CHAPTER 6. MILLY

CHAPTER 6. MILLY

My mind is a massive blur of rage.

It is a blinding, white-hot static that drowns out the world, obliterating logic, reason, and fear. I am not walking; I am storming. My sneakers squeak against the concrete, a wet, squelching rhythm that serves as a constant, humiliating reminder of the brown sludge coating my hair and clothes.

"Milly! Milly, please! Wait!"

I can barely register Riley's footsteps pounding on the pavement behind me. Her voice is breathless, desperate, calling out my name like she is trying to talk down a jumper from a ledge. But I am not on a ledge. I am in a war zone.

The battle line has been drawn. It was etched into the floor of the hallway the moment that dark, sugary liquid splashed against my face. There is no way in hell I am going to let this slide. There is no turning back, no "forgive and forget," no taking the high road. The high road is washed out. The bridge is burned.

I move through the campus grounds like a hurricane, my vision tunneled on the exit gate. But even in my blind fury, I cannot escape them.

The students. The witnesses. The jury.

They are everywhere. They sit on the benches under the shade of the acacia trees. They cluster near the vending machines. They loiter on the manicured lawns. And every single one of them is looking at me.

The cutting remarks and disgusting stares surround me, a suffocating cloud of judgment.

"That's her," a girl whispers loudly as I pass, not even bothering to lower her voice. "Last night's nemesis."

"The dream crusher."

"She smells like a Starbucks dumpster," a guy snickers, high-fiving his friend.

"Look at her hair. It’s crusted. Gross."

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I stare straight ahead, fixing my gaze on a point in the distance, refusing to acknowledge them. But their words are like tiny, invisible needles, pricking at my skin, finding the soft spots in my armor.

This is so not what I planned for my existence in this school.

I had a strategy. It was simple, elegant, and effective. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be a ghost in the machine of Crestwood Institute. I wanted to attend my lectures, sit in the back row, take my notes, and then retreat to the sanctuary of my room to write my novels. I wanted to be a phantom that drifted through the halls, unnoticed and neglected.

Neglect is safe. Neglect means peace.

But because of those stupid, arrogant, god-complex-having rascals calling themselves the Devereaux Brothers, that plan has been incinerated.

I am now in the spotlight. I am center stage. And not in a good way. Not for my writing, not for my grades, not for anything that actually matters. I am famous for being the target. I am famous for being the victim.

I am enraged. The anger is a physical thing, a bubbling cauldron of acid in my gut.

I want to go somewhere where there is nobody. No eyes. No whispers. No phones recording my misery. I don't care anymore about the morning lecture. I don't care about attendance or grades or my future degree.

I need a release. I need to scream until my throat bleeds. I need to recover from the turmoil I just experienced moments ago, or I am going to explode and take this entire campus down with me.

I round a corner near the cafeteria, my pace frantic.

BAM.

The impact comes from nowhere.

A shoulder, hard and deliberate, slams into my chest. It isn't an accident. It isn't a clumsy brush-past. It is a check, executed with malicious precision.

"Watch it, you selfish bitch!"

The voice is shrill, feminine, and dripping with venom.

My feet, already slippery inside my wet sneakers, lose their purchase on the pavement. I flail, arms windmilling uselessly, but gravity wins again.

I stumble backward, my balance shattered, and I land clean on the ground. My butt hits the concrete with a bone-jarring thud that sends a shockwave up my spine.

"Ooh!" the crowd choruses, a collective sound of mock sympathy.

Then comes the laughter.

It erupts around me, surrounding me like a cage. Jeers and cackles rain down on me. I look up through the strands of my sticky, coffee-matted hair to see a girl standing over me. I don't know her name. I’ve never spoken to her in my life. She has a triumphant smirk on her face, looking down at me like I am something she just scraped off her shoe.

"Stay down where you belong," she sneers, before turning and strutting away, her friends giggling in her wake.

I sit there for a second, the heat of the pavement seeping through my jeans. My palms are scraped, stinging where they hit the ground.

I ignore them. I ignore the pain. I ignore the laughter.

I scramble to my feet, dusting off my hands with trembling fury. I don't look at anyone. I just start walking again. Faster this time.

"Milly!"

Riley finally catches up with me. She is panting, her chest heaving, sweat beading on her forehead. She reaches out and grabs my hand, her grip tight and frantic.

"Milly, stop! Just stop!"

I shove her grip away violently.

"Don't touch me!" I snap, the words tearing out of my throat.

I am so bitter. The taste of betrayal and humiliation is thick on my tongue. I can't care less that she is my friend right now. I can't care less that she is trying to help. In this moment, everyone is the enemy. Even her.

"Milly, please," she pleads, running to keep pace with me, skipping in front to try and block my path. "You need to calm down. You're not thinking straight!"

"Calm down?" I let out a harsh, manic laugh that sounds terrifying even to my own ears. "Calm down? Are you insane?"

"Honestly, Milly, look at you!"

"I am far too gone to think of calming down!" I scream, not caring who hears me. "After what I just went through? After what they did to me? You want me to breathe and count to ten? Go to hell, Riley!"

She doesn't back down. She puts on a burst of speed and overtakes me, planting herself firmly in the middle of the pathway. She spreads her arms wide, creating a human barricade.

"Stop!" she shouts, her voice cracking with exasperation. "Just stop walking for one damn second!"

I skid to a halt, my chest heaving, my fists clenched at my sides. I glare at her, breathing hard, the smell of drying coffee wafting off me in waves.

Riley looks at me, and I see genuine fear in her eyes. Not fear for herself, but fear of me.

"I don't like the look on your face, Milly," she whispers, lowering her arms slowly. "You look... scary. You look like you are about to start a war."

"I'm not starting anything," I spit, stepping closer to her, invading her space. "Lucien and Damien have already started it. They fired the first shot. They humiliated me. They assaulted me. They want a war? Fine. I’ll give them a scorched earth."

Riley shakes her head frantically, her ponytail whipping back and forth. She reaches out to touch my shoulder but pulls back when she sees the wild look in my eyes.

"I know," she says, her voice trembling. "I saw what they did. It was awful. It was cruel. And I know you are furious. You have every right to be furious. But Milly... you are treading on dangerous ground."

"I don't care," I say, trying to push past her.

She steps in my way again. "You have to care! Please, Milly, just quit it. Drop the revenge fantasy. Creating a long-lasting enmity with the Devereaux brothers is the last thing you need in your life. It is literally the worst decision you could ever make."

"Why?" I demand, throwing my hands up. "Because they're pretty? Because they play guitar? Because everyone wants to sleep with them?"

"No!" Riley shouts back. "Because it's a terrible mistake! It’s not just about popularity, Milly!"

She takes a deep breath, looking around to make sure no one is within earshot, then leans in close, her eyes wide and urgent.

"They are campus royalty," she hisses, emphasizing every word. "Do you understand what that means? It’s not a metaphor. Their dad literally funds half of this school. The library? The new tech wing? The stadium? That’s Devereaux money."

I freeze. The information hits me, but my rage acts as a shield, deflecting the logic.

"So what?" I sneer. "Rich daddy saves the day?"

"Yes!" Riley grabs my shoulders now, shaking me slightly. "Yes, rich daddy saves the day! The administration eats out of their hands. The professors are terrified of offending them. If you go to war with them, you aren't just fighting two bullies. You are fighting the institution."

She stares deep into my eyes, pleading with me to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Making endless enemies of them is social suicide," she continues, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "They can have you expelled. They can have you blacklisted. They can make sure you never have a moment of peace in this school again. Look at what happened today! That was just a warning. That was them playing nice."

I want to argue. I want to scream that justice shouldn't depend on a bank account. I want to tell her that I would rather die fighting than live on my knees. I open my mouth to retort, to tell her she’s a coward.

"But—"

"No!" She shuts me up instantly, placing a hand over my mouth. "No buts! Just listen to me!"

She removes her hand, her expression stern and desperate.

"Please," she begs, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Drop it immediately. Swallow your pride. Go home, wash your hair, and come back tomorrow with your head down. Do not retaliate. Do not do anything stupid."

She steps back, leaving me standing there on the pathway, the sun beating down on my sticky skin.

"Please, Milly," she whispers one last time.

I am left looking at her, my chest heaving, battling with the heavy emotions lurking in my chest. The rage is still there, hot and demanding, screaming for blood. But beneath it, the cold seed of Riley's warning has been planted.

I look at her terrified face. I feel the coffee crusting on my forehead. I feel the sting of my scraped palms. And I feel the crushing weight of a choice that could destroy everything I have ever worked for.