Congratulations, Sloane Winters

SLOANE

The email landed in my inbox on a Thursday afternoon, exactly when I was busy pretending my life wasn’t being written by a sadistic comedy writer who hated teenage girls.

I was in the newsroom, halfway through arguing with Ava about whether the winter issue really needed another sidebar on student parking, when my laptop gave a single, innocent ping. Nothing dramatic. No orchestral sting. Just a quiet little notification in the corner of the screen, like it hadn’t just reached into my ribcage and squeezed.

**Dalton University Admissions: Status Update Available**

For a second I forgot how to breathe.

Ava stopped mid-sentence. Ethan looked up from where he was crouched by the printer, pleading with it not to jam the sports proofs. Even Riley froze with her entire arm buried in the staff-meeting snack cabinet.

The room went still. The computer fans seemed louder. The heater clicked. Out in the hall, freshmen laughed like the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

Riley moved first, creeping around my desk like any sudden motion might scare the email away. “Is that what I think it is?”

“No,” I lied.

Ava’s eyebrow arched. “It literally says Dalton University Admissions.”

“Could be spam.”

“Sloane,” Ethan said gently, “it says *status update available*.”

I stared at the screen until the letters swam. For weeks I’d been telling myself it was just an application. One form. One essay. One reckless click. Getting in—if I even got in—would be nothing more than data. A clean, logical, adult option that had zero to do with Chase Hartley’s mouth, his texts, or the way my pulse still betrayed me every time someone said the word *Dalton*.

That lie had been keeping me alive. Now the truth was glowing on my screen.

Ava rested a hand on the back of my chair—careful not to touch my shoulder. She knew one direct hit of sympathy and I’d combust. “Open it.”

“I might throw up.”

“Aim away from the proofs,” she said, perfectly calm.

Riley leaned in. “Privacy?”

I shook my head. “Stay.”

My voice came out thin. Riley gave one sharp nod and planted herself at my right side. Ethan stayed by the printer. Ava remained the steady wall behind me.

I clicked.

The portal took forever—five, maybe six seconds of pure torture. I mistyped my password once. Riley made a strangled noise. Ava whispered, “Breathe,” like she was ready to sue my lungs if they quit.

The page loaded.

A banner slid into place.

Then the words.

**Congratulations, Sloane Winters.**

Everything stopped.

**On behalf of the Dalton University Office of Admissions, we are pleased to offer you admission to the Class of 2027.**

Riley screamed.

It wasn’t a polite squeal. It was a full-throated, newsroom-shattering shriek. Ethan dropped the proofs. Ava muttered something that sounded suspiciously like *Jesus Christ* while smiling so wide it ruined her usual cool.

“You got in!” Riley grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my chair rolled backward. “You absolute legend—you got in!”

“I got in,” I echoed. The words felt borrowed, like they belonged to some braver version of me.

Ethan’s laugh rolled through the room, warm and huge. “Sloane, that’s massive.”

Ava leaned over my shoulder. “Keep scrolling.”

“There’s more?” Riley demanded.

I scrolled.

And my throat sealed shut.

**You have also been selected as a recipient of the Dalton Founders Scholarship… $28,000 per academic year, renewable for four years…**

Twenty-eight thousand dollars. A year. Renewable.

The newsroom went graveyard quiet.

For the first time, *Dalton* didn’t feel like something my father’s NHL money or Victoria’s last name had bought me. It wasn’t a handout or a pity admission or a convenient way to orbit Chase Hartley. They had read my application—my grades, my essay about grief and half-truths and journalism—and they had said yes. With money. With proof.

Riley wrapped both arms around my neck from behind. “I’m so proud of you I might actually cry, and I hate crying.”

Ethan squeezed my shoulder. “You earned every cent.”

Ava tapped the screen with a red grading pen. “Print it. Screenshot it. Email it to yourself. Save the terms in three places. Joy is temporary; documentation is forever.”

I stared at her.

She shrugged. “What? I’m not letting the universe take this back.”

For the next ten minutes the newsroom turned into pure chaos. Riley made Ethan take pictures while I hid my face. Ava pretended to be annoyed but kept adjusting the laptop angle so my student ID stayed out of frame. Nora wandered in from yearbook and started slow-clapping like we’d just won a Pulitzer. Even Mr. Castillo appeared in the doorway, took one look at the celebration, and sighed.

“Someone got into college, or the printer finally died?”

“Both, hopefully,” Ethan said.

“I got into Dalton,” I told him. “Founders Scholarship. Twenty-eight thousand a year.”

Castillo’s eyebrows lifted—the man’s version of fireworks. “Very good.” Then he pointed at the proofs. “Doesn’t change the deadline.”

Ava nodded solemnly. “Joy requires file management.”

Riley pelted her with a granola bar.

By the time the final bell rang, my phone felt radioactive. I texted Dad first, because not texting Dad first was basically treason.

**ME:** I got into Dalton.

*(Image attached: scholarship screenshot)*

His reply was instant.

**DAD:** CALL ME.

I slipped into the empty hallway outside the auditorium and hit call. He picked up on half a ring.

“You got in?”

“I got in.”

“With a scholarship. Twenty-eight thousand a year. Renewable.”

Silence. My dad could narrate a trip to the grocery store like it was the Stanley Cup finals, but when something actually mattered, he went quiet.

“Sloane,” he said finally, voice rough. “Honey, I am so unbelievably proud of you.”

“I know.”

“Dalton was your dream before any of this mess started.”

“I know.”

“You worried about Chase?”

“Kind of.”

“Campus is big. You might not even run into each other. Or maybe you will. Maybe you’ll actually… bond.”

“Dad. Stop saying *bond*. Summer’s over. I still hate him. That will never change.”

He chuckled softly. “Fine. But after all this time, there’s not one single thing you like about the kid?”

I hung up.

I’d expected the joy. I’d braced for the fear. What I hadn’t counted on was the guilt that slid in right behind them—quiet, sticky, and impossible to scrape off. Because the second I read *Congratulations, Sloane Winters*, my brain didn’t stay in the newsroom. It went straight to Chase. To the way the ice rink lights looked on his face. To his hand on the steering wheel at the overlook. To the exact second he told me I was different—right before he ripped me open.

A dream was supposed to feel clean.

Mine already had his fingerprints all over it.

Victoria knew before I even made it through the front door. Dad had clearly declared it breaking news.

“There she is,” she said, beaming. “Our Dalton girl.”

The words landed heavy. *Our*. Sweet, but not entirely mine.

Dad was leaning against the kitchen island, phone still in his hand like he’d been guarding the good news. “Told her already.”

“I gathered.”

Victoria pulled me into a hug before I could dodge it. She smelled like vanilla and that aggressive cinnamon candle she loved. I stiffened out of habit, then let myself relax. She wasn’t trying to replace anything. She was just… happy for me.

“We are so proud,” she murmured, stepping back. “That scholarship, Sloane? That’s yours.”

Dad cleared his throat. “We’re having cake.”

“We bought two,” Victoria corrected, smiling. “Your father had a panic attack in the bakery aisle.”

I looked at them—my ridiculous, oversized, blended family—and felt that good, aching pressure behind my ribs again.

Then my phone buzzed.

**CHASE:** Heard something.

Of course he had. The Hartley gossip network was faster than the school Wi-Fi.

**ME:** Your sources are too fast.

**CHASE:** Good sources matter. Learned that from a terrifying journalist.

I pressed my back to the hallway wall while Dad and Victoria argued over plates in the kitchen.

**ME:** Fuck you.

**CHASE:** Sloane.

**ME:** No, literally. Fuck you.

Three dots. Then a picture.

I clicked.

It was a close-up of his dick—hard, familiar, framed by the gray sweatpants I hated how much I still wanted to pull down.

My stomach flipped. Heat rushed straight between my legs before my brain could catch up.

The dots came back.

**CHASE:** We said no feelings, remember? So why are you mad at me for fucking other girls? If you still want it, you better talk.

I locked the screen and shoved the phone deep into my pocket like it might burn me.

I took one steadying breath, then walked back into the kitchen.

The chocolate cake sat on the counter, “CONGRATS SLOANE” written in wobbly blue icing that looked like Dad had done it himself.

Dad raised a glass of milk. “To the future. Wherever it takes you.”

I smiled. It felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.

I was thrilled.

I was terrified.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure I could trust my own ambition—because part of me already knew exactly who I’d be looking for on that campus, even if I’d rather die than admit it.