Chapter 16
AVA
The sky is already dusky by the time I leave the library, the last smears of daylight bleeding out through the ancient oaks that line the quad.
Evening settles over campus like a held breath– quieter, slower, the usual chaos stripped down to something almost peaceful.
I grip the straps of my backpack and tuck my chin, but the late-autumn chill still slips beneath my clothes, needling along my spine until I shiver.
I’m only halfway caught up on the week of class that I missed.
Honestly, it’s a minor miracle that I’ve managed that much already– most of my waking hours since coming back have been spent either trying not to fall apart or playing catch-up on everything except my actual coursework.
But tonight, walking the main path through campus with a to-do list running through my head and the steady, grounding rhythm of my own footsteps beneath me, I almost feel normal again.
Except for the fact that every single person I pass is openly staring at me.
At first, I tell myself it’s just in my head. That I’m still hypersensitive from weeks of being the campus freak show, the shiny new Doll, and the property of the Kings. Of course I’m going to notice every side-eye and half-whisper… right?
But this is different.
People aren’t looking away when I catch their gaze.
Their stares linger, groups bunching up around stone benches and under trees, conversations stalling mid-sentence as I approach before picking back up in low, deliberate murmurs once I’ve passed.
Like I’m the subject of their conversations, not just a passerby.
Like I’m the evening’s entertainment.
I do my best to keep my head down and push forward, ignoring the steady hum of voices rising and falling in my wake, but it’s impossible. I try to pretend I’m invisible, but it doesn’t work. Their attention locks in, tracking my every move.
Their eyes strip me down to skin and bone, crawling over me in slow, invasive passes. Hands that aren’t there, fingers tugging at my hair, the quiet, collective assessment of my worth, weighing me in units of humiliation per second.
I haven’t seen any of the Kings since my last class with Raf hours ago, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still watching.
They could be lurking in the shadows themselves, could’ve put someone on my tail to keep track of my movements.
I try to pick up my pace and walk faster, but the scrutiny around me only intensifies, hitting me in pulses.
A laugh, cut off too quickly.
A whisper that stops the second I turn my head.
A girl at the edge of her group stills when she sees me, her eyes widening before she leans in to murmur something to her friends.
A cluster of football players immediately start nudging one another as I pass, shoulders bumping, grins spreading as they try– and fail– not to laugh.
My stomach swoops and my thoughts start racing, tripping over themselves as I try to make sense of it.
Did something happen? Did the other students find out about the Dollhouse, about what I am now, about what was done to me? Do they know my own stepfather sold me off like livestock?
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe, my fingertips starting to tingle.
I’m about two heartbeats from a full blown panic attack by the time I reach the quad, scanning the crowd desperately for anything familiar, anyone safe. But I’ve only got one real friend here, and Bryce is nowhere in sight.
I’m so overwhelmed that I almost miss the cluster of bodies closing in ahead of me, barely catching myself before I slam straight into them. My boots skid against the pavement as I jerk to a stop, breath hitching hard in my chest. I look up, an apology on the tip of my tongue…
And freeze.
Because Chelsea Carson is standing directly in front of me.
She’s blocking just enough of the path to force me into her space, staring down her surgically straight nose at me, lips curling slowly into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I try to step around her, but she’s flanked by two friends who shift with eerie precision, just enough to box me in.
My stomach drops.
It’s a trap.
My mouth goes dry, the panic that’s been simmering under my skin snapping into something sharper, more focused.
Chelsea lets the silence stretch just long enough for people to notice. I can feel it happening– the subtle shift of attention, the way heads start to turn, bodies angling toward us like flowers chasing sunlight.
“Wow, Ava,” she purrs, her voice pitched just right– loud enough to carry, soft enough to feel intimate.
“I knew you were desperate, but throwing yourself a party to celebrate losing your virginity?” She tilts her head, eyes flicking over me in a slow, deliberate sweep that lingers just a second too long.
“That’s next-level tacky. Even for you.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the people closest to us, quiet but unmistakable.
I blink at her, my brain lagging a half a step behind, struggling to catch up. For a split second, I think maybe I misheard her… but she’s still smiling, her friends giggling, exchanging glances with each other like they’re sharing a private joke.
Like they know something I don’t.
“I… what?” I stammer, shaking my head to try to clear the fog. “What are you even talking about?”
Chelsea exhales a soft, disappointed sigh, folding her arms like I’ve failed some kind of test.
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs. “Nobody’s buying the innocent act anymore.” Her gaze sharpens, locking onto mine. "Not after this."
Something cold slides down my spine as my phone vibrates against my hip. The timing is almost too perfect.
I fumble for it, fingers clumsy as I drag it out of the pocket of my cardigan, my pulse hammering in my ears. A message from Bryce flashes across the screen, and I quickly swipe it open, finding a forwarded image.
At first, I think it’s a joke or some meme I don’t get, because the graphic is so aggressively hideous it looks like it was designed by a five-year-old on a sugar high.
Bright teal background, red cherries everywhere, a cartoon bottle of whipped cream at one corner.
In giant, bubble letters across the middle, it reads:
CHERRY POP PARTY
This Saturday Night @ The Boathouse
Be there to celebrate the Doll
finally getting de-virginized!
There are a few details underneath in smaller font– open bar, instructions to dress in red–then a picture of my face, photoshopped onto a little cartoon body with hearts floating around my head.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like it leaves my body entirely, flipping once, twice, before clawing its way back up my throat.
No.
No, no, no…
The air leaves my lungs in a cold rush as I stare at the image, reading it again. And again. And again.
Like if I look at it enough times, it’ll change. Rearrange itself into something less humiliating.
It doesn’t.
The edges of my vision start to blur, the world softening into something distant and unreal, like I’m watching this happen from somewhere outside of my own body.
Then I drag my gaze up from the screen, and Chelsea is still there, still watching me, delight etched into every line of her stupidly perfect face.
“I mean,” Chelsea muses, her voice carrying easily across the quad, “I guess that explains the infatuation.” She leans in, close enough that I can smell the cloying scent of her perfume, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.
Her smile doesn’t soften up close. It fractures, sharp at the edges, like glass under pressure.
“But to actually advertise it?” she scoffs, her gaze flicking down, then back up.
“God, Ava. I didn’t think you could get any more pathetic. ”
A few people laugh, louder this time.
I can’t speak.
My fingers curl tighter around my phone, the edges biting into my palm hard enough that it should hurt, should anchor me somehow, but it doesn’t. Nothing does. My eyes drag across the crowd instead, catching on faces I half-recognize– strangers, classmates, everyone watching.
Waiting.
For me to cry, to break, to give them something worth remembering. Because right now, I’m not a person. I’m a spectacle; the star of my own public execution.
Chelsea’s voice pierces through the haze.
“If I were you,” she says lightly, like she’s offering helpful advice, “I’d make the most of the little time you’ve got left.
” Her blue eyes pin me in place, bright and merciless.
“Because the second they get what they want, they’ll just toss you out like the trash you are.
” She shrugs, gaze flicking down to my chest, then back up to my face.
“But I guess that’s all you were ever good for anyway. ”
Her words slice clean through my brain, but they don’t land the way she wants them to. They don’t hollow me out or make me fold in on myself.
They catch.
They spark.
And then they burn.
I straighten slowly, shoulders pulling back, spine locking in place as something dark and ugly inside me pushes up through the panic. My vision blurs, but not from fear– from the sheer force of the rage clawing its way up my throat.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, holding her gaze even as everything inside me threatens to boil over.
Chelsea tilts her head, studying me like I’ve just become interesting again.
“Guess you’ll find out soon enough,” she says with a soft little tsk, already stepping back.
Her friends fall into step beside her instantly, the formation breaking as smoothly as it came together, their laughter trailing behind them as they melt back into the crowd.
And just like that, the show moves on.
I stand there for a second, motionless, the noise of the quad rushing back in around me like water closing over my head.
Then I look down.
The event flyer is still blazing on my phone screen, bright and garish and impossible to ignore. It burns into my vision, even when I blink– every color too loud, every word too sharp, every pixel a new layer of shame.
There’s another message from Bryce, just below the image.
WTF. Is this for real? Call me if you need backup.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, but I don’t respond.
I can’t.
Instead, I do the one thing I’ve learned to do best at Corvus. I lift my chin and start walking. I don’t look at anyone, I don’t slow down. I don’t let them see me bleed.
That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. Every stare, every whisper, every flicker of movement at the edges of my vision. It crawls over my skin, clings to me, follows me down the campus path.
Then slowly, the shame starts curdling into something else, hardening until there’s nothing soft left in it at all. Just heat. Fury. Determination. The kind of molten, brain-melting rage that scorches away everything else.
This has Ford written all over it. The tacky flyer, the over-the-top humiliation, the setup and the punchline. For the first time in days, I’m not even thinking about the Dollhouse– because the real monster has been here all along, living right down the hall from me, smiling to my face.
And now, he’s about to find out exactly what happens when you push a girl like me too far. A girl with nothing left to lose.
By the time Sutton Hall comes into view, I’m running on pure adrenaline, fists clenched so tight my hands ache, jaw locked hard enough to throb.
I want to hurt something.
No– I want to hurt him.
I’m done hiding, done swallowing it down, done caring what people think.
This isn’t a game anymore.
This is war.