Chapter Twenty Four
The Fallout
Jace
Idon’t register the room until it crashes back into me. Until her words finish detonating and the world rushes back in around them.
The room feels overlit and overfilled, the noise less like conversation and more like a performance everyone knows their lines for. People laughing like they’re supposed to be having the best night of their lives, like the money they’re throwing at the university is a party trick.
I’m standing beside Sarah. That part is familiar yet new at the same time. I can feel her shoulder near mine, the heat of her body through fabric, her calm posture like a practiced shield.
Donors drift in and out, shaking hands, smiling, talking about programs and legacies and tax write-offs like they’re confessing sins.
Routine.
Normal.
Then a voice fractures it, cuts through the low hum, loud enough that even the music seems to flinch.
“What did you do?” Sierra’s father.
I see him step forward like he owns the air, like he’s allowed to speak that way to anyone, anywhere. His hand clamps around Sierra’s arm hard enough that her whole body jerks. Like she’s a child or his property.
Sierra flinches, yanking back instinctively. Her eyes are wide and glassy, but her spine stays straight. That’s what hits me first, not the scene but the way she’s holding herself together.
“Don’t touch me,” she says.
Her voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It carries anyway, slicing through conversations close by. Heads turn. A few people pretend they’re not listening, which means they’re listening harder.
Her father’s face twists, anger bright and immediate. “You’re going to fix this.”
Like this is a spill on a tablecloth. Like there’s a napkin for it. Like you can wipe it clean and laugh it off.
Sierra swallows, her throat working, and when she speaks again her voice sounds smaller, but it’s steady.
“I can’t.”
The way she says it hits harder than the shouting. Like she isn’t refusing.
She’s telling the truth.
Her mother steps in next, eyes bright with panic and fury, lips pressed tight like she’s holding back a scream she’s saving for later.
“You will not destroy what we built because you couldn’t keep your legs closed.”
For a split second, the world goes quiet. Not because the music stops. But because every person within earshot holds their breath at the exact same time.
My body moves before my brain finishes catching up. I step forward.
“Enough.” I shout. The word landing heavy, and final. It hits the floor between us like a weight nobody can pick up.
Every eye shifts to me.
Her parents look surprised, like I’ve stepped out of character, as if I’m not supposed to speak unless spoken to.
That alone makes my jaw tighten.
“You don’t get to speak to her like that,” I say, gaze locked on them, not Sierra. “Not now. Not ever.”
Her mother’s mouth parts like she’s about to argue. I don’t give her time. I keep my stance calm, shoulders squared, voice steady.
Sarah is still standing where I left her. I don’t look at her yet, but I feel her change, the slightest shift in her posture like she’s bracing, ready to intervene if I lose control.
I won’t.
Control is the only thing keeping me upright. I turn to Sierra then.
Not because I’m ready to look at her after the bomb she just dropped. But because I need to see her. I need to know if she’s okay. If she’s breathing. If she’s even in her own body.
She looks… closed off.
Not physically. Emotionally. Like she folded in on herself and locked the door. Her hands shake at her sides, fingers curling in tight, nervous fists. Her eyes won’t quite meet mine.
I’m still waiting for anger to arrive.
But It doesn’t.
What hits instead is devastation so complete it drains the color from everything else. Like someone reaches inside my chest and pulls something loose.
Something vital. “Why me? How did you decide I was the one good enough?” I ask.
My voice sounds steady and that surprises me. I can hear the calm in it, and it feels wrong, like calm doesn’t belong in a moment like this.
Sierra’s lips part but nothing comes out.
And somehow that tells me everything. Not the specifics or the moment she decided I was good enough. Just that there isn’t an answer she can live with if she says it out loud.
I’m vaguely aware of movement to the side of me.
Ellie’s face goes tight. Emma’s hand flies to her mouth. Ethan’s posture shifts like he wants to put his fist through something. Sarah goes still in that way she does when she’s trying not to show emotion in public. Her stillness is controlled, but I can feel the crack in it.
I give Sierra one more beat. One last chance to say something that might soften this.
She doesn’t and my throat tightens. I exhale sharply through my nose, like my body rejects the moment altogether.
Then I turn away.
Because if I stay where I am, I’m going to break. And I refuse to do that here.
Not in front of donors.
Not in front of her parents.
Not in front of strangers who’ll turn this into entertainment before dessert hits the tables.
The room swells behind me. Voices rise. Murmurs spread.
People lean closer, pretending to look at the stage, pretending to check their phones, pretending they’re not watching the collapse of a family in real time.
I hear Sierra’s mother say something about going to the hallway, about not doing this in public.
I hear Griff’s voice, calm and cold, telling her to stop talking.
I hear Sierra’s father snap back.
I hear Griff again, sharper this time, words like a blade.
“It became my place when you made her believe she had to earn your love.”
That one lands even through the haze.
My stomach twists and I keep walking. This is what he was talking about at The Bar.
I don’t stop when the room fractures.
I don’t turn when someone gasps.
I don’t look back when I hear a chair scrape, a drink set down too hard, someone’s heels clicking fast across the floor.
I can’t.
I won’t.
The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer, quieter. The air feels cleaner, like it isn’t soaked in perfume and money.
Silence hits my face when I step far enough away from the crowd, grounding in a way nothing else has been tonight.
The gala continues behind me.
Laughter.
Music.
Life.
Uninterrupted.
And I realize with a clarity that makes my chest ache that whatever version of my life existed before this moment will never be what I remembered.
Not cracked.
Over.
I press my palm flat to the wall for a second like I need something solid. My breathing is normal. That’s the part that’s insane. My heart should be racing. I should be shaking.
Instead I feel… empty.
Like my body is choosing numbness because the alternative would fold me in half.
Footsteps approach.
Soft. Controlled.
It’s Sarah.
I don’t turn right away. I hear her stop a few feet away, like she’s giving me space on purpose. Like she knows if she touches me too soon I might shatter.
“You walked away,” she says quietly.
It isn't an accusation.
It's an observation.
I finally turned.
Her eyes are bright, but she isn’t crying. Not yet. Her jaw is tight like she’s holding everything in place with sheer will.
“I had to,” I say. My voice is too calm and I hate that.
Sarah’s gaze flicks over my face, searching. Like she’s checking for blood. For physical damage.
“You handled that better than anyone could have,” she says.
My throat tightens hard.
I swallow and nod. “But I knew if I looked at you, I would have lost it.”
Her expression shifts. It’s small, almost invisible, but it’s there. A crack. A softening.
She steps closer. “What do you need?” she asks.
The question should make me feel something.
Gratitude. Relief. Anger. Anything.
Instead my brain offers me the one thing that’s been shredding me since Sierra opened her mouth.
Answers.
But I don’t want answers here. Not in this corridor. Not with the gala breathing down our necks.
I drag a hand down my face.
“I need to get out of here,” I say. “I need to leave before I do something stupid.”
Sarah nods once, no hesitation or discussion. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected about her. She doesn’t ask you to perform.
She doesn’t ask you to explain.
She just moves.
“I’m coming with you,” she says.
I blink, caught off guard by how simple she makes it.
Like it’s decided. Like she’s decided.
My chest squeezes. I nod once. “Okay.”
Footsteps again, heavier this time.
Ethan appears first, his face sharp with anger he has nowhere to put.
Emma is behind him, eyes wet, hand still covering her mouth like she can’t believe what she witnessed.
Ellie comes last, her hand hovering near Sarah’s elbow like she’s ready to steady her.
Ethan’s gaze meets mine. “You okay?”
No. I’m not. But I’m not going to say that out loud in a hallway where the walls can carry sound.
“I will be,” I say.
Emma’s voice is small. “Sarah…”
Sarah turns to her, and her face changes in a way that twists something in my chest. She’s gentle with Emma in a way she’s rarely gentle with anyone else.
“I’m okay,” Sarah says.
Emma shakes her head. “You’re not.”
Sarah’s lips press together, and for a second I think she might break right here. Then she inhales, slow and controlled, and her eyes flick to me.
I understand.
She’s holding it together because I’m holding it together.
And that makes my throat burn.
“Can you cover?” Sarah asks Ellie, voice steady. “Just… tell whoever needs to be told that we left.”
Ellie nods immediately. “Go. I’ve got it.”
Ethan’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“Don’t,” Sarah says, sharp enough to stop him mid-sentence.
Ethan exhales hard through his nose, frustration shaking him.
Emma reaches out, squeezes Sarah’s hand, then looks at me, eyes pleading.
“Take care of her,” she whispers.
I nod once. Because I will. Even if I don’t know what that looks like yet. Sarah and I move down the corridor together. We don’t hold hands. We don’t touch. But we walk in sync, like our bodies know what to do even if our minds don’t.