Chapter 3

The next morning, Carter made good on last night's aggressive text before the first-period bell even rang.

SLAM.

A wilted bouquet of red roses smacked against my locker door, blocking my hand mid-reach.

"Prom. Saturday night. With me." His palm pressed flat against the metal, trapping me in his shadow.

This wasn't an invitation—it was a command he expected absolute obedience to follow.

His football buddies immediately erupted in wolf whistles, enjoying the show.

"Dude, you're seriously taking her?" one of them called out. "Aren't you worried she'll stutter through every word and embarrass the hell out of you?"

Carter turned and flashed them a cocky grin. "She can't get enough of me."

I stared at his face—puffed up with ego—and felt a cold wave of nausea rise in my stomach.

Last night I'd been plotting how to ruin him at prom. I hadn't expected the idiot to hand me the opportunity on a silver platter.

I didn't reach for the flowers. Instead, I stepped back and let them fall. They hit the floor with a sad thud.

"I never said I'd go."

I met his gaze head-on. My voice was calm, my words clear—no trace of the stutter or fear he'd been banking on.

Carter's smirk froze. The whistles around us died instantly.

"What did you just say?"

His public rejection hit him like a slap. His eyes turned cold, calculating.

He closed the distance between us, lowering his voice to a threatening hiss. "Cut the hard-to-get act, Eve. It's getting old. You think anyone else is gonna ask a bookworm like you? Wake up."

I didn't waste another second looking at him.

No explanation. No hesitation. I lifted my foot and stepped directly onto the bouquet, crushing the petals beneath my shoe as I walked past him.

Today, I had an Ivy League interview that could change my life. I wasn't about to waste one more second on this waste of space.

But when I pushed open the door to the guidance counselor's office at the end of the hall, I stopped short.

Carter had somehow beat me there—probably took a shortcut. Now he stood leaning over the counselor's desk like he owned the place, hands planted wide, declaring his authority.

"Mr. Smith, Eve doesn't need this interview." His tone left no room for argument. "We've already decided—we're going to State together. This whole thing is a waste of time."

He was trying to decide my future for me. Trying to cut off every path that led upward.

The counselor looked at me, clearly uncomfortable.

"Since when do you get to decide what she needs?"

A sharp, ice-cold voice cut through the room from the corner.

I turned.

Leon. The transfer student who'd joined the varsity hockey team two weeks ago.

He sat sprawled on the office sofa in a plain black hoodie, long legs crossed, flipping through a thick paperback. His expression was glacial as he looked at Carter—like he was watching a clown perform a bad routine.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Carter bristled like a cornered animal.

Leon closed his book and stood.

He had half a head of height on Carter, and the sheer coldness radiating from him made Carter's so-called muscle mass look pathetic by comparison.

"I'm assisting today's interviewer," Leon said flatly, each word sharp as a blade. "And you—a quarterback who's failing calculus—don't get to tell anyone what to do. Get out."

Carter's face flushed crimson. His fists clenched tight, but under Leon's lethal, unblinking stare, he didn't dare move forward.

"You're gonna regret this, Eve!" Carter shot me one last venomous glare before storming out, slamming the door behind him with his tail between his legs.

The office fell silent.

Leon turned to me. No pity. No condescension. Just quiet, steady respect.

"Ready?"

I took a deep breath and nodded.

Without Carter's suffocating presence, the interview went better than I ever could have hoped. My stutter didn't surface once. I showed them exactly who I really was.

A few days later, on an ordinary evening, I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor when an email popped up from the Columbia University Admissions Office.

Subject line: [Columbia University Early Likely Letter].

My fingertips trembled as I clicked it open.

[Congratulations! Following an enthusiastic recommendation from your alumni interviewer, the admissions committee has decided to extend this early likely letter to you... We can't wait to welcome you this fall.]

Blue confetti exploded across my screen.

I pressed my hand over my mouth as tears spilled onto my keyboard without warning.

These weren't tears of pain. These weren't years of humiliation finally breaking me.

This was the fierce, sweet taste of breaking free.

I did it. I actually did it.

Then came the knock at the door.

My host mother stuck her head in, holding out a cheap cardboard box. "Eve, this is from Carter."

I opened it. Inside was a tacky, hot-pink bodycon dress that looked like it belonged in a clearance bin. Carter's text followed immediately:

[I know you were being dramatic in the hallway, but enough's enough. Wear this to prom. Don't embarrass me. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8. Don't be late.]

I stared at the words—reeking of arrogance—and felt a cold clarity settle over me.

His pathetic ego wouldn't let him accept reality. He still believed one snap of his fingers would have me crawling back, dressed in whatever he chose, ready to play the obedient puppet again.

I picked up the dress and dropped it straight into the trash.

Then I turned to my closet and pulled out the black starlit gown I'd bought with money I earned myself—every shift, every paycheck saved for this moment.

My eyes drifted to the printed acceptance letter sitting on my desk, stamped with Columbia's red seal.

I folded it carefully and tucked it into the sleek black clutch I'd be carrying tomorrow night.

Carter's final message still glowed on my screen, smug and certain.

If I just didn't show up, that would let him off too easy.

No.

You want to destroy someone like Carter? Let him think he's won. Let him build himself up as high as he can go—then pull the rug out from under him while everyone's watching.

Since he was so desperate for his puppet to make an appearance, I'd give him exactly what he wanted.

I picked up my phone. My fingers didn't shake.

I typed out my first reply in days:

[Fine. See you tomorrow.]