my portfolio to my chest like a shield and walked faster, my head down. I just had to get to the art building, to the safety of my studio space.

But there was no safety.

As I rounded the corner to the arts quad, I saw a group of girls huddled together, looking at a phone.

One of them looked up, saw me, and nudged her friend. They all turned to stare, their faces a mixture of pity and contempt. One of them let out a short, cruel laugh.

My anxiety spiked. I ducked into the nearest empty classroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pulled out my phone, my hands slick with sweat. I opened the university' s unofficial online forum, the one place where all the gossip and news spread like wildfire.

It was the top post.

The title was "Art Chick Chloe Miller Gets Wild."

My breath caught in my throat. I clicked on it. And there it was. The video. The thirty-second clip Ryan had taken. It was right there, for anyone to see, to download, to share.

My world tilted. I felt like I was going to be sick right there on the linoleum floor. The room felt airless, the walls closing in. I scrolled down, my eyes blurring with tears as I read the comments.

"Slut."

"I always knew she was a freak."

"Ryan Peterson can do so much better. She probably trapped him."

"Look at her, she' s totally asking for it."

The words were brutal, relentless. Hundreds of them.

Each one a stone thrown at me, each one leaving a bruise. They were dissecting me, judging me, condemning me based on a thirty-second clip stolen from me without my knowledge or consent. This digital mob was feasting on my humiliation, and I was utterly powerless to stop it.

As if things couldn't get worse, I saw a link to Ryan' s public social media page. With a sense of dread, I clicked it. He had posted a statement. A long, carefully worded block of text.

"I want to address the video that is circulating," it began. "I am deeply sorry that this private moment was made public.

This was never my intention.

Chloe Miller and I have a complicated history, and last night, things got out of hand. I was not in my right mind, and she took advantage of the situation.

I feel incredibly violated and ashamed. I am the victim here, and I ask for your privacy and support as I deal with this."

I read it twice, three times. I couldn't believe the audacity. He wasn' t just denying his role; he was flipping the entire narrative. He painted himself as the victim, and me as the aggressor. And people were buying it. The comments on his post were a sea of support.

"Stay strong, Ryan!"

"We believe you, man."

"That girl is trash. Don' t let her ruin you."

The injustice was so profound it stole my breath. He had planned this. He had recorded me, shared it with his friends, and now he was publicly crucifying me to save his own skin. He was a monster.

I stumbled back to my dorm, my mind a numb haze. All I wanted was to crawl into my bed and disappear. But when I pushed open the door to my room, my two roommates, Ashley and Megan, were there. They were packing my things. My clothes were thrown in a heap on my bed, my art supplies dumped unceremoniously into a cardboard box.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Ashley turned, her arms crossed, her face a mask of disgust. "We' re helping you move out."

"Move out? Why?"

"We don' t want a slut living with us," Megan spat, shoving a box of my books toward the door. "My parents saw that video. They said if you' re not gone by tonight, they' re pulling me out of this dorm. We can' t have someone like you around."

Her words were like a physical blow. "But... you don' t understand. He lied. He recorded it without my consent."

"Oh, please," Ashley sneered. "Everyone saw it. You were practically throwing yourself at him. You' re disgusting. Get your stuff and get out."

She grabbed a stack of my drawings from my desk and threw them on the floor. One of them, a charcoal portrait I' d done of my mother, got a dirty footprint right across the face.

That' s when the door opened again. It was Ryan. He stood there, flanked by two of his lacrosse buddies, looking down at me with an expression of deep disappointment. The entire hallway was full of students, all of them watching. It was a public spectacle.

"Chloe," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. It was dripping with false sorrow. "I can' t believe you' d do this. After I specifically asked for privacy."

He was performing for the crowd, cementing his role as the wronged party.

"You... you liar," I stammered, tears streaming down my face. "You did this! You posted it!"

He shook his head slowly, a pained look on his face. "I don' t know what kind of game you' re playing, but it' s over. Everyone knows the truth now. You should be ashamed of yourself."

He looked at my ruined drawings on the floor, then at my tear-streaked face.

He didn' t look at me with hate. He looked at me with a cold, calculated pity that was a thousand times worse.

It was the final nail in my coffin. In that moment, in front of everyone, he sealed my fate. I was the liar. The slut. The villain of the story he had so expertly crafted.

And as the door to my own room was slammed shut in my face, leaving me in the hallway with my trashed belongings and the judgmental eyes of my peers, I felt a despair so absolute it was like falling into a black, bottomless pit.