CHAPTER 4. MILLY

CHAPTER 4. MILLY

Okay, so did I call this a "little scandal" before?

I take it back. I take it all back. I retract that statement, bury it in a hole, and set it on fire.

Hell no. This is not a little scandal. This is not a hiccup in the timeline of my otherwise invisible life. This is a natural disaster. This is a nuclear fallout. This is way bigger than a tiny, itsy-bitsy blip on the radar. This is the end of the world as I know it.

I realized my mistake the moment Riley’s car pulled up to the curb of the Crestwood Institute. Usually, the campus is just a background setting for my life—a place of brick and ivy where I go to learn, write, and exist in peaceful obscurity. But today, the atmosphere has shifted. The air feels heavy, charged with a static electricity that prickles against my skin before I even open the car door.

"You ready?" Riley asks, her hand resting on the door handle. She looks at me with that same worried expression she’s worn since morning.

"No," I whisper. "But let's get it over with."

I step out, and the reaction is instantaneous.

I can barely make it five feet toward the campus building without feeling the weight of it. It starts as a ripple—a few heads turning, a few whispers behind cupped hands. Then, it spreads like a contagion. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Laughter dies out. Eyes—hundreds of pairs of them—lock onto me.

I notice the sharp, scrutinizing gazes first. They aren't curious looks; they are predatory. They rake over me from my messy bun down to my scuffed sneakers, dissecting me, judging me, stripping me bare. It feels like walking through a den of vipers.

Then come the remarks.

"That's her," someone hisses to my left.

" The stage diver," a guy laughs, pointing openly.

"She looks even worse in person. How did she think she could touch a Devereaux?"

The gossip surrounds me, a buzzing hive of malice. I try to ignore them. I try to fix my gaze on the double doors of the main building, pretending that I am deaf, blind, and numb. But their words are sharp as daggers, slicing through my feeble defenses. They find the chinks in my armor and sink in deep.

It hurts.

God, it hurts so much more than I expected. I thought I could be stoic. I thought I could be the cool, unbothered girl who rises above the hate. But I am not that girl. I am Milly. I feel everything, and right now, I feel like I am being flayed alive by the collective judgment of my peers.

I almost turn around. My temper, that volatile beast living in my chest, rears its head. I want to snap at the girl with the pink backpack snickering at me. I want to scream at the guy filming me with his phone. I want to ask them what gives them the right to judge a moment they didn't understand.

I open my mouth to retort, but a hand clamps down on my forearm.

"Don't," Riley whispers urgently, leaning close to my ear. "Just keep walking, Milly. Don't give them the satisfaction."

She is anchoring me, her grip tight and bruising. She knows me too well. She knows that my fight-or-flight response is currently jammed on "fight," and she knows how quickly I can lose myself to the rage. She is literally holding me together, physically preventing me from exploding and making everything ten times worse.

We push through the main doors, escaping the morning sun but stepping into a different kind of heat. The hallway is packed. The noise of shuffling feet is deafening, but once again, my presence acts as a mute button.

And then I see her.

Of course. It had to be her. It’s like the universe is writing a bad script and hitting me with every cliché in the book.

Madison.

She is standing by the trophy case, surrounded by her cheerleading squad. They look like a phalanx of perfect, glossy soldiers in their matching uniforms. Madison is leaning against the glass, twirling a lock of hair, laughing at something one of her minions said.

She looks pristine. She looks happy. She looks like she didn't single-handedly destroy my reputation less than twenty-four hours ago.

My anger climbs. It’s not a slow burn; it’s a rocket launch. It surges up my throat, tasting like bile.

It was all their fault.

The injustice of it chokes me. She pushed me. She started it. She is the villain in this story, yet she is standing there being worshipped while I am being treated like a leper.

I stop walking. Riley tugs at me, but I plant my feet.

"I’m going to kill her," I mutter, my voice low and dangerous.

"Milly, no," Riley hisses.

"Look at her, Riley! She’s laughing! She thinks it’s funny!"

I want to make my way over to her. I want to grab her by that high ponytail and show her a piece of my mind. I want to scream the truth until the glass of the trophy case shatters. I take a step toward her, my fists clenching at my sides.

Riley steps in front of me, blocking my view. She grabs both my shoulders, her eyes wide and pleading.

"It is of no use, Milly! Look around you!" she whispers harshly. "Everyone is watching. If you go over there and start a fight, you prove them right. You become the 'crazy girl' they already think you are. Please. Just let it go."

"I can't just let it go!" I argue, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"You have to. For your own sake. We just need to get to class. Please."

Goodness me, I am enraged. I am vibrating with it. I wish she would let me go. I wish I could unleash the hurricane inside me. But looking at Riley’s terrified face, I know she’s right. If I attack Madison now, I’m the aggressor. I’m the psycho. Madison wins again.

I have to swallow my temper. It tastes like ash and bitterness. I nod stiffly, unable to speak.

"Okay," I rasp. "Okay."

We continue walking. We have to pass them. There is no other way to the lecture halls.

As we walk past the cheerleaders, Madison spots me. Her eyes light up with malicious delight. She doesn't say anything to me directly—she’s too smart for that. Instead, she turns to her friend and speaks just loud enough for me to hear.

" careful, guys. Don't stand too close to the edge. You wouldn't want to trip and fall on top of a celebrity."

Her squad erupts into giggles.

"Trash," someone coughs as I pass.

"Desperate," another voice whispers.

I keep my head down, staring at the linoleum tiles, counting the specks of dirt. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe.

Riley drags me forward, her pace increasing. We are almost there. We just need to round the corner at the end of the hallway, and we can escape this torment. We can duck into a classroom and hide until the professor arrives.

"Almost there," Riley mutters, pulling me along.

We turn the corner sharply, desperate to break the line of sight with Madison.

BAM.

We collide into two massive forms.

It’s like hitting a brick wall. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I stumble back, Riley gripping my arm to keep us both upright.

"Watch where you're—" I start to snap, my nerves already frayed to the breaking point.

Then I look up. And up.

The blood drains from my face.

Sure enough, it’s them. Because of course it is. Goodness, can my day get any better? Can the universe possibly find another way to kick me while I’m down?

Lucien and Damien Devereaux.

They stand side by side, blocking the entire width of the corridor like mythic gatekeepers of hell. They look even bigger up close than they did on stage. They are dressed in expensive, casual streetwear that probably costs more than my car, and they both hold large, steaming paper cups of coffee in their hands.

Time seems to freeze. The hallway noise drops away, replaced by a sudden, suffocating silence as the students nearby realize what is happening.

Their faces are not neutral. They are not indifferent. They are filled with intense hatred and fury as their eyes lock on us.

Lucien’s gaze is particularly terrifying. His dark eyes are cold, hard, and promising violence. He looks at me like I am something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Damien stands beside him, his jaw clenched, radiating a silent, brooding menace.

"Well, well," Damien says, his voice deep and mocking. "Look what the cat dragged in."

The silence breaks.

A crowd of students begins to form a circle around us. They press in from all sides, cutting off our escape route back the way we came. The phones come out again, dozens of black rectangles raised in the air to capture the sequel to last night's drama.

Someone from the back shouts, "Get her, Lucien!"

"Revenge!" another voice screams.

It starts a chant. Low at first, then growing louder, fueled by mob mentality. Make her pay. Make her pay.

I feel so trapped. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. I look around frantically, clutching Riley’s hand. To the left, there is a wall. To the right, a wall of students. Behind us, the crowd. In front of us, the brothers.

There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to escape. They have completely trapped us in a cage of their own making.

"Milly," Riley whispers, her voice trembling. She steps back, pulling me with her, but we bump into the students behind us. They shove us back forward.

I swallow hard, my throat dry as dust. I try to avoid Lucien's piercing gaze, focusing on the logo on his sweatshirt, but it’s impossible. His presence demands attention.

He takes a step closer.

The crowd hushes, eager for the show.

He takes another step. He is towering over me now, invading my personal space. I can smell him—a mix of expensive cologne, cigarettes, and the rich, dark aroma of the coffee in his hand.

My heart pounds so hard I feel lightheaded. He is only inches away from me. I have to crane my neck to look at him.

He leans down, his face dangerously close to mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his furious eyes. I can feel the heat radiating off him.

"You have a lot of nerve showing your face here," he whispers. His voice is soft, intimate, and terrifying.

I open my mouth to speak, to defend myself, to say something, but the words won't come.

"Your very presence irritates me," he spits the words out. "You are a stain on this campus."

I flinch, tears pricking my eyes. The cruelty is breathtaking.

I sigh and exhale desperate to keep the pressure off my chest.

"Look, I just..."

But then, I am not allowed to continue speaking as he does the unexpected.

He doesn't hit me. He doesn't yell. He simply lifts his hand.

I watch in slow motion as he tilts the large cup.

"Oops," he says, his face void of emotion.

He empties the entire cup of coffee onto my head.

The shock is immediate. The liquid is hot—not scalding enough to burn my skin off, but hot enough to shock my system. It cascades down my hair, soaking into my scalp instantly. It runs down my forehead, blinding me, dripping off my eyelashes and nose. It soaks into my hoodie, turning the fabric heavy and sticky. The smell of roasted beans and sugar overwhelms my senses, suffocating me.

I gasp, sputtering as the brown liquid drips into my mouth.

For a second, there is absolute silence.

Then, the crowd erupts.

They cheer. They laugh. They whistle and clap as if he has just performed a magic trick.

I stand there, dripping, humiliated, destroyed. I wipe the coffee from my eyes to see Lucien smiling—a cold, cruel, satisfied smile.

"Much better," he says. "Now you look like the trash you are."