CHAPTER THREE- The rage

                                    |Ever|

Oh. My. God!

My lungs freeze. The air in my room turns cold.

I reread the headline, and my gaze lingers on four words.

"Billionaire. Singer. Thomas. Knights."

The name howls inside my skull. The man from last night. The Rolex. The tuxedo—

A scream escapes my lips, and my phone slips from my numb fingers, thudding against the carpet.

I'm fucking screwed.

"Sweetie, is everything okay?"

My father yells from below the stairs.

"Yes," my voice comes out too high. I clear my throat. "Uh- A bug. It just... flew right on my face."

A beat of silence passes. I hold my breath.

"Aw, you're such a baby. When you're done, come down for breakfast, okay? I made delicious waffles."

"Okay, Dad," I call back, my voice straining at the edges.

I can't let him know. My hands clamp over my mouth, stifling the scream that wants to tear out of me again. It'd kill him.

He'll worry about me, and I don't want that for his health.

With trembling hands, I snatch my phone from the floor. The screen glows, accusingly.

What have I fucking done? What have you fucking done, Ever? These are some of the most powerful people!

As expected, my face is everywhere. My picture is plastered across every blog and news feed.

And there's a post from Thomas himself, just below an album cover: 'Falsely accused and physically assaulted.'

I scoff. The nerve of the fucking jerk.

A message from Beverly pops up on my notification bar—a video. I press play. And there it is. The crack of my palm against his cheek was loud and clear through the speakers.

From this angle, I look so... unhinged.

I scroll, desperately looking for a clip, any clip, that shows his hands on me first. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just countless videos of the slap.

My breath hitches. The cold, metallic taste of fear fills my mouth. I could fucking get sued for this!

I back away from the bed, shaking.

What do I do?

My phone buzzes again like a relentless, angry bee on the floor. And like a zombie, I pick it up. Notifications flood in.

A meme pops up. An old picture of me at my high school party, photoshopped, mocked, and trending.

It's working. But underneath the shame, a tiny, stubborn spark of anger flickers to life.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and enter the comments. Lewd comments about my body are getting massive likes.

"@richboyTexas: Can't even blame Thomas. Look at those juicy boobs."

"@Trey44: Her lips are perfect, like she's ready for anything. If I were Thomas, I'd want to hit that too."

"@J'avonSleek: Bet she wanted it, haha."

My body crawls—nausea pools below my stomach, hot and sour.  I swallow hard, my fingers gliding over the screen until I see it.

"@GenieJenny: Wait, someone said the girl's from Arden University? 😭"

A knot twists in my insides.

"@ArdenUniversity, you might want to review your scholarship policies. This isn't the kind of publicity an 'academic institution' needs. #DoBetter"

What the fuck? Are these people serious? He assaulted me, and they are coming for my scholarship?

Then my phone rings, and I freeze—my ex, Jeremy. I put the phone to my ear. "Hello, Jer—"

"Wow, Ever. Attention-seeking much?" His voice drips with a sneer. "Just because I dumped you doesn't mean you could throw yourself around at the people at the fucking top of the food chain."

My eyes widen. I can't believe my ears. "Listen, Jer—"

"What were you expecting? To be fucked, cheered, and accepted? You even had to cry wolf. Pathetic!"

My phone goes silent and clatters on the floor.

For a second, I feel nothing. A void. Then it all hits at once — rage, shame, heartbreak — a tsunami crushing the air from my lungs.

Of course, he thinks I deserve it.

I close my eyes, clenching my fist, and taking deep breaths.

A moment passes as I sit with my thoughts. Then, a brick flies through my window, shattering the glass.

The sound is explosive—a thousand shards of glass rain across my floor.

I duck behind the bed, my pulse a frantic drum in my ears.

There in the middle of the glittering wreckage lies a brick—a note taped to it.

Could things not get any worse?

My heart hammers against my ribs. I crawl over, ignoring the glass biting into my palms, and rip the note off.

"Watch your back, slut! We know where you live now!"

Fear, so cold, injects itself directly into my veins. I can almost smell the hate and rage on paper.

I slump against the wall, hugging my knees. Small sobs rip from my throat, and I slam my hands over my mouth to trap them.

"You sure you're okay, pumpkin? I heard glass breaking, and you've been cooped up in your room all morning."

I swipe angrily at my tears. "I'm fine, Dad." I force a lightness into my voice that I don't feel. "Just... cleaning. My mirror broke."

"Oh, my God! Are you hurt? Do you need help?"

"No, no. Don't worry, I'm fine. I'll be out in a few minutes. I love you!" I echo back.

"Love you, too. Pumpkin!"

His voice is warm. Worried. He would die if he knew. And for what? Because I dared to slap the man who grabbed my ass?

Everybody is against me. Jeremy—calls me attention-seeking. The comments named me a slut. And now, a threat through my fucking window?

I press my palms on my face. It's wet and sticky. I crawl to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I look ridiculous—puffy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks. But my jaw is set. I look wounded, but I'm not weak.

A fire flares in my chest, burning away the fear. They will not get to decide my story. Not in this life!

I reach for my phone, open a new post, and start typing.

Type: I'm so sorry—  Delete.

Type: I didn't do anything—  Delete.

Type: You all only saw one angle— Delete.

I stop. And breathe. Then my fingers fly, steady and sure for the first time all morning.

"I was slapped, grabbed, and made to feel small by a man at a party. I was humiliated!

Then, I stood up for myself. I did not plan this. I did not "seek attention." Do y'all think I pray to be groped every day?

If your first instinct is to shame a woman who fought back, ask yourself why. You all saw only what they wanted you to see and ran with it!

I am a scholarship student. I work, I study, and try to be an upstanding citizen of America, and I will not be silenced because I do not have your money.

Stop attacking victims to protect men you love. Learn the difference between justice and privilege!"

My thumb hovers on the 'post' button. For a second, the fear returns, a cold whisper telling me to press delete.

My finger twinges. No, they have to hear my version!

I press post.

Beats of silence pass.

Then a buzz: "shared." 

Another: "Liked."

Then another: "Commented."

I exhale a breath I don't know I'm holding. Let them come for me. I'm done hiding.