Chapter 2

Once the tears finally dried, pure logic kicked in.

My boyfriend and my childhood bestie cutting me off on the exact same night, using a slice of apple pie as the excuse? Bullshit. They were obviously sleeping together and needed a coordinated, bizarre distraction to dump me.

I scrape together two hundred bucks and hired a online private investigator to prove it.

Two days later, the P.I. sent his report. I was completely wrong. My ex and my best friend had zero overlap. No mutual followers, no shared locations, no text history.

But there was one massive red flag: a large, anonymous wire transfer had hit my ex's bank account the exact afternoon he ended things.

I immediately asked the P.I. to trace the routing number. He quoted me fifteen hundred dollars for the deep dive. I was riding on a full academic scholarship; I barely had enough cash for laundry, let alone a cyber-investigation.

I spent nights scrolling through Reddit and Quora, searching phrases like "apple pie eating taboo" and "offensive dessert etiquette." Nothing. It was just a pastry. Unwilling to go totally broke over a web of weird behavior, I dropped the investigation.

But I swore I would never look at another apple pie again.

A week later, the spring semester rolled around, bringing the annual Spring Kick-off Charity Bake Day with it.

It was a mandatory campus-wide event where all proceeds went to a local children's fund. The university president, the deans, and the entire faculty always showed up.

I went straight to my academic advisor to beg off, citing a heavy workload.

"You’re the junior class representative, Sloane," he said flatly. "If you ghost the event, the rest of the junior class will think they can skip it too. We have scholarship evaluations next month. Community involvement is twenty percent of your rubric. Don't drop the ball on this."

I had no choice. I needed that scholarship.

The student union was packed, loud, and smelled overwhelmingly of sugar and butter. I made a beeline for the cooler of diet sodas in the far corner, doing my best to steer completely clear of the massive dessert buffet in the center of the room.

"Sloane!"

I cringed. Chelsea.

She was the student council vice-president, a chronic overachiever with rich parents, and someone who hated my guts purely because I beat her out for top class ranking freshman year.

Chelsea stepped right into my path, blocking the sodas. She was holding a small paper plate with a thick slice of apple pie.

"Standing awfully far from the tables," Chelsea said, her voice carrying over the chatter of the crowd. "What, is the baking club's food not clean enough for our perfect straight-A rep?"

A few students nearby paused their conversations and turned to look. I forced a polite smile.

"Not at all," I said calmly. "My stomach's just a little upset today. I can't really do sweets right now. You guys go ahead."

I stepped right, trying to sidestep her. Chelsea grabbed my upper arm.

"Oh, don't be like that," she said, her voice pitching louder. "If your stomach's acting up, I actually made this plain one. No weird crusts, no extra junk. Just plain, simple pie. You have to try it."

"Honestly, I'm fine—"

"Seriously, Sloane?" One of Chelsea's sorority sisters chimed in. "She baked it specifically for you to be accommodating. Rejecting it is just straight-up rude."

The circle of onlookers was growing. I felt my face getting hot. Why was everyone so obsessed with forcing me to eat this thing?

Before I could walk away, University Dean strolled past. He stopped, adjusting his glasses as he glanced between me, Chelsea, and the pie.

"Everything alright over here?" the Dean asked genially.

"Chelsea went out of her way to make a specialty pie for me," I explained, keeping my tone light and respectful. "But I have a bit of a stomachache."

The Dean chuckled, giving my shoulder a firm pat. "Chelsea put a lot of work into coordinating today's charity drive, Sloane. Just take a quick bite. Support the kids, right?"

I looked around. Half the junior class was watching. The Dean was standing right there, waiting. Chelsea held the plate right under my chin, an expectant, mocking smirk on her face.

If I refused, I’d be labeled the arrogant, uncharitable snob who publicly disrespected the Dean and ruined the charity vibe. With my scholarship review literally weeks away, I couldn't risk the hit to my reputation.

*t's just pie, I reasoned with myself. We were in the middle of a crowded student union. This wasn't my ex's weird, uptight family. I was in public.

"Fine," I muttered. "Thank you, Chelsea."

I grabbed a plastic fork off the nearby table, cut a small corner off the plain pie, and put it in my mouth. I chewed quickly and swallowed.

"There. Good?" I asked, looking back up.

Chelsea wasn't smiling anymore.

In fact, the entire room had stopped moving. The loud overlapping conversations, the laughter, the clinking of plates—it all cut out instantly, like someone had ripped the main power cord from the wall.

A suffocating, dead silence washed over the massive hall.

I lowered my fork, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs. "Guys?"

Every single pair of eyes in the room was locked onto me. The Dean took a slow, physical step backwards, the color completely draining from his face.

Chelsea dropped the paper plate. It hit the linoleum floor with a wet smack. She covered her mouth, her eyes wide with undisguised horror.

"Oh my god," a girl whispered loudly from the back of the crowd.

"She actually did it."

"Sloane," a guy muttered, staring at me like I was covered in blood. "Are you sick in the head?"