Chapter 4 Chloe
Chloe
Three months later
Hands clamp around my wrists, rough, unrelenting, dragging me forward into the circle of light. My knees hit the cold floor with a crack. Laughter booms around me, low and cruel, bouncing off walls I can’t see. I blink, but the shadows blur, faceless men circling like predators.
A sting rips across my skin. Another. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoes, sharp, merciless as they spank my bare ass. My body jerks with every strike, fire licking down my spine, my thighs trembling under the weight of it.
“No,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “Please, stop—please—”
They only laugh harder. One bends close enough that I can smell the sour bite of his breath. His hand forces my chin up, and another crack lashes across my ass. Heat floods me, a burn that shouldn’t twist into something else but does. My traitorous body arches into it, seeking, shaming me.
The circle closes in. Hands grope, pinch, prod. Every strike, every cruel touch, sends a shock of unwanted pleasure that coils low in my belly, tightening until it hurts.
“Look at her,” someone jeers. “She likes it.”
“I don’t!” I scream, but the words scrape raw, swallowed by the sound of their laughter.
Another slap. Harder. The pressure inside me snaps, white-hot and unstoppable. My cry isn’t pain this time. It’s worse. It’s release. My body convulses in front of them, the wet heat of humiliation flooding me as they cheer.
I collapse forward, forehead to the ground, tears stinging hot trails down my face. I can’t stop shaking. I want to disappear. To die. Anything but this.
I come awake with a violent jerk, lungs dragging air like I’ve been drowning. My throat burns raw, my voice shredded from a scream I don’t remember letting out. Sweat clings to my hairline, soaking the collar of my shirt. The sheets are twisted tight around my legs, pinning me down like a trap.
For a second I can’t breathe. I can still hear them.
The laughter. The cruel, ugly kind that curdles my stomach.
I see the shadows moving around me, faceless, heavy.
My skin stings, phantom fire racing across it, every crack of pain followed by that sharp, shameful tug deep inside me.
I’d begged in the dream, begged for them to stop, begged for my body not to betray me.
But it had. I’d come, right there, in front of everyone. Humiliated. Owned.
Shame curls in my chest, alive and snarling, clawing to get out.
I squeeze my eyes shut, palms pressing hard against them. In. Out. In. Out. My therapist’s voice threads through the panic, calm and infuriating. Name things in the room. Ground yourself, Chloe. Don’t get stuck in the nightmare.
The nightstand. My chipped mug with cold tea still in it. The cheap lamp from the thrift store. The wall with its ugly peeling paint that flakes if I touch it. My phone, face-down, glowing faintly.
My breathing slows. Not calm, but less like I’m about to explode out of my own skin. I reach for the phone, flip it over. Six. Almost six. The sky outside the curtain is bruising with dawn.
I force myself to look around. The room is small.
So small it would have made me laugh at the beginning of this year.
But it’s mine. My little rental with its slanted floors and the window that doesn’t shut all the way.
My space. Not marble and glass, not chandeliers that caught the light in cold prisms. Not the suffocating silence of staff trained to look away and pretended not to hear the arguments.
No. This is different.
I stretch, arms reaching up until the old mattress beneath me squeals in protest. My bones ache. My chest is heavy. My therapist swears yoga will help, that it will let me release the weight strapped to me like an anchor. I don’t buy it. But I drag myself to try anyway.
The mat waits by the window. I step onto it barefoot, tugging down my oversized sleep shirt so it brushes my thighs. My hair hangs in a tangled mess down my back, damp from sweat. My skin is sticky. Gross. But I plant my palms on the mat, breathe, and sink into the first stretch.
Cat. Cow. The creak of my spine echoes louder than my breath. Downward dog. My arms tremble from weakness. I push anyway.
And my mind drifts.
Two months ago still tastes like ashes in my mouth.
The courtroom had been suffocating, hot under the press of too many bodies and too many stares.
The gavel had hit wood with a crack that seemed to split my world open.
Guilty. Embezzlement. Fraud. The numbers spilled out in neat columns, millions siphoned away from the veins of Pointe and the Chicago Gold Coast. Families stripped. Neighbors gutted.
I’d felt eyes on me—sharp, unforgiving. Nate’s parents. Harper’s. People who’d once sat at our table, smiled at me like I was one of theirs. They looked at me like my blood carried his lies. Like his greed was tattooed on my skin.
I press harder into the stretch, but the weight doesn’t move.
Overnight, I went from golden girl to ghost. Boyfriend dumped me. Invitations evaporated. Phones stopped buzzing. Doors slammed quietly but slammed all the same. Whispers chased me when I dared step out the door.
My mother hadn’t lasted a week. She’d packed up the last shreds of her pride and fled back to Paris.
To Neuilly-sur-Seine, where her parents still live in their stone house with its iron balconies and wisteria.
She didn’t ask me to come. She didn’t want me.
Or maybe she couldn’t bear the scandal clinging to me like a second skin. Maybe I just reminded her of my father?
I guess I’ll never really know.
So I stayed. Alone.
The only thing my father left me that didn’t crumble into dust was the trust fund he couldn’t touch.
He thought he was clever, hiding money in shell corporations.
I found the paperwork. I used it. Paid tuition.
Rented this shoebox of a house near Pointe University on the side of town where no one knows me.
It isn’t much. But it’ll have to do for now.
I sink down into child’s pose, forehead pressed to the mat. The smell of detergent clings faintly to the fabric, sharp and too clean. My body hums with tension that never really leaves.
Today is supposed to be different. The first day of class at Pointe University.
If I keep my head down, if I just move forward, maybe I can shed the skin of Chloe Ashford, daughter of disgrace.
Maybe I can be just Chloe, communications major.
Just Chloe, who shops secondhand and makes coffee at home because she can’t stand the pity in a barista’s smile.
Just Chloe, who studies, graduates, disappears into New York someday.
That’s the dream.
My therapist says I should join a sorority. “Sisterhood,” she insists. “Community.” I almost laugh every time. Me, walking down Greek Row with my name dripping like poison from people’s lips? No.
But maybe. One day.
For now, all I can do is keep breathing. Keep stretching. Keep reminding myself that this tiny room, this mat, this silence—it’s mine. And I will not let the nightmares dictate the rest of my life.
Not anymore.
I collapse onto my back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The nerves hit then, sharp as a knife. What if everyone knows who I am? What if they see my name and connect it? What if they whisper?
I turn my head to the side. My phone sits by my bed, glowing faintly. Messages unopened. No friends to text me good luck. No mother to call. Just silence.
I close my eyes and breathe.
I can totally do this.
The Honda coughs before it finally gives in and rolls to a stop, the engine shuddering like it’s just run a marathon it wasn’t trained for.
My hand lingers on the steering wheel, knuckles white around the cracked leather cover, the smell of hot oil bleeding through the vents.
I close my eyes, count to three, then open them again.
The cherries dangle from the rearview mirror, faded red, their plastic stems twisted, one of the leaves missing.
They bump against the glass as if reminding me, this is yours now.
No chauffeur, no glossy black sedan with climate control and leather seats.
Or my pretty red Audi that was stolen and dumped months ago.
Just me and this Civic that sounds like it might fall apart on the highway if I dare ask too much of it.
I drag in a deep breath, shove the door open, and step into the morning light. The parking lot is buzzing, students spilling out of cars, voices weaving together in a low, excited hum. I hug my bag tighter to my side, fighting the urge to turn around and drive home.
Registration is a blur of forms and signatures, lines that crawl forward inch by inch, volunteers in matching T-shirts smiling with that too-bright, practiced friendliness that makes me itch.
The gym smells like floor polish and paper, the squeak of sneakers against the court echoing above the chatter.
By the time I’m free, my nerves are stretched thin, buzzing under my skin like static. I’m standing outside, debating whether to make a break for it, when a girl approaches.
She’s sunshine wrapped in leggings—long blonde hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, bright white sneakers that somehow manage to stay pristine despite the dust, and a smile sharp enough to cut.
She moves with the kind of easy confidence that announces she belongs here, that she’s been raised on pep rallies and spotlight applause.
“Hi.” Her voice is sing-song, a little too perfect. “You’re new, right?”
I blink at her, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah.”
“I’m Bella.” She offers her hand, manicured nails catching the light. “Head of Delta Phi. Cheer captain. And your unofficial welcome committee.”
Her grip is firm, practiced. She studies me like I’m a project she might take on if she’s bored enough. I feel the weight of it, the judgment tucked behind her practiced friendliness.
“Chloe,” I say, giving her the smallest version of myself.
“Well, Chloe.” She links her arm through mine before I can protest, steering me down the walkway like she’s decided I belong to her now. “Have you thought about pledging? Delta Phi is basically the sorority on campus. Sisterhood, connections, parties. All that fun stuff.”
My throat dries. I picture myself in a Delta Phi jacket, walking Greek Row while whispers trail after me, my name dripping like poison from their lips. I can already feel the weight of it crushing me.
“I don’t think so,” I murmur.
She waves me off, too busy talking to really listen. “You’ll change your mind. Everyone does once they see what we’re about.” Her ponytail swishes as she tilts her head toward the far side of campus. “Come on. I’ll show you the fun part. The team’s practicing right now. You have to see them.”
“The team?”
Her grin widens. “Hockey. They’re everything here. Trust me, you’ll want to know their names.”
Hockey. My high school had football—the Friday night lights, the bleachers packed, cheerleaders flipping across the sidelines while the whole town roared. I’d clapped, pretended to care, but football had always felt like noise to me. Heavy bodies colliding, whistles blaring.
Hockey, though? I’ve never seen a game live. Just flashes on TV, men flying across ice with impossible grace, fights breaking out like storms mid-play.
Bella pulls me toward the rink, her chatter filling the space between us. The air grows colder as we step inside, a sharp bite that seeps through my thin shirt. The smell of ice hits me first—clean, crisp, with that faint chemical tang that lingers in the air.
And then I see them.
The rink is a sheet of gleaming white, carved with lines from skates, mist curling at the edges.
The team is spread out across it, moving in patterns that look chaotic but are too sharp, too precise to be random.
Their blades cut into the ice with each stride, the sound slicing through the air like knives.
One player glides backward, stick low, eyes locked on a puck as he pivots and accelerates again, every muscle firing with purpose.
Another crouches to stretch, long arms braced against the barrier, the fabric of his jersey stretched taut across broad shoulders.
Helmets clink, laughter rises, sharp and quick before it dissolves into the scrape of skates.
Bella leans against the glass, her reflection shimmering beside the players. “This is our pride and joy. Pointe’s finest. Number one in the league a few years ago. And that—” she points toward the center of the ice, “—is Miles Thatcher.”
My eyes follow her finger.
He’s moving with a kind of quiet authority, calling out something I can’t hear, and the others shift instantly, like planets caught in his gravity.
He’s tall, lean muscle built for speed, his jersey clinging to the cut of his body as he skates effortlessly across the rink.
When he stops, ice sprays up around him, glittering like shards of glass in the light.
Bella sighs, dramatic, almost rehearsed. “Captain. Star forward. Future NHL. He’s basically a god around here. And he knows it.”
I can’t look away. The sheer physicality of him—the controlled power in each stride, the way his body seems built to dominate the ice—has me caught.
Bella keeps talking, listing stats, victories, the record they’re chasing this season. Her voice is a hum in the background as I watch the team bend and move, their bodies syncing together like gears in a machine.
Something tugs inside me. This is my fresh start where no one knows me.
I feel free like I can be whoever I want to be.
I picture myself here, cheering on the hockey players instead of football, and it all sounds good to me.
The way people would look at me—belonging, part of something, not invisible, not whispered about in disgust.
The thought startles me, warming me from the inside out.
For a moment, the shame and heaviness I woke up with this morning fade. The nightmare, the courtroom, the whispers—they’re still there, coiled in the corners of my mind, but quieter.
The rink echoes with the sound of blades and sticks, the sharp slap of the puck as it ricochets off the boards. My eyes keep finding Miles, the way he commands without raising his voice, the way he skates like the ice belongs to him.
Maybe this school isn’t so bad after all.