Chapter 3

The five-hour flight gave me way too much time to think. I kept trying to convince myself it was probably just some stupid guy thing that had nothing to do with me.

But my gut knew better.

Stanford looked gorgeous in the golden hour light, but I was too wound up to care. I went straight to Ryan's dorm, my hands clammy with nerves. In the elevator, I practiced my surprised-girlfriend face instead of my what-the-hell-is-going-on face.

When I knocked, I heard scrambling inside and something hitting the floor.

"Just a sec!" Ryan sounded panicked.

The door opened, and Ryan's face went through about three different expressions before settling on fake-happy.

"Emma! What are you—how did you—" He shoved his phone behind his back like a guilty kid. "What are you doing here?"

I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek, forcing myself to smile. "Surprise! I missed you too much to wait until next weekend."

"You should've texted me first..." Ryan kept glancing around like he was expecting campus security to show up.

That was weird. Usually Ryan would've already pulled me inside and started making out with me against the door.

"What, you're not happy to see me?" I gave him my best pouty face and grabbed his arm. "Please tell me there's not some other girl in there."

"No! God, no," Ryan said way too quickly. "I'm just surprised, that's all. Come in."

His dorm room looked normal enough, except his laptop was open with some kind of chat window that he slammed shut the second I walked in.

We spent the next few hours playing normal couple. Grabbed dinner, talked about classes, the usual stuff. But Ryan was jumpy as hell, checking his phone every two seconds and practically jumping out of his skin whenever it buzzed.

"I'm gonna grab a quick shower," Ryan finally put his phone down. "Make yourself comfortable."

The bathroom door closed, and immediately his phone started going off. Not calls—texts. A bunch of them, one right after another.

I stared at that phone sitting on his nightstand. Those could be completely innocent messages from his study group or whatever. But after what I'd heard Dylan say, I couldn't just ignore this chance.

The shower was running, and Ryan was doing his usual off-key singing routine. He'd be in there for at least ten minutes.

My hands were shaking as I picked up his phone. The screen showed "Sigma Chi Bros" with three new messages.

The first one was from someone called Jake: "Dylan update? Clock's ticking."

My stomach dropped.

I opened the chat and scrolled up. At first it was just normal frat boy stuff—party plans, complaining about professors. But then I got to messages from about a month ago, and my entire world shifted.

Ryan had written: "She's cold as ice, boring as hell. Dylan can have her if he wants her.😑"

I almost dropped the phone. She. He was talking about me. Ryan was talking about me to his frat brothers.

I kept reading, even though each message made me feel sicker.

Jake: "500 bucks says the Mexican chick won't put out."

Some guy named Marcus: "Easy money. Though Dylan's pretty smooth, might actually pull it off.😂😂😂"

Ryan: "You guys haven't met her. Trust me, not happening. Easiest 500 I'll ever make."

I couldn't breathe.

Dylan: "Give me a month. I'll have her wrapped around my finger."

Ryan: "You're on. But when you strike out, you're buying my spring break trip to Cabo."

I wanted to throw up.

This was the "deal." I wasn't Ryan's girlfriend—I was their bet. Dylan hadn't offered me a place to stay out of kindness. He was trying to win money off my body.

I needed more than just what I could see right now. I needed to know what they were planning next.

I grabbed my own phone and quickly made a fake Instagram account. Found some random guy's photo, called myself "Mike Chen," said I was a Stanford sophomore. With so many people in their group, one more random guy wouldn't stand out.

I found the group chat link on Ryan's phone and sent a join request from my fake account. My heart was beating so hard I thought it might actually explode. A few seconds later, I was in.

I put Ryan's phone back exactly where it was, my hands still shaking.

The shower turned off.

Now I could see every message they sent in real time. Every disgusting detail of their sick game. I wasn't their clueless victim anymore—I had the inside track.

The bathroom door opened and Ryan came out in just a towel.

"That's better," he said, heading to his dresser. "What are you watching?"

I was sitting on his bed holding the remote, trying to keep my voice normal. "Nothing good. Is your roommate coming back tonight?"

"Nah, he went home for the weekend." Ryan pulled on some pajama pants and got into bed, wrapping his arms around me. "Just us."

His touch made my skin crawl, but I forced myself not to pull away. His hands started wandering, his mouth moving toward my neck.

"Ryan..." I put my hands on his chest, gently pushing back.

"What's wrong, babe?" His voice got that husky tone that used to make me melt. "We've got all night."

I closed my eyes, those chat messages flashing through my head.

"I'm really tired," I turned my head away from his kiss. "That flight was brutal."

Ryan looked disappointed but didn't push it. "Okay, let's just sleep then."

He was out within minutes, but I spent the whole night staring at the ceiling.

I thought about when Ryan and I first started dating. How he said he liked that I wasn't "easy" like other girls, that my "innocence" was refreshing. Now I got it—that wasn't a compliment. That was him sizing up his bet.

I thought about every creepy thing Dylan had done. Every "accidental" touch, every inappropriate comment, every time he'd made me uncomfortable. None of it was accidental. It was all part of his strategy.

I thought about that gorgeous apartment, the place I'd been so grateful for. It wasn't generosity—it was Dylan's investment. He needed me isolated and dependent, grateful enough that I'd let my guard down.

The worst part was that I'd almost bought into Ryan's gaslighting. I'd almost started thinking I was being paranoid, that I was overreacting to Dylan.

At 3 AM, I carefully grabbed my phone and checked my bank account. $2,847. Everything I had in the world. Not even enough for one semester at UCLA, definitely not enough to live on my own.

But I didn't care.

I opened my browser and started looking up transfer options. Schools in New York, universities in Canada—anywhere far away from Ryan and Dylan. I didn't need their fancy apartment or their "help." I just needed to get the hell away from this sick game.

Ryan rolled over in his sleep, throwing his arm across me. I wanted to shove him off, but I had a better plan brewing.