Chapter 8
eight
Drool runs across my arm, stirring my consciousness. The diary stands on my desk, closed, like it’s ashamed of what I wrote. Probably fell asleep writing in it last night.
It’s the only thing that’s still mine. But I can’t even enjoy it anymore. I’m too tired. Too used up. Before I can reach some deep insight into my own behavior, I succumb to slumber.
Not to mention, it appears as if my stalker is reading every word.
What’s worse? I may find comfort in that.
My body startles at the sound of my phone alarm, heart hammering, relieved only momentarily that I’m not buried in a coffin beside my dead boyfriend’s glassy eyes. But the thought still lingers.
Am I happy he’s not alive anymore?
Guilt curls like a ribbon around my throat as I fumble for my phone to shut it off. As I twist toward the device, neck twitches make me moan. My heart drops at the sight of a text from Melinda Remington, Hunter’s mother. Her message sits on the screen like a loaded gun.
Mel
Do you know why Hunter flew to Thailand without telling me? Are you with him?
When I peek at the photo she’s attached, my jaw unhinges. It’s a grainy shot of Hunter with a brunette in what looks like a Thai city. Noodles, lanterns, humid dusk.
But I recognize the picture. I’ve seen it before. It’s from a Maldives trip. Boys weekend. My cousin Logan sent it to me after confessing that Hunter was cheating. The brunette? She was the reason we broke up the first time.
Me
No, I didn’t go. We aren’t together anymore. Sorry, Mel.
Three dots. Then:
Mel
Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’ll ask Bryce.
My bottom lip lodges underneath my teeth at that name. Bryce. If the police come looking… If this lie spins deeper… I’ll have to get Dad involved.
And once he steps in, no one walks away clean.
I clutch the phone until the screen blacks out. Mel’s message still lingers like it’s burned into the retinas of my soul. She’s looking for her son. And I know exactly where he is. Only a fool would call it a grave.
A knock startles me so hard I jostle my phone.
“Olivia?” It’s Sora. Of course it is. Omega secretary, resident schedule dictator, and organizational goddess with the warmth of a toaster oven. Just the person I want to see on a Tuesday morning before a big event and after a lack of sleep.
“We’ve got three problems with Terror Tuesday prep, and Brianna’s crying in the kitchen again because someone stole her local grass-fed almond milk. And yes, I already know almonds don’t have tits, but I suppose this one identifies as a cow.”
God forbid the Omega house run dry on ethically sourced nut juice. Someone might actually die.
“Coming!” I chirp, the sound so unnaturally bright it scrapes against my own throat.
By the time I pull open the door, I’ve put the proper face back on. Sorority President. Crisis Manager. Untouchable Olivia Marie Cardell.
My robe is barely tied, and I know I look half-asleep, but Sora doesn’t even blink. She hands me a tablet like we’re trading battle plans.
“Theta sent over their group rosters for the Hallow’s Eve event. I need to know who we’re allowing through the mirror maze we rented, and you have to sign off on the final playlist.”
“Why is the playlist my responsibility?”
“You vetoed all the songs as vice president last year, remember?”
My lips form a solid line. I really did do that. And now my superior taste in music has come to bite me in the ass.
I swipe through the files, eyes skimming over Theta boys and Deltas and— Ugh, the Betas. Bryce’s name is still there. My finger freezes over it. My breath catches.
“You okay?” Sora asks, frowning.
“Fine,” I say too fast. “Delete the Betas.”
She blinks. “All of them?”
“Yes. If they can’t show up to confirm attendance for our party, we’re not mothering them.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to say something, but she just nods and whirls away, calling out something to Anaya as she vanishes into the hallway.
By the time I make it to the plush pink common room overstuffed with Louis XIV-style furniture, five girls ask me questions at once.
Someone’s lost her costume. Another broke up with her Viscount last night, but still has to go through the Culling.
The fog machine is making the carpet wet.
Hailey’s dress is too short for the cold, and she wants to know if she can just wear a cape over it and go “like, slutty Dracula?” And the lighting is off in the lounge, and if we don’t fix it, everyone’s Pixtagram photos will be “tragic, Olivia, tragic!”
I smile. I nod. I fix it all.
Like I always do.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy being in charge. I do. I need it. Because if I stop moving, the memories take over. And if they catch me, I’ll crumble.
People think I was soft before Reggie, but I wasn’t. I was dangerous in my own way. Maybe Dad was the only one to truly know.
Back in high school, I ruled everything. Student Council President. Girl Scout troop leader. Class queen bee with a clipboard and a bloodthirsty schedule.
I was always a leader. Knew exactly what I wanted. To be a politician. At home, I was used to commanding my three brothers and having to wrangle them in. I was good at it. It came naturally.
Until sophomore year, when the golden couple imploded—Corey Wentsworth and Lakin Anderson.
Quarterback and cheer captain. He rebounded with me.
It was fun being the scandal. For once, I wasn’t the future valedictorian.
The girl who would help you with your homework and who obeyed the rules. I was the one someone wanted.
Lakin didn’t like that.
She ran against me for class president and painted me as the homewrecking whore. People picked sides. My campaign signs were ripped. My locker was vandalized. And me?
I played sweet.
But deviously poisoned her bake sale brownies with laxatives. Defaced her posters with Sharpie mustaches. Made out with Corey in front of the cheerleaders until they screamed.
And on election day, I had my brothers stuff the ballot box to make sure I won.
Corey dumped me the day after, of course. Ran back to her like I was just a warm-up act.
But I kept the presidency. And the crown.
That was the first time I realized: I’d rather be hated and powerful than pretty and forgettable.
Fire lit in my veins, and I knew I was going places. I could win anything placed before me and wouldn’t stop until I did. It was a high I’d never really felt before.
Until Reggie put a stop to all of it.
And now? I kind of feel sorry for what I did to Lakin.
Sometimes I wonder if I hadn’t won, would I have changed my course? Never gone to that internship with Representative Blackwell?
Who would I be without what was done to me?
Naomi finds me hiding in the kitchen thirty minutes later, barefoot and beautiful in a silk wrap dress, a cup of coffee balanced on her palm.
“You’re avoiding me,” I say, voice soft but firm.
She sips and tosses her long, black locks over her shoulder. “I’m avoiding this conversation.”
“You saw the butterfly.”
Her lashes lower.
“And you ran out of my room like the devil had whispered something to you.”
“I—” Her voice breaks, just barely. Then she composes herself. “I’m working on a private story. One that I’m not sure I’m ready to tell everyone. I still have too many notes to go through before it’s finished, but I’ll tell you more tomorrow. I promise.”
She presses her lips into a thin line, and I swear I see a flicker of fear. Or maybe guilt. Nerves trickle into my veins at the sight.
“Why not now?”
“Because tonight is Terror Tuesday, and if I tell you now, you won’t be able to focus. And I need you, O. They need you. We have to get to the party at the end. I’m not spending a night in Theta’s dungeon. Are you?”
One side of my mouth curls up into a grimace. “No.”
She glances toward the hallway, where two sisters are arguing about body glitter and false lashes. Naomi steps closer and takes my hand, squeezing it just once.
“You’re not alone, Olivia. But sometimes we have to act like we are.”
Before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, she’s gone. I think about that butterfly. The one that’s kept me grounded while the absolute worst things were happening to my body. Moments Reggie Blackwell stole from me.
It became the thing I could concentrate on, to remember that I was still real, and then come back into myself once he was done. When his urges became too frequent, I simply left it in his office like a totem. I’d visit my Monarch and remind myself that I, too, could someday fly away…
My phone buzzes, and I hurriedly swipe some fallen tears, heading up the curved marble staircase.
The group chat “Cardells Control All” pings notifications rapidly. (Because, of course, my brothers would name it that.)
Henry
Did Bryce flake on his Econ midterm?
Aiden
He’s a walking liability. Maybe he should.
Ryan
I’ve seen Jell-O shots with more self-control.
Henry
Pretty sure he once threw up in a Dyson and blamed it on a freshman.
Ryan
Speaking of upgrades…
Nick was looking cozy next to our beloved sister after stats yesterday
Aiden
Good. He’s smart, stable. Predictable.
Henry
Wait, is that the guy who always wears those matching dollar-sign socks? I like him. He helped a squirrel out of the vending machine once.
Ryan
Finally, a man who could carry her books and her trauma.
Aiden
Don’t scare him off.
They act like they’re subtle. They’re not. I smirk despite myself.
Me
I’m fine. Just busy. Terror Tuesday prep. Wish me luck.
Aiden
You don’t need luck. You’ve got bloodlines. I got you.
Henry
Love you, O.
Ryan
Text if you need bail. Or a body hidden.
I almost say thank you. Instead, I turn the screen off. Then, another buzz.
Mom
Good luck tonight, sweetheart. Terror Tuesday is your thing. I know you’ll make us proud.
Dad
Don’t forget you and I have brunch with the chancellor’s family this weekend. Dress code: clean ambition.
I stare at the messages for a moment longer than I should. They love me. I know they do. But even love feels like another appointment sometimes.
Taking a deep breath, I steal a moment alone. The only one I’ve had all day. Fortunately, I don’t have classes this morning and revel in the luxury of silence. Single bedroom. Door closed. Locked.
A wheeled garment rack Sora forced into my room Sunday evening blocks my chaise lounge. Four costume options hang from it like ceremonial offerings, each tagged in her aggressive cursive: “Regal,” “Ethereal,” “Temptress,” and the front-runner: “Queen Bitch.”
The dress she wants me to wear is unmistakable.
Soft pink satin. Boned corset. High slit. Off-the-shoulder sleeves that drape like fallen petals. A trail of sheer rose tulle pools at the bottom like smoke. The crown tucked beside it gleams with pink rhinestones and barbed wire.
Because, in Omega, we don’t wear black to be bad.
We wear pink like poison in perfume.
Nick didn’t understand what Greek Life girls do, but I wouldn’t go for a cheap costume. No. The theme for this year’s Terror Tuesday is “Reign.” Fitting.
Every sorority president is expected to embody their house’s power. And as leader of Omega Nu Epsilon, mine is divine femininity sharpened into a siren’s call.
Sora’s note is pinned just below the neckline:
Your throne awaits, Olivia. Slay. Literally.
Normally, I’d laugh. Snap a selfie. Make a joke about putting a Viscount’s head on a spike. Tonight? I just stare at the dress in all its bold, beautiful splendor. It’s everything I used to be.
But as I run my fingers over the slick fabric, I don’t feel like royalty. I’m a sacrificial lamb. Precious enough to be marked for the gods’ pleasure.
Still, I lay it gently across the chair. If I can’t control the night, I can at least choose the costume.
When I move to the mirror, casually undressing, something catches in the crotch of my thong—brittle and crusted. My throat tightens as my upper lip curls with dread... Not again.
I strip faster, like the fabric might bite me if I don’t. Then, I toss it in the hamper like I’m exorcising a panty demon. Behind me, the garment glows softly in the lamplight—like it’s watching…waiting for me to do the wrong thing. An act not fitting for the crown.
My reflection in the mirror looks composed, but something’s fraying around the edges of my mascara. The pink gown sits across the room like a tiara I haven’t earned. Or a noose I’m expected to don like jewelry.
As I reach for my diary, my fingers tremble. I sink onto the edge of my bed, cross-legged like I’m twelve again, and crack the spine open to the last blank page.
The words spill out:
I don’t know who I am anymore. Not really. Olivia Cardell died somewhere in a warehouse. I’m what’s left. Something is happening. Something dark. I can feel it pressing in from every corner. Yet I’m smiling. And no one sees the blood. No one sees me.
Throat tight, I carefully close the diary. Maybe to hide it or protect it. But then I see a drawing that wasn’t there before.
A new Monarch butterfly is inked onto the back page with intricate, delicate strokes. So perfect, it looks like it could beat its wings. Beneath it, a new message.
You’re not alone, Chrysalis.
The journal hits the floor with a thud. My pulse spikes so fast I hear the static rush in my ears.
Vanq has been here. More than once. The crusted panties. The off feeling. The second butterfly wing. He’s not just watching…
He’s touching.
He knows things about me.
I stumble back from the bed like it’s on fire. My stomach lurches. I want to scream, but there’s no air left in my lungs. Vanq isn’t done with me.
My eyes snap to my balcony windows, onto the lake in the distance. The cameras flash from their tall poles.
His eyes aren’t far at all...
No.
He’s extremely close.