Chapter 4

Ally Gomez POV:

I sat in the crowded university cafeteria, a plate of congealed pasta in front of me that I couldn't bring myself to eat. The food tasted like ash in my mouth. My world had been reduced to a series of mechanical actions: walk, sit, breathe. Anything to keep from completely shattering.

The first thing I did after fleeing Branson was go straight to the registrar' s office.

\"I need to withdraw from the university,\" I told the kind-faced, middle-aged woman behind the counter.

She looked up, her glasses perched on her nose. \"Gomez... Ally Gomez. Oh, dear.\" Her eyes were full of pity. She knew who I was. Everyone did. \"Are you sure, honey? With your record... perhaps you could take a semester off?\"

\"I'm sure,\" I said, my voice flat. \"The scandal... and now an academic misconduct charge. There' s no point in staying.\"

Her face fell. \"Oh, Ally. I am so sorry.\" She sighed and began pulling up the necessary forms. \"It will take a few days for the dean to sign off on everything. Until then, you' re technically still a student. You' ll need to attend your classes.\"

I nodded numbly, took the forms, and walked away.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I sat through lectures on microeconomic theory and Renaissance art, the professors' voices a meaningless drone. I was a ghost haunting the halls of my former life.

As my last class ended, a commotion erupted in the main quad. Students were running, their faces alight with the morbid excitement that always accompanies a spectacle. I heard snippets of conversation carried on the wind.

\"...can't believe it's Branson Ayers!\"

\"...fighting over Kennedy Kaufman, of course...\"

\"...some guy from the football team said something about her...\"

My feet stopped moving. My heart, which I thought had been beaten into numb submission, gave a painful throb. Branson was in a fight? For Kennedy?

Like a moth drawn to a flame that had already burned it, I followed the crowd.

In the center of a large circle of students stood Branson. Or rather, a version of him I had never seen before. His usually immaculate suit jacket was gone, his tie was askew, and his face was contorted in a mask of cold fury. He had a football player pinned against the ancient oak tree in the center of the quad, his fist drawn back.

The other students were buzzing.

\"I heard that jock called Kennedy a gold-digger who got Ally kicked out on purpose.\"

\"Serves her right. But wow, I've never seen Ayers lose his cool like this. He' s always so... controlled.\"

\"Guess he really loves Kennedy. Poor Ally Gomez. He probably dumped her the second that video came out.\"

Each word was a fresh grain of salt rubbed into my gaping wounds. I knew it was all a lie, a performance for Kennedy' s benefit, but it still hurt. It hurt to see the passion he was capable of, a passion he had never once shown for me-not the real him, anyway.

Just then, Kennedy herself burst through the crowd, her face streaked with tears. \"Branson, stop! Please, don't do this!\" she cried, throwing her arms around his waist from behind.

The effect was instantaneous. Branson froze. The rage drained from his face, replaced by an expression of fierce, protective tenderness. He let go of the football player, who scrambled away, and turned to cup Kennedy' s face in his hands.

\"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?\" he murmured, his voice low and urgent, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears.

I had never seen him look at anyone like that. So raw. So unguarded. So full of love. He had never looked at me that way. He had looked through me. He had let his brother touch me, hold me, possess me in the dark because he couldn't be bothered to do it himself. Because he was saving this-this raw, unfiltered devotion-for her.

Any lingering, stupid, pathetic shred of hope I might have been harboring died in that moment. It was a final, brutal execution.

Our eyes met across the crowd. He saw me. His expression faltered for a second, a flicker of something complex-annoyance? guilt?-crossing his face. His lips parted as if he was about to say something.

I didn't give him the chance. I turned my back on him, on them, on the whole sordid spectacle, and walked away without a backward glance.

He didn't follow. I knew he wouldn't.

Later that evening, he sent Hanson.

I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when the key turned in the lock. Hanson sauntered in, still playing his part to perfection.

\"Hey,\" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. \"I heard you had a rough day.\"

I just turned my back to him, pulling the covers up to my chin. \"I'm tired.\"

\"I know,\" he said, his voice a smooth, practiced balm. He lay down behind me, his arm wrapping around my waist. \"Don' t listen to what people are saying. And don' t be mad about the fight. Branson was just defending Kennedy' s honor. You know how he is with her. It doesn' t mean anything.\"

Oh, the irony. He was comforting me about his brother' s devotion to the woman they were both obsessed with. The audacity of it was breathtaking. It was a perfectly choreographed dance of deceit, and I was the unwilling partner.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep, letting his meaningless words wash over me. I didn't have the energy to fight, to scream, to expose the lie. I just wanted it to be over.

He must have taken my silence as acquiescence, because his hand started to roam, his lips pressing against my shoulder.