Chapter 17 #2
“You’re stronger than you think. You’re worth more than they ever let you believe. And you deserve a life that doesn’t hurt.”
A breath. Snow falling. Boston twinkling.
“This is me.
This is my story.
And I’m not done yet.”
I reach forward to press stop, but add one more thing:
“And neither are you.”
The screen goes black.
AND THE INTERNET LOSES ITS MIND.
The video goes live at 11:42 p.m.
By midnight it has 80k views.
By morning: 3 million.
By the afternoon: It’s trending #1.
Reaction videos.
Duets.
Teens crying.
Parents sharing it.
Therapists reposting it.
People stitching: “This girl just said what I’ve been trying to tell my daughter for years.”
Major outlets screenshotting my quotes.
My inbox floods.
My follower count explodes.
Celebrities repost.
Advocacy groups reach out.
College coaches DM support.
I becomes a voice.
A symbol.
A beacon for bullied kids everywhere.
And the Royal Oaks mean girls?
They watch the storm rising and realize:
They didn’t destroy me.
They created a movement.
A future where I win.
The caller ID lights up:
TRISTAN X
Of course.
I answer with a groan.
“What, Tristan. What crimes are you committing this early?”
“Jade,” he says, breathless. “Wake up. Sit up. Find some water. Do a stretch. Actually, no time—just listen.”
I rub my eyes. “Tristan, it’s just past six in the morning.”
“Time zones don’t care about your beauty sleep, superstar.”
…that wakes me up.
“Tristan.” I sit up fast. “What happened?”
He exhales like he’s been waiting to dump this on me for hours.
“You need more than a lawyer.”
“Tristan—”
“No, no, I’m not done. You don’t just need your lawsuit lawyer anymore. You need the other kind. The Jerry Maguire kind.”
“…What?”
“An entertainment lawyer, baby. And an agent. And probably a crisis manager. Maybe even a financial advisor. Hell, maybe a bodyguard.”
I press my palm to my forehead. “Why?”
“Because Netflix called my PR girl.”
Silence. Heavy. Sharp.
Then—
“Netflix… called?”
“Yup.” A pop of a consonant. “They want to make a docuseries. Apparently the ‘Jade Bryan story’ is testing off the charts in their internal metrics. My PR girl nearly fainted. Something about ‘Gen Z Erin Brockovich meets Athlete A meets teen social justice icon.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
My stomach drops.
“Tristan. No. No, no, no.”
“Oh, and MTV called too, if that’s still a thing. They want a reality show.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” I snap.
“Relax, Jade. I told them you’d rather die.”
“Good.”
“But Netflix…” He drags out the word. “That’s different.”
I flop back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know if I even want that. Any of it. My life is barely hanging together with tape and coffee.”
Tristan softens, rare for him.
“Don’t do it for you, Jade. Do it for the kids who aren’t as strong as you but want to be.”
I swallow.
“Do it for the kid who’s thinking about taking a bottle of pills,” he continues quietly. “Do it for the kid walking into school today praying no one sees him. Do it for the girl who hasn’t told anyone she’s hurting.”
“Tristan…” My voice cracks. “Stop. I hear you. I do.”
“Then hear this too,” he says, firmer. “Let me talk to my agent. Let me talk to my dad’s people. Let me help you—not as Leo’s friend. As yours.”
That hits harder than I expect.
“Just… let me talk to my parents first,” I say. “And Susan. And Irene. Especially Irene. She’s like the adult whisperer.”
“Good,” Tristan says. “Because, uh… one more thing.”
I brace. “What.”
“The Leo thing.”
Of course.
“This is destroying him,” Tristan says bluntly. “He pretends he’s fine, but he’s not. Like, at all. That kiss you guys did? You lit him on fire and then ice-bathed him in the same minute. He’s losing it.”
I stare at the hotel curtains glowing with early winter light.
“He broke up with me,” I remind him. “He left me to the wolves.”
“I know,” Tristan says. “And I’m not excusing it. But don’t pretend the gilded cage on his side is easy either.”
I stiffen.
Tristan lowers his voice, tired, honest.
“He didn’t just lose you, Jade. He lost his crown. He lost his status. He lost the version of himself he thought he was supposed to be. And yeah—fine—that’s privilege. But pain doesn’t check tax brackets.”
I breathe out slowly.
Tristan continues:
“I’m your friend. But he’s my brother. And for the first time since sixth grade… I’m actually worried about him.”
Silence pulses between us.
“I get it,” I whisper finally. “But it’s too much right now. Everything is too much.”
“I know,” he says. “But you guys can’t keep doing the kiss-hate-kiss-hate loop. You either talk—or you mutually destroy each other.”
I close my eyes.
Because I know he’s right.
Because I hate that he’s right.
Because my chest hurts even thinking about it.
“Tristan,” I say quietly, “I’m not ready.”
“I know,” he says. “Just don’t wait until it’s too late.”
He exhales sharply.
“Okay. Go back to sleep, superstar. You’re gonna wake up with a million new followers.”
I groan. “That sounds like hell.”
“Nah,” he says with a grin I can hear. “It sounds like destiny.”
He hangs up.
And I’m left staring at the ceiling of a Boston hotel room, heart pounding, mind spinning, life tilting under my feet.
Netflix.
Agents.
Lawyers.
Kids looking up to me.
And Leo…
Leo.
I pull the blankets up to my chin and whisper into the dim room:
“What is happening to my life?”