Chapter 19
Kiah's words echo in my head as I stare at my ceiling. Just an initiation task. The memory of the chamber burns—how I let Brody parade me around like a conquest, how easily I said those words. You own me. My stomach turns every time I think about it.
The worst part isn't the humiliation. It's how much I wanted it. How I let desire override every warning signal, every red flag. Now he's gone silent, proving Kiah right. I was never special—just another game piece for the Reapers to play with.
My phone lights up with Levi's text. An old habit I should've broken months ago.
I hit FaceTime before I can stop myself. His familiar grin fills my screen, and I hate how comforting it is.
The words spill out like vomit. "Am I just an easy lay to you?"
"What?" His smile falters.
"You heard me." My voice comes out harder than intended. "Is that why you keep texting?"
"That why you've been ghosting me?"
"I met someone." The words taste bitter. "Well, thought I did. Turns out he just wanted information about my dad."
"Your dad?" Levi's confusion is genuine. "You don't even know him."
The truth of that hits like a slap. I don't know my father—just the bills he pays and the strings he pulls. Just like I don't really know Brody.
"You didn't answer my question," I press. "About being easy."
Levi shrugs, too casual. "You're not easy. You just know what you want. You're different—"
"Don't." My throat tightens. "Don't give me that 'not like other girls' bullshit."
"Lola—"
I end the call. I can't handle his particular brand of comfort right now, not when I'm raw from Brody's manipulation.
I'm early to class for once, hoping the practice room will be free. But Amanda's already there, her Gucci bag claiming the seat next to mine. My steps falter. After weeks of death glares, this can't be good.
The practice room's familiar scent of rosin and wood polish usually calms me, but today it feels oppressive. I unpack my cello with deliberate slowness, hyper-aware of Amanda's eyes on me.
"Saw your man at Thatcher's last night." Her voice carries that particular note rich girls perfect in private school—sweet poison wrapped in silk.
I focus on tightening my bow, watching the horsehair pull taut. "Thatcher's?"
"God, you really are from another world, aren't you?" She turns in her seat, designer perfume wafting between us. "Hot hockey player? Huge house on Maple Grove?"
My fingers slip on the rosin. Of course Brody would be there. Of course he'd be—
"He was all over Sloane Fitzpatrick." Amanda watches my face like she's studying for an exam. "You know her, right? Blonde? Trust fund? Everything you're not?"
Sloane from American Lit. The girl who wears Chanel to eight AM classes and never takes notes. My stomach turns.
"They were about to head upstairs." Amanda's voice drops conspiratorially. "Until I cockblocked them." She glares at me. "You’re welcome."
"I’m not thankful. Brody can do whatever he wants."
"Oh, so you didn’t fuck him?"
She smiles because she knows she has me.
The practice room suddenly feels too small. Other students filter in—Emily with her viola, Matt settling at the piano—but they sound distant, underwater. All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
Professor Schweig enters, his eyes catching on Amanda's unexpected presence beside me. He pauses, probably wondering if we'll need to be separated like children. If he only knew.
"Take out the Vivaldi," he calls, but I can barely focus on the sheet music in front of me. The notes swim on the page.
Brody's moved on. No—he was never mine to move on from. I was just a task, a game I still don't understand. And now he's back to girls like Sloane, girls from his world, while I sit here pretending I ever had a chance at being more than a conquest.
My bow hovers over the strings. At least in music, I know who I am. Even if everywhere else, I'm just a broke loser to take advantage of.
My fingers shake as I dial the facility's number. Two weeks of "she's unable to come to the phone" has my stomach in knots. Each time, the staff's voices carried that particular tone—the one that means they're hiding something about my mother's state.
The hold music drones in my ear, some soft jazz meant to be soothing but setting my teeth on edge instead. My free hand finds my cello strings, seeking comfort in their familiar tension. One minute passes. Two. Every second feels like confirmation that something's wrong.
Then—
"Lola?" Mom's voice hits me like a punch to the chest. She sounds clear today, present in a way that makes my eyes sting with relief.
"Hey, Mom." My voice comes out small, young.
The change is instant. "You fucking bitch!" Her words slash through the line, that familiar manic edge turning her voice razor-sharp. "Too good for me now that you're at that fancy fucking school?"
Ice spreads through my chest. This isn't her normal medication haze or even her old drug-induced rage. This is something new. Something targeted.
"Mom, what—"
"Don't play innocent!" Something crashes in the background. "I know you've been talking to him. To your precious father."
My throat closes. "I haven't—I wouldn't—"
"He came here, Lola!" Her laugh holds hysteria's edge. "Wanted to know what kind of trouble his little girl's gotten into."
Voices rise in the background—staff trying to calm her. Mom's breathing comes harsh and fast through the phone, like she's running from something. Or toward something.
The line goes dead with a final click.
I stare at my phone, mind spinning. Rick Kemper visited her? After all these years of nothing but signed checks, he suddenly cares enough to show up?
Or maybe that's not it at all. Maybe this is about Brody, about the Reapers, about whatever game I've stumbled into without knowing the rules.
I stare into the void, and I can't tell which possibility terrifies me more.
From here on out, I plan to stay under the radar. Brody has made it crystal clear that he knows everything about me. He said that he always knows where I am. He has been inside of my dorm countless times. He even touched my hairbrush, for God knows whatever reason, and now this is all starting to click.
He claimed me in front of the Reapers, yet I’ve only seen him once after that. He’s toying with me, and I don’t fucking like it. I will demise a plan to get back at him somehow. First I need to dig. I need to learn everything that there is to know because I’m not willing to be used or go down without a fight. Rick Kemper visiting my mom isn’t a coincidence, and I’m wondering if she was that upset because he threatened her like he always has.
Brody Black is fucking with the wrong bitch. And shit’s about to get real.
The pieces slot together like a symphony building to its dark crescendo. Brody's words echo in my head: I always know where you are. The Reaper invitations, the break-ins, the shit that happened with Jack, my hair missing from my hairbrush— it was never about desire. It was about power. About something that my dad can give him. About proving he could reach into my life whenever he wanted.
I pace my room, fingers itching for my cello but knowing music can't fix this. He claimed me in front of his masked audience like some twisted performance, then vanished. Left me wondering, waiting, feeling used like the whore he thinks I am. The perfect puppet show with me dancing on his strings.
But he made one mistake.
And that is Rick Kemper’s reaction to whatever he’s done.
My father does not visit my mother. Ever. He pays the bills, pulls the strings, but he never shows his face. Ever.
Something bigger is happening—something that has Brody Black watching my every move and Rick Kemper breaking his own rules. And I’m going to fucking figure it out.
I press my palm against the cold window glass, staring at the campus. The biggest worries for the students here are midterms and relationship drama—normal college problems I thought I'd have. I came to Blackridge desperate for reinvention, thinking I could outrun my mother's demons and my father's silence. That my only battle would be bridging the gap between my trailer park roots and their trust fund lives.
But my last name is a curse I never saw coming.
The thought hits me like a wrong note in a familiar piece—maybe Mom's drug-fueled rants held truth. Maybe Rick Kemper orchestrated my acceptance here, planted me like a seed he could harvest later. The scholarship, the perfect timing, the way doors opened just wide enough to let me slip through... nothing's actually random when you have money and power.
I've spent my whole life being careful. Following rules. Playing the good girl who practices until her fingers bleed, who never asks uncomfortable questions about why her father pays her mother's medical bills but won't speak to her.
Brody Black just gave me an expensive education in how the real world works.
First lesson: Find your target's weakness. Study them. Learn where they're vulnerable. Then squeeze until they break.
Amanda… you’re up first.
Bitch, here I come.
Let’s fucking go.