Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
It’s tearing me apart
SOPHIE
The TA has barely started handing back our midterm papers, and I already feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin. My palms are damp. This is my worst class—my average is barely clinging to a low B, and I need to keep it there to hold onto my scholarship.
He stops at my desk and slides my paper over. His sympathetic look is all the warning I need before my stomach sinks.
Seventy two—a C minus.
My heart drops. This grade will absolutely tank my average.
God, what was I thinking? Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped Carter. Shit. My mind spirals faster. I’ve been working too much. Distracted. Spending time with new friends. Having fun for the first time in my life—and it gets me a C minus.
Tears sting my eyes. I blink rapidly, willing them to stay put. Losing this scholarship isn’t an option. I don’t have anything to fall back on.
As soon as class ends, I make myself walk to the front, clutching the paper like my life depends on it.
“Uhm…Professor Walsh?” My voice wavers. “Could I talk to you about my midterm grade?”
He glances up, then takes the paper from me. “Sophie, right? Is there a problem?”
“I just—” I swallow hard. “I was hoping to talk to you about my grade on the paper. I read your comments, and I get it, but…is there anything I can do to bring the grade up?”
He scans the paper, his brow furrowing.
“It looks like you didn’t understand the core concepts,” he says bluntly. “You pieced together sentences, but there’s no depth. Honestly, Sophie, when I read this, I wondered if you’re a good fit for my class.”
My stomach twists. “I am. I promise. I’ll study harder.”
He exhales, crossing his arms. “I’ve been teaching this for a long time.
I can tell the difference between someone who has the potential for this stuff versus someone who is just pushing through.
You’re going to need to study a lot harder.
Memorize harder. It’s only going to get more demanding from here. ”
I force myself to meet his eyes. “So…there’s no way to make this grade up?”
“Not for this midterm, no,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “But if you’re serious about improving, I might consider some extra credit toward the end of the semester. It won’t erase this, but it could help.”
My eyes drop to the floor. Maybe he’s right. I’m not cut out for this. But I can do this. I have what it takes. I know I do.
“Listen, I’m not saying you’ll fail,” he adds, a little softer. “A C minus is hardly failing. But you need to step it up. Schedule a tutor session with the TA if you need to.”
I don't tell him that I don’t have the time. And I don’t tell him that a C minus isn’t failing, but it’s enough for me to lose my scholarship.
“I understand. Thank you, Professor.”
I turn and head for the door, holding it together until I’m outside. The second I’m alone, the tears spill over, hot and fast, no matter how hard I try to blink them back.
I had a tutoring session scheduled today and had already booked a room at the Student Center.
The one they booked for me was the room tucked at the very end of the hallway.
Normally, being all the way back here with just Carter would have made me anxious, but right now, I’m grateful for the isolation.
I need to think.
I need to figure out how to pull my grade back up, maybe rearrange my shifts at Boston Brews and the bookstore to make room for meeting with the TA, for tutoring sessions.
Settling at the small table, I flip open my laptop and pull up my calendar. My stomach sinks immediately—there aren’t many open spots to squeeze in tutoring for myself. And then my eyes land on the event I marked in red.
My stepfather gets out next week. Shit.
My heart kicks into a rapid, panicked rhythm. My throat tightens, tears threatening as my breathing turns shallow.
Deep breaths, Sophie. You’re in Massachusetts. He’s in Illinois. He can’t even leave the state…right?
But the thought doesn’t calm me.
I close the laptop. Open it again. Close it.
I should call someone. Micah, maybe. But what would I even say—my stepfather is getting out of prison and I'm scared and I've never told you any of this? I wouldn't know where to start.
I'm still trying to figure out the words when the door swings open so hard it bangs against the wall, making me jump.
Carter steps in, and the first thing that hits me is the smell—a faint trace of alcohol mixed with something sharper, almost chemical. Not as much as my stepfather used to reek, but close enough that my chest tightens instantly, memories clawing at me.
“I knew you’d be here, you fucking bitch. The universe is on my side again.” His voice is low and furious, his words slurring just slightly. His eyes are red, glassy—not drunk enough to stumble, but off and jittery. He’s also high, maybe.
“How dare you block my number,” he spits, slamming the door behind him. Then, just as quickly, his expression twists into a smirk. “But it’s okay. You know why? Because I know I can change your mind.”
He starts walking toward me, calm and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment.
“Carter, you need to leave,” I manage to say, though my voice is shaking.
“Leave?” He laughs, ugly and amused. “Come on, sweetheart. I came all this way for you. Don’t act like you don’t think about me, too.”
“You think you’ll ever find someone better than me?” He’s close now, way too close. The room is small, and I’m already pressed against the corner of the table with nowhere left to move.
“Let’s make this quick,” he murmurs, leaning in, his breath sour with alcohol. “I’ll give you a preview of how good I can make you feel.”
“I said leave,” I repeat, louder this time, but my hands are trembling.
He grins, tipping his head as if I’m being cute. “What, you playing hard to get now? You didn’t seem to mind my gift. Though I’d have liked a thank you.” His gaze drags down my body. “Let me see if you’re wearing any of it.”
Before I can react, his hand shoots out, grabbing the neckline of my shirt. The defective seam tears easily with a loud rip, and the fabric slips, exposing my bra completely.
His eyes widen, and his smirk turns darker, more lustful. “Oh, fuck, sweetheart, this view,” he breathes, licking his lips. “You make me so hard. I can’t wait to taste this.”
“Stop!” I shove at his chest, but he’s stronger than me, his grip like iron. His other hand digs into my waist, pulling me closer as his fingers trail toward the waistband of my jeans.
Panic surges white-hot through me. I can’t think—I just act.
I sink my teeth into his hand, the one gripping my ripped shirt. Hard.
“FUCK!” he yells, jerking back and releasing me.
The second I’m free, I bolt. I grab my phone off the table, leaving my bag, my laptop—everything—and run. My torn shirt slips down one shoulder, my bra still half-exposed, and I clutch the fabric together with one hand, my phone clutched in the other.
The hallway is empty—most students are gone this late in the day. My breath is ragged, echoing in the quiet as my sneakers pound the floor.
I don’t dare go to the ladies’ room. That’ll be the first place he might look. Instead, I duck into another study room halfway down the hall and hide in a corner. My heart is hammering so hard it hurts.
I don’t know what to do. My mind is blank, panic roaring too loud to think straight. My hands are shaking so violently I almost drop my phone.
Before I can think things through, I tap Micah's name and press the phone to my ear.
My hands won't stop shaking. Carter's voice is still close in my head—that tone, that entitlement, the way he said sweetheart like it was something he owned.
My stepfather used to have a voice like that.
Not identical, but the same shape underneath.
The same assumption that my no was just a temporary phase.
The line connects. I can't speak. But I don't hang up.
MICAH
The second Sophie’s name flashes on my screen, a smile tugs at my mouth. She doesn’t usually call me first—it’s almost always me reaching out—so yeah, I’m already in a good mood as I swipe to answer.
“Hi baby.”
No response. Just broken breathing, uneven and shaky.
My stomach drops.
“Sophie? Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Still nothing but those quick, shallow breaths. My chest tightens, panic spiking fast.
No. No way. Her stepfather isn’t out yet. But what if he is? No—Nico would have warned me.
“Sophie, where are you?” My voice rises despite trying to stay calm.
She finally chokes out, “Student…Center…108.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t move.”
I hang up and run to the car. The drive is a blur of screeching tires and the speedometer climbing way higher than I should risk. It’s a miracle I don’t get pulled over. My grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, my mind running wild.
If her stepfather laid a finger on her—if that bastard somehow got out early—I’ll get all my lawyers involved. I’ll make him go back to prison and rot there forever.
When I finally shove open the door to Room 108, my heart stops.
She’s curled in the corner, head down, arms wrapped tight around her knees, like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible.
“Hey,” I say softly, crouching a few feet away. I don’t want to scare her. “Hey, it’s me. It’s okay. I’m here.”
Her head lifts, eyes red and swollen, and something in me cracks. She reaches for me, grabbing my arm like I’m the only thing holding her up.
“Can you—can you take me…somewhere? Anywhere,” she whispers.
“Of course,” I say immediately. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I help her stand, keeping my arm steady around her when her legs wobble. That’s when I notice it—her shirt is torn, slipping just enough for her bra to show.
Rage surges hot and sharp. Whoever did this—I swear to God—
Not now. Not here. She needs me calm. I wish I at least had a jacket to give her, but I was in too much of a hurry that I didn’t get to wear one.
“Come on,” I murmur, guiding her out.
I get her to the car and open the passenger door, making sure she’s in before I close the door and move to the driver’s side. But when I glance over after starting the engine, my chest tightens all over again.
She’s gasping, breaths too fast, her whole body trembling, her fingers still clutching her shirt like she’s holding herself together by threads.
“Sophie?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean, cracking under the weight in my chest. “Baby, look at me.”
She doesn’t. She can’t. She’s crying almost hysterically. Her breaths are sharp and frantic, her body shaking like she’s fighting to stay in her own skin.
“Shit,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. Fuck, fuck, what do I do? My pulse is racing just as fast as hers, and it’s like there’s not enough air in the car for either of us.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I blurt. “You need—”
She jerks her head violently, tears streaking down her face. “No—no hospital.”
My chest tightens, my own breathing going uneven as panic claws up my throat.
“Soph, I don’t—God, I don’t know how to help you.
” My voice cracks, anger and fear tangling together in my chest. I’ve never felt this fucking helpless in my life.
“I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I’ll cover the fees, okay?
Don’t worry about the money. Just—please. Let me take you.”
She shakes her head more frantically, crying even harder now, gasping between words. “Please…no. I just…need a minute. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay. Watching her like this—sobbing, trembling, struggling to breathe—it’s tearing me apart. My chest feels like it’s caving in, like I’m physically breaking from not being able to fix this for her.
All I can do is hold her hand. Just hold her hand like a useless fucking idiot while she falls apart right in front of me.
“Alright,” I whisper, forcing my voice steady even though my throat feels tight. I squeeze her hand, gently, desperately. “I’m here, Soph. I’m not going anywhere. Just hold onto me.”
Minutes crawl by like hours. I keep my eyes on her the whole time, watching her every shaky breath, wishing I could take every ounce of this pain from her.
Slowly—thank God—slowly her breathing starts to even out. The tremors in her hands quiet. Her sobs soften to small, broken hiccups.
“Good,” I murmur, my voice soft but strained. “You’re okay. You’re safe, baby. I’ve got you.”
I reach for the only water bottle I have in the cupholder. “Here,” I say, holding it out carefully, “I drank some earlier today, but I can grab you a new one from the vending machine if you—”
Her hand shoots out, gripping my arm, her voice still shaky. “No. Please don’t leave me.”
My chest twists so hard it hurts.
“Okay,” I whisper immediately, setting the bottle in her lap. “I’m not leaving. I’ll stay right here.”
Once she’s calmer, I reach into the back seat and grab a cashmere sweater I keep in the car for last-minute meetings. It’s soft and definitely too big for her, but I can’t look at her ripped shirt without anger burning in my chest. “Here, wear this,” I say gently.
She takes it with a shaky hand, slipping it on quickly, still clutching her torn shirt until she’s fully covered, before taking it off.
I want to ask what happened. I want to find and destroy whoever did this to her. But I stop myself—because one of us has to stay calm. And right now, that has to be me.
“We’ll talk later,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes. “Right now, we’re going to my place.”
She nods, still holding onto my arm like she doesn’t trust me not to disappear.
I glance at her, my jaw tightening as I think about the torn shirt she was holding onto with trembling hands. Whoever did this—I swear I’ll kill him.
But for now, I just drive. I’ll find him, and I won’t let her brush it off. Not this time.