Chapter 18 Chloe #2
“She thinks she’s clever. Thinks she can get out clean. She’s been talking to lawyers.” His mouth curls bitterly. “I want you to make her reconsider.”
“I can’t make her—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice sharpens. “You’ll visit. Cry, tell her how much you need her. You’re good at that—playing the fragile daughter. Make her feel guilty.”
I stare at him. “Why would you even want her back?”
He lowers his voice. “Because we’re in trouble, Chloe.”
He glances toward the guard near the wall, then pinches my side hard, enough to make me gasp. “Stop flinching. Listen.” His breath is hot against my ear when he leans in. “I took money from some very bad people.”
The world narrows to the space between us. “What do you mean, bad people?”
“The kind who don’t forgive.”
He sits back, eyes darting. “They’re after me. Probably after you, too, if you’re not careful. But there’s a man on the outside—he’ll take care of things if you need money. His name is Vince Marano. You remember that name, Chloe. If anyone starts asking questions, you find Vince.”
I whisper it. “Vince Marano.”
“Good girl.”
The guard clears his throat, stepping closer. Dad straightens like nothing happened. “Once they transfer me, don’t contact me for a while. Not until I reach out. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
Another guard walks in, calling names. Dad’s is one of them.
He pushes back from the table, the chains rattling. “Keep your head down. And for God’s sake, don’t get involved with idiots. You embarrass yourself enough.”
“I’m trying—”
But he’s already being led away. He doesn’t look back.
The chair feels colder after he’s gone.
I sit until the guards tell me it’s time to leave, staring at the scratched tabletop.
My reflection swims faintly in the metal.
I think of the house I grew up in with its marble floors, imported art, a nanny who taught me how to curtsy for guests.
I think of Christmas morning when Dad bought me a pony because I said I liked horses once.
And I think about how every single bit of it was built on lies.
I want to text Jamie. He’s the only person who’s ever made me feel like it’s okay to not have everything together.
He listens. He doesn’t judge. But what would I even say?
Hey, my dad might’ve been laundering money for criminals.
Also, I might be getting blacklisted by my entire sorority because they think I’m trash.
And I kind of slept with your best friend.
Yeah. No.
By the time I make it back to campus, the sun’s sliding low behind the dorms. My stomach knots tighter with every step toward the sorority house.
The front door is cracked open. That’s the first bad sign.
Inside, it smells like something acrid—nail polish remover maybe. My room is at the end of the hall, and I can hear muffled laughter from behind closed doors as I pass.
When I push my door open, the breath leaves my body.
Everything is destroyed.
My mattress flipped, sheets shredded. Makeup dumped across the floor, glitter crushed into the carpet. And on the wall, scrawled in bright red lipstick, is one word. SLUT.
My heart stutters.
The nightstand is split down the middle. Splintered like someone took a bat to it. There’s lipstick smeared on the mirror, too. A crude drawing. I don’t even cry at first. I just stand there, numb, the silence roaring in my ears.
Then Maggie’s voice drifts from the doorway. “Told you this would happen.”
She’s flanked by Brielle, both in their matching cheer jackets, smirking.
I turn, throat raw. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with us?” Brielle laughs. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep your legs closed. Now Bella’s humiliated, the team’s pissed, and everyone knows what kind of girl you really are.”
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, please,” Maggie cuts in. “You think anyone believes that? You go after Jamie, you go after Miles—what did you think was going to happen?”
I take a shaky step back, hitting the edge of the desk. “You can’t do this.”
Brielle crosses her arms. “We already did.”
Maggie tilts her head. “Oh, and Chloe? See you at practice tomorrow.”
They leave, laughter echoing down the hall.
I look back at the mess, and I can still hear Dad’s voice—keep your head down.
Maybe if I stay quiet, if I just take it, they’ll get bored. Maybe the whispers will stop.
Then I start cleaning.
Because that’s what I do. I clean up messes. I pretend I’m fine. I pretend the world doesn’t hate me for wanting things I shouldn’t.
By the time I’m done, it’s past midnight. My room looks less like a crime scene and more like an aftermath.
I crawl into bed—no sheets, just the bare mattress—and stare at the ceiling.
The lipstick word still gleams faintly in the dark.
And all I can think about is how I deserve it.
Because deep down, I know they’re right. I am a slut.
I was wrong.
Keeping my head down does not work.
It’s been a week of hell. My shampoo replaced with apple sauce. My clothes dumped in the communal shower. A dead fish slipped under my bed.
Yesterday, someone locked my closet and threw away the key. Today, I found the house lock changed. No one texted to tell me. No warning, just the cold click of the key not turning.
So I spent the night at my old apartment.
The one Dad was paying for. I swore I wouldn’t go to it, but I always kept it as a backup just in case.
Turns out that time happened sooner than later.
The heating doesn’t work, the pipes rattle, and the mattress dips in the middle like it’s sighing under the weight of my bad decisions.
Still, it’s quiet.
No footsteps outside my door. No whispered laughter bleeding through the walls. No one giving me evil eyes.
I guess that counts as peace.
Except for the silence in my phone.
After that one text from Miles, it’s been crickets. No follow-up. No apology. No explanation.
And Jamie? Not a single word.
Well, fuck them both.
Let them sit with the same silence I’ve been drowning in.
Still, my eyes betray me every time my phone lights up. Still, I keep it charged, screen facing up, like some pathetic beacon.
It’s pathetic, really. I used to be the girl who threw parties that made the campus paper.
When I look in the mirror, my reflection looks older. Not wiser. Just… more dumb, more tired.
My father’s words keep looping in my head—make her reconsider.
I don’t know what he expects me to do. Mom hasn’t spoken to me in days. And we never have any substantial conversation…not since the trial started. She moved back in with her parents in Neuilly-sur-Seine, trading California sunshine for Parisian exile.
And that she’s now learning to bake.
But maybe if I show up—if I try—maybe that counts for something.
I stare at my calendar, a stupid pink square marking midterms week. I can’t focus anyway. My grades are slipping, my reputation’s ruined, and every time I step on campus I can feel the whispers crawl across my skin.
Maybe a week away would help.
Or maybe I just want to stop being the version of Chloe who walks through campus like a bruise.
I shove a few clothes into a duffel—jeans, sweaters, one decent coat—then zip it shut. The zipper sticks halfway, and I sigh.
The room smells faintly like dust and lemon cleaner, the ghost of a life that used to feel safer. I used to live here when everything was simpler—before the house, before Miles, before my name was written in lipstick across a wall.
When I close the door behind me, the sound echoes. Hollow.
Outside, the air bites at my cheeks. The trees along the street are turning—reds, yellows, that brittle kind of beauty that always looks like it’s about to collapse.
It’s funny. A week ago, I thought I could still fix things. I thought keeping my head down, pretending not to care, would make it stop.
But the truth is, rot spreads quietly. You don’t even notice until the whole house starts to smell.
So I’m done waiting.
If my father wants me to convince my mother, I’ll go. If nothing else, maybe seeing her will remind me what it feels like to be someone’s daughter instead of everyone’s mistake.
I book the ticket before I can change my mind.
When the confirmation hits my inbox, I stare at it for a long time.
Flight to Paris – Departing 10:20 PM.
The cursor blinks at the end of my mother’s number in my phone. I type I’m coming home three times before deleting it every time.
Instead, I close the message.
I’ll just show up.
She hates surprises, but maybe she’ll make an exception for the daughter she doesn’t really want to see.
And maybe if I can fix this one thing, it’ll make everything else hurt a little less.
Neuilly-sur-Seine looks like a watercolor painting someone forgot to finish. Muted colors. Quiet streets. The kind of beauty that feels heavy instead of light.
The cab winds past stone fences and iron gates, sunlight bleeding gold over the vineyards. It’s hard to believe my mother lives in a place where everything smells like crushed grapes and old money.
When we pull up, the house rises from the slope like it’s been here for centuries. Pale stone walls, green shutters, ivy creeping up one side. There’s a faint hum of bees somewhere near the vines.
My mother is waiting by the doorway. She looks smaller than I remember, her hair twisted into a loose bun, flour dusting the sleeve of her sweater.
She’s smiling. Or maybe she’s trying to.
“Chloe,” she says. Just that. My name.
I swallow hard and step forward. “Hi, Mom.”
She smells like butter and yeast like bread fresh out of the oven.
Inside, the house is warm and full of light. There are open windows, jars of preserves on the counter and stacks of cookbooks.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says as she wipes her hands on a towel.
“Yeah. It was kind of last minute.”
“I figured your father sent you.”
There it is. No warm reunion. Just the shadow of his name.
She pours us tea. The table between us is scarred wood.
“I’m… thinking of opening a bakery,” she says after a beat, staring into her cup. “Nothing fancy. Just breads and pastries. Something small.”
“That sounds nice,” I say quietly.
She glances up, as if testing my sincerity. “It is. It’ll be mine.”
We sit in silence. Outside, the wind rattles the vines against the window.
Finally, she sighs. “So. What does he want this time?”
I trace the rim of my mug. “He said you’re filing for divorce.”
Her mouth twitches. “And he sent you to talk me out of it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The air thickens. I feel twelve again, sitting at that long dining table, pretending not to hear the yelling from down the hall. Pretending not to flinch when the plates shattered.
Mom pushes back her chair, stands, and walks to the sink. “I married a man who hit me, Chloe. Or do you forget the number of times that happened?”
My stomach twists. “I don’t.”
“I know it’s easier to pretend,” she says, her voice softer now, “but pretending doesn’t make it untrue.” She turns, arms crossed over her chest. “You think I wanted to run? You think leaving you there didn’t break me?”
I blink hard. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”
“I know. But it was better for you there. You have your whole future there. You have your father’s money.” She exhales shakily. “But I couldn’t stay. I needed an out. And this,” she gestures around the room, at the sunlight, the flour-dusted counters, the quiet, “this is my second chance.”
Silence again. The kind that feels alive, breathing between us.
She walks back to the table and sits. Her eyes are tired, rimmed red. “You were always closer to him.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is.” She doesn’t raise her voice, but the words sting anyway. “Even after everything. After the bruises. After the police came. You still looked at him like he was some hero.”
I look down at my hands. “He’s my dad.”
“And I am your mother.”
There’s no accusation in her tone—just exhaustion.
She takes a sip of her tea. “He hurt you too, you know.”
I nod. Slowly. “I know.”
But the truth is, I spent years pretending his temper wasn’t that bad. That if I stayed quiet, didn’t argue, maybe he’d stop. I used to cover the sound of him yelling by turning up my music.
I used to pretend not to see the marks on Mom’s wrists. I used to cover up my own bruises anyway.
And when the trust fund news came—when the money from my father’s will was locked under my name—Mom left.
That was the night everything cracked.
“I thought you’d hate me,” I say.
“I did,” she admits softly. “For a while. But mostly, I was angry that you sided with him. You saw what he did to us, and you picked him. I know you still visit him in prison. I know that, Chloe.”
Her voice breaks just enough to make me look up.
“I wanted you to choose yourself,” she says. “Instead, you chose him.”
The words hit somewhere deep.
Maybe because she’s right.
Maybe because I’ve been choosing the wrong men my whole damn life.
Outside, the sky turns the color of wine. A breeze slips through the open window, cool and clean.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Mom nods once, her jaw trembling.
We sit there, the silence gentler now. Two women bound by the same ghosts, trying to find new names for the hurt.
When she finally smiles, it’s small but real. “You look tired. Go rest. The guest room is at the end of the hall.”
I stand, my legs unsteady.
As I reach the door, she says, “Chloe?”
I turn.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “him being locked up might be the best thing that ever happened to us. At least we are safe now.”