Chapter 8
Her
I grip the edge of Maddie's passenger seat as we pull into St. Alden car park, my knuckles turning white against the leather. The morning sun filters through the windshield, but it does nothing to warm the chill that's settled deep in my bones since that text last night.
The stalker's words replay in my head like a broken record. I didn’t sleep after showing it to Maddie, her face draining of color as she read the message and immediately told me to keep it as evidence. She promised we’d figure it out today.
But figuring it out feels impossible when every glance at my reflection reminds me of that hidden camera, capturing moments I thought were mine alone.
Maddie kills the engine and turns to me, the silence after her father’s call still ringing in the air. Her jaw tightens, then softens as she looks at me, that fierce concern back in place like armor.
“Ree?” She says gently. “You’ve been quiet the whole drive.”
I stare at my hands. The way they won’t stop trembling.
“I know last night was hell,” she continues, softer now, “but we’re here. This place, being out, it’ll ground you. And if anyone stares funny, I’ll handle it. Pepper spray and a monologue ready to go.”
A breathless almost-laugh slips out of me, sharp and brittle. I force a smile, but it feels like cracking glass on my lips. “I’m okay, Mads. Really. Just… tired.”
She doesn’t buy it. She never does.
“That text has me jumping at shadows.” I add, my voice dropping. “What if he wasn’t bluffing? What if it’s already out there?” The words hang between us, thick and ugly. Fear coils tighter in my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.
Maddie reaches over and squeezes my hand hard, grounding, solid. Real.
“Then we shut it down.” She says immediately. “IT, campus security, whatever it takes. We keep pushing until someone listens.”
I swallow. “Your dad said…”
“I don’t care what he said.” She snaps, then reins herself in. “You heard him. Reputation, optics, blah blah billionaire nonsense. He’s wrong.”
She turns fully toward me now. “You’re not facing this alone. Got it?”
I nod, even though my throat burns.
“And Ryan?” She adds, fire flashing in her eyes. “Screw him. We’ll pack your stuff later. Get you out of that dump for good. One step at a time.” She gives my hand another squeeze. “You with me?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Yeah. With you."
But as we step out of the car and start toward the main quad, that uneasy prickle starts low on my spine, spreading like ice water through my veins.
Something's off. The air feels thicker, charged with glances that linger too long. A group of freshmen by the fountain turns as we pass, their whispers cutting through the morning chatter like knives.
"Is that her?" One mutters, not quite low enough.
"Yeah. Did you see?" Another giggles, covering her mouth, but her eyes stay glued to me, wide and judgmental.
My heart stutters, then races full throttle, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to break free. Exposed. That's the word that slams into me. Stripped bare, not just in that video, but here, under the weight of their stares.
A guy from my lit seminar slows his walk, phone in hand, his gaze flicking up from the screen to my face before he jerks away, cheeks flushing. Did he watch it?
The thought twists in my gut, hot shame flooding my face as more heads turn. Subtle at first, then bolder, whispers rippling like a wave.
"That's the girl."
"Holy shit, it's real." I quicken my pace, my bag strap digging into my shoulder, but Maddie notices immediately, her arm linking through mine like a shield.
"Ree?" She asks, her voice dropping as she scans the crowd, her body tensing beside me. "You're shaking. Those idiots. Ignore them."
I open my mouth to brush it off, but my voice comes out shaky, thin as paper. "It's nothing. Just... people looking weird."
The lie tastes bitter, because deep down, I feel it. The video's out, circulating like poison through group chats and stories, turning my private hell public. My skin crawls, every stare a violation echoing that camera's unblinking eye.
"I'm fine. Go to your class. Don't be late because of me."
She stops us near the building fork, turning me to face her fully, her hands on my shoulders. "Bullshit. You're not fine. That text last night. Did you get another?"
"No." I say quickly, too quickly, my eyes darting to a cluster of sophomores who scatter when I look their way, one muttering "Slut" under her breath.
The word hits like a slap, panic flaring hot in my chest. Maddie doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. She tilts her head, eyes flicking over the girl like she’s appraising something mildly unimpressive.
“Wow.” She says lightly. “Bold take for someone whose personality is whispering insults and running away… while the entire football team runs a train on her every Friday behind the bleachers.”
The girl stiffens.
“Just a tip.” Maddie adds. “If you’re going to call strangers sluts, maybe don’t do it while your knees are still bruised from last night’s roster. It ruins the effect… sweetheart.”
A couple of people snort. The girl flushes and turns away fast.
"Go, Mads.” I say. “I'll text if anything happens. Promise."
She hesitates, chewing her lip, then pulls me into a quick, fierce hug. "Five minutes into class, you text me. If not, I'm storming your lecture. Okay?”
I nod.
“Love you." She peels off toward the theater wing, throwing a glance over her shoulder, but the crowd swallows her, leaving me alone with the weight of those eyes.
I slip into my classroom just as Prof. Sterling starts unpacking unreliable narrators again, the door creaking like an accusation. Heads turn. More stares, a girl in the front row whispering to her friend, both glancing back with smirks that make my stomach lurch.
I slide into my usual back-row seat, heart still hammering, and pull out my notebook like a barrier. But the whispers don't stop.
"That's her."
"No way, it's edited, right?"
My cheeks burn, shame wrapping around me like chains, and I hunch lower, pretending to scribble notes while my mind screams. He did it. Circulated it. My body, my bathroom. Now campus fodder.
My phone vibrates in my bag, jolting me upright, and I fish it out, expecting Maddie. But it's the university main line, the caller ID flashing ‘Admin Office.’ I answer on the third ring, my voice barely steady.
"Hello? This is Iris Whitlock."
"Iris, this is Dean Hargrove's office." The woman on the other end says, her tone clipped and formal, like she's reading from a script. "You're needed in the Dean's office immediately. Bring your student ID."
Her word lands like a stone in my gut, panic spiking anew as I mumble a "Yes, ma'am" and hang up. Prof. Sterling pauses mid-sentence, eyeing me from the front. "Everything alright, Miss Whitlock? You look unwell."
"I'm... fine." I manage, standing on wobbly legs and gathering my things. "Family emergency. Just got called to the office."
It's a lie, and murmurs rippling again as I bolt for the door.
"Sorry," I add to no one, the whispers chasing me out. "Bet it's about the video."
The corridor stretches like a gauntlet, every step heavier under the onslaught of stares that have multiplied since I arrived. Students cluster by lockers, phones out, their eyes tracking me like spotlights.
A guy from the sculpture lab, Al's classmate, leans against the wall, his gaze lingering too long on my chest before flicking away.
"Heard about you." He says as I pass, low enough to pretend it's not directed at me, but his smirk says otherwise.
Shame burns hotter, mixing with fury. How dare they judge, consume, without knowing the terror behind it? I feel like I'm walking toward my own execution, blindfolded and bound, the crime unknown but the sentence already passed.
My breath comes in short gasps, the walls closing in with each whisper. "Did you see her face?" "It's everywhere. Group chat's blowing up."
By the time I reach the admin wing, sweat beads on my forehead, and I knock on the Dean's door with a hand that's numb.
"Come in." A voice calls, and I push inside, the room's formality hitting me like a wall.
Dean Hargrove behind his massive desk, flanked by Ms. Rivera from student affairs, both faces stern and unreadable.
"Miss Whitlock." Dean Hargrove says, gesturing to the chair opposite them without standing.
"Sit. This won't take long, but it's serious." His voice carries that administrative chill, the kind that breaks no emotion, and Ms. Rivera nods, her tablet glowing with what I dread is evidence.
I lower myself into the seat, my bag clutched in my lap like a shield, heart thundering so loud I swear they hear it.
"What's this about?" I ask, though I already know, the air thick with unspoken accusations.
Ms. Rivera taps her screen, turning it toward me. A blurred preview frozen on pause, just enough frames to make my blood run cold. Steam-fogged mirror, my silhouette stepping from the shower. My bathroom. My body.
Recognition slams into me, a punch that drains the color from my face, leaving me lightheaded and reeling. He didn't just threaten. He did it. Released it into the wild, turning my violation into spectacle.
Numbness spreads from my fingertips inward, a cold fog dulling the edges of panic, shame, humiliation, fear, betrayal. All crashing together in a wave that threatens to drown me.
"Do you know about this video circulating on social media and university groups?" Dean Hargrove asks, his tone measured but edged with disapproval, as if I'm the one who chose exposure.
"It's explicit, non-consensual, and tied to your name. We're investigating the source, but as a student here, this reflects on St. Alden's image."
I stare at the screen, the blurred image searing into my brain, voices around me turning distant, muffled like underwater echoes.
"I... that's me." I whisper, my voice flat, detached, because admitting it makes it real, irreversible.