CHAPTER 7. MILLY

CHAPTER 7. MILLY

I feel the crushing weight of a choice that could destroy everything I have ever worked for.

I stand there for what feels like eons, rooted to the spot while the world spins violently around me. The sun beats down on the back of my neck, baking the coffee into a sticky, suffocating shell against my skin. I am battling with the strong, overwhelming sensations in my chest—a volatile cocktail of shame, fury, and a terrifying sense of injustice. I grind my teeth so hard my jaw aches, the sound echoing in my own ears like cracking bone. I fold my arms tightly across my chest, digging my fingers into the sodden fabric of my hoodie, trying to hold myself together physically because emotionally, I am shattering.

Riley is looking at me expectantly. She is scrutinizing me with that wide-eyed, worried expression, searching my face for a crack in the armor, waiting for me to say something rational. Waiting for me to agree that I should roll over and play dead.

I don't even know what to say.

I finally exhale, a shaky, ragged breath that smells of stale hazelnut. I am still battling with the emotions deep down inside me, fighting the urge to scream until my throat bleeds. It's not like I’m going to drop it. No, I don't think I can. I physically can’t. Because of those silly, arrogant bastards, the script of my life has been rewritten without my permission.

My life is ruined officially, forever.

The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. I’m never going to be able to tread the compound of this institute without going through hell ever again. I’m already out. I’m exposed. I’m blown to the public.

I turn my head slowly, and the reality of my new existence stares back at me. A group of students is clustered near the vending machines, their attention fixed solely on me. They aren't hiding it. They are glancing at me, pointing with long, accusatory fingers, their faces twisted into castigating looks.

"That's her," I hear a girl whisper, though in the heavy silence, it sounds like a shout.

"She looks disgusting," a guy replies, his lip curling.

Some of them are cheering, laughing at me as if I am a circus clown whose makeup has melted. Others are giving me looks of pure disgust, mouthing names that I can’t bear to repeat in my own head. Trash. Loser. Freak.

I bounce off my cards on Riley, my composure snapping.

"How long?" I ask, my voice trembling with a rage I can barely control. "How long do you think I can continue to bear this, Riley? Look at them! Look at what they’ve done to me!"

Riley looks conflicted. I see the war in her eyes—the desire to defend me clashing with the fear of the consequences. She moves closer, stepping into my personal space to create a shield between me and the staring eyes.

"I know, Milly," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "I understand the situation. Believe me, I do. I know what it looks like, and I know it feels like the world is ending."

She reaches out, placing her hands on my trembling shoulders.

"But doing what is going on in your mind right now?" She shakes her head vigorously. "It's not the right choice to make. Retaliation isn't justice here, Milly; it's suicide. It’s just going to make things worse. You have to listen to me. You have to drop it."

"Drop it?" I choke out the words. "They assaulted me, Riley! They humiliated me!"

I want to respond, to argue, to list every reason why burning the world down is the only logical option, but she doesn't allow me.

She shakes her head desperately, her grip on my shoulders tightening. "No! No arguing! Please, Milly. I am begging you. Promise me. Promise me that you will not bring it up again. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."

I am reluctant. My tongue feels heavy, coated in bitterness. I don't say anything for a long, agonizing minute. I stare at her, then past her at the students laughing near the bike rack. I hate them. I hate all of them.

But looking at Riley’s terrified face, I realize I have no other move right now. I am outgunned and outnumbered.

I finally open my mouth.

"Fine," I lie. "I promise."

I tell her what she wants to hear, though the words taste like ash.

I notice the way she exhales, her shoulders slumping as if a heavy weight has been lifted. Relief washes over her features, making her look younger, less haunted.

"Okay," she breathes. "Okay, good."

She examines me, her eyes scanning the brown stains on my clothes and the matted mess of my hair. She winces sympathetically.

"Change of plans," she announces firmly. "We are not going to class anymore. Everyone will be there. We are going back home. You need to clean yourself up, take a long, hot shower, and just relax. We’ll order stake."

She pauses, biting her lip. "And you should probably skip school for today. Or maybe the rest of the week. You have already gone through a lot, and frankly, I don't think you should be seen until this... stuff... is washed off."

I can't even agree more. The thought of sitting in a lecture hall smelling like a coffee shop floor makes me want to vomit.

"Yes," I whisper. "Just get me out of here."

I just want to get out of here. Because this? This reality? I honestly can't go along with this. I feel like my skin is crawling.

Riley nods, grabbing my sticky hand. "Come on. The car is just past the green."

We turn to leave, desperate to escape the scene of the crime. But the universe, it seems, is not done with me yet.

Just before we turn the corner, we hear it.

Thump-thump-thump.

The stampede of footsteps vibrates through the pavement. It sounds like a herd of buffalo, but it’s something far worse.

We look up to see them.

Lucien and Damien.

They are walking in a phalanx, surrounded by the entire football team and their usual entourage of hangers-on. They move with a terrifying, synchronized swagger, taking up the entire width of the walkway. They are loud—boisterous, arrogant, their voices booming as they joke and shove each other.

The crowd erupts.

It’s instantaneous. The moment the students see the brothers, the atmosphere shifts from mockery to adoration. A lot of people are cheering for them, the popular crowd desperate to be acknowledged. Girls are preening, casting slight signals—hair flips, giggles, sultry looks—at the twins, desperate to catch just a crumb of their attention.

I am standing where I am, frozen.

I am rigid to the ground, my sneakers glued to the asphalt. I am glaring at the group with my fists clenched tight, my nails digging into my palms so hard I’m sure I’m drawing blood.

Riley is standing beside me, sensing the danger immediately. She tugs at my arm.

"Let's go, Milly," she hisses urgently. "Now. Don't look at them."

God knows I do not want to go, honestly. My feet refuse to move. My fight response has overridden my flight response, locking me in place.

"Milly!" Riley whispers, pulling harder. "I said you should just let it go!"

But I remain where I am. I am a statue of vengeance. I am glaring at the brothers, willing them to look at me. I don’t want to hide. I want them to see the hatred burning in my eyes. I want them to know they didn’t break me; they just made me dangerous.

I don’t give up until they finally turn their heads.

It happens almost in slow motion. Accidentally, casually, Damien sweeps his gaze across the parking lot.

Our eyes meet.

He stops mid-laugh. He looks at my stained clothes, my wet hair, and then locks onto my eyes. When he sees the way I am glaring at him—with pure, unadulterated loathing—he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look guilty.

He smirks.

It is a condescending, satisfied smirk. A smirk that says, I won. A smirk that tells me he is happy about the anger and the fury in my eyes because it means he controls my emotions.

I see the moment he elbows his brother.

"Hey, look," he murmurs, gesturing in my direction.

Lucien follows his gaze. He turns, his face blank for a split second before recognition dawns.

The moment Lucien sees me, he turns to look at Damien. They look at each other, sharing a silent, telepathic moment of brotherhood that makes my stomach churn.

Then, they throw their heads backward.

They laugh out loud.

Their laughter rocks through the atmosphere, louder than the cheers, louder than my own heartbeat. It is a deep, rich, villainous sound that echoes off the surrounding buildings.

Damien then raises a hand, pointing a lazy finger at me. He begins to draw everyone's attention toward where I'm standing.

"Behold!" he shouts, his voice booming over the crowd. "The walking stain!"

He gives me that insulting name, branding me with it.

"Look at her!" he taunts. "She’s waiting for a refill!"

That forces everyone in the compound, in the park, everywhere, to laugh out loud. They gaze at me, following his lead like sheep.

The atmosphere turns violent. The laughter isn't enough anymore. They want to participate.

Some begin to throw me castigating stares, but others get physical.

Whiz. Thud.

An empty biscuit wrapper hits my shoulder.

Splash.

A half-empty bottle of orange juice lands near my feet, splashing sticky liquid onto my already ruined jeans.

"Trash!" someone screams.

"Go home, Stain!"

Riley gasps. "It's enough!" she screams at them, though they don't listen.

She drags my hand with a strength I didn't know she possessed. She physically yanks me backward, moving me toward the opposite direction, toward the close-by park where her car is parked under a tree.

I stumble after her, my eyes still locked on the laughing brothers until Riley shoves me toward the passenger side of her sedan.

I don't even know what to say. I don't know what I'm about to tell her. I am mute with rage.

I am rigid, stiff as a statue as I sit in the car. Riley slams the door shut, locking us inside the safety of the metal box. She runs to the driver's side and jumps in, her hands shaking as she fumbles with the keys.

Even with the windows closed, the world outside is hostile.

Thump. Thump.

I hear the thumping of plastic bottles and waste hitting against the window. The muffled sounds of the crowd continuing to make jest of me seep through the glass. They are banging on the trunk, laughing, treating my humiliation like the best show in town.

I sit there, staring straight ahead at the dashboard. I am clenching my fists tightly in my lap, looking down at my fingers.

My thumb begins to move. It scratches rhythmically against a section of skin on my index finger. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

It is a habit I have been battling right from when I was young, a nervous tic that surfaces whenever I am fighting my raging anger, whenever the beast inside wants to claw its way out. I scratch until the skin is raw, grounding myself in the pain.

I look at the brothers through the side mirror one last time. They are high-fiving the football captain, not even looking at the car anymore. I am already forgotten.

But they are not forgotten.

This is far from over, really really far from over.