1. Wren #2
Fear, expectation, and both knowing and not knowing what awaits me at Valehurst have reduced me to a shadow of my former self. My honey-brown eyes are now dull when I look in the mirror, and dark circles rim my eyes. There isn’t the same flush to my skin, the same energy surrounding me.
I haven’t even set foot on Valehurst campus, and I’m already fucking done.
I’m yanked from my morbid thoughts by the ringing of my cell phone. My lips twitch in a semblance of a smile—all I’m capable of nowadays—when I see the caller ID. Dylan.
“Hey, girl. I’m just checking in. Making sure you made it okay.”
Something unclenches in my chest at hearing her voice. Oh, how I wish I were sitting beside her, the two of us curled up on my sofa in my old apartment, hot chocolate in hand and a romcom paused on the TV while we gossip.
Feeling as though my legs can no longer hold my weight, I sink onto the nearest soft surface, an armchair that probably cost a five-figure sum but feels like concrete beneath my ass.
“So?” She drags out the word when I don’t respond. “Did you get there okay?”
“Technically.”
She laughs under her breath. “What’s the new place like?”
“Bland. Like my parents hired a decorator and told them the vibe was ‘I have money, but I still want to blow my brains out’.”
Dylan snorts. “Very…you.”
I smile, just a little. Then it fades. My voice is heavier when I confess, “I miss you.”
“Miss you more,” Dylan responds, equally forlorn-sounding. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Hearing that question from Dylan threatens the shaky foundations I’m standing on. Like I might fall apart if I answer honestly. If I actually let myself consider the fact that I might not be okay. That I might be as far from okay as one can get.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, knowing it’s the only response I can give. It’s the only one I can tell myself.
Another silence, like she can read through the lie. Dylan doesn’t push; she never does. It’s the thing I love most about her.
My phone beeps with another incoming call, and I pull the device away from my ear to look at the screen. I smother a groan as my mother’s name flashes on the screen.
“I have to go,” I tell Dylan.
“Text me later, okay?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah.”
We say goodbye before I hang up and reluctantly accept my mother’s call.
“Gwendolyn,” my mother says, crisp and practiced. “I trust you’ve arrived.”
No hello. No, how was the drive, or asking if I’ve settled into my new digs. Just straight to the point. Very typical of my mother. Why waste time with pleasantries?
“I did.”
“Good. Janice has the fridge stocked with everything you need. I’ll be keeping an eye on your bank account, so no sneaking fatty foods.
Your attendance is mandatory at our annual Serpent Heart’s charity gala this Friday, and I don’t want you looking bloated or in the midst of a breakout because you couldn’t control yourself.
Cameras do terrible things to your face when you’re puffy. ”
My teeth grind as I swallow back my retort. It would only escalate the situation, and I’d much rather get her off the phone as quickly as possible.
“You represent more than just yourself,” she states, like I need the reminder. Like I haven’t always represented something more purely because of my last name. My only reprieve was the three years I spent at BSU.
I laugh humorlessly under my breath. So much for escaping this life. One call was all it took to drag me right back into the thick of it. Back to the cameras and media outlets. Back to people caring more about how I look than what I say. Back to being a pretty little prop for the Winslow family.
“I’m aware.” It’s the best I can do.
“Oh—and I nearly forgot. I’ve secured you an internship with the Valehurst Kings hockey team. The details are in the folder I left for you.”
The words slip through the phone like ice water, my gaze snapping accusingly to the accursed envelope sitting innocently on my kitchen counter.
“What?! You never mentioned any internship.”
She tsks. “I’m sure I did. It’ll be good for optics.”
“I don’t want to work with the hockey team,” I blurt, argumentatively.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snides, and I can tell she’s already over this conversation. “Who else would you intern with? This is non-negotiable, Gwendolyn. You will do this internship, and you will uphold the Winslow name while doing so. Your father and I expect nothing short of perfection.”
I go still. Like if I stop moving, I can slow the fallout.
“I—” But she’s already gone.
Glancing at the screen, I see that the call has ended. She hung up on me.
I stare at the phone in my hand until it blurs. Until the edges fuzz and twist, the words Valehurst Kings playing on repeat in my head like a curse.
I can’t work with the Kings. I can’t.
Not when just hearing his voice is enough to steal every molecule of air from my lungs.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. My brain is already there, back in that moment. The one that changed everything.
It was loud in The Stanley, the way it always is after game night.
Bodies packed wall to wall. Laughter. The dull thump of bass from the speakers.
I’d taken a quick break from working behind the bar to join Dylan and the rest of the team, listening while they discussed the highlights of their win and broke down individual plays.
Then they walked in: The Valehurst Kings.
I didn’t think anything of it until he spoke. That voice.
That was all it took.
My whole body went rigid. My throat closed. My pulse thundered against my ribs as panic rushed in, fast and unforgiving. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t look—
But I did.
Three of them stood there. Broad. Confident. Each taking up more space than any one person ought to.
And then, as if the situation wasn’t already my worst living nightmare, one of them looked at me. Right at me. Eyes locked on mine, rounding in surprise. He recognized me.
Run, my mind screamed. So I did. Muttered something to Dylan that I can’t recall and hightailed it out of that booth. I hid behind the bar the rest of the night, hands trembling and one eye constantly on them, before I snuck out the back at the end of my shift.
I didn’t take a full breath until I was back home, doors locked and windows secured. Even then, my heart still thrashed like it might claw out of my chest. My only reprieve? Knowing they’d be gone by the morning.
I curl into myself, sliding down to the floor, the phone still clutched in my hand.
Now I’m here.
Stuck at Valehurst with them.
With the only people who know what happened that night.
And my mother just handed me to them on a silver fucking platter.
How am I supposed to survive a year here with the men who ruined me?
The Valehurst Kings’ athletic complex sits at the north end of campus, a sleek, modern contrast to the gothic stone buildings that make up the rest of the college.
While the school feels like something out of a classic New England postcard—ivy-covered walls, wrought-iron lampposts, and bell towers—the athletic complex looks like it was airlifted in from a high-performance training facility.
Glass, steel, chrome. All sharp lines and no warmth.
The building is intimidating, even without the logo etched in frosted glass above the doors.
Kings, is carved in thick, angular block letters, all caps—bold enough to punch through steel and sharp enough to draw blood.
Accompanying it is a brooding monarch who stares down at me with ice in his eyes and fury in the set of his jaw.
His crown is jagged, tilted just enough to suggest madness.
A cloak of royal purple drapes from his broad shoulders, but there’s nothing noble in his expression.
It’s the face of a god of war. The kind of king who burns empires for sport and smiles while doing so.
Etched beneath the logo in gold script are the words: Not all who bleed will rise. The delightfully warm and inviting motto of Valehurst College. All of it is a warning. A prophecy. A promise that has me wanting to run in the opposite direction.
Have I mentioned how much I miss BSU? Classes haven’t even started yet, and I already know this year is going to be hell on earth. There’s a reason I chose the laid-back Blackstone campus over the uptight, elitist one of Valehurst.
I buzz myself in with the temporary pass I found in the accursed envelope my mother left, the scanner flashing green as the glass doors slide open. Inside, the noise of the outside world disappears. The lobby is cool, quiet, and unnervingly spotless.
A reception desk sits dead center beneath a gleaming steel Valehurst Kings logo. The woman behind it doesn’t look up as I approach, my heels clicking on the white, sterile floor.
I pause at her desk, listening to the clacking of her nails as she types on the keyboard. After a moment, when she hasn’t acknowledged my presence, I clear my throat, announcing myself before stating, “I’m here for the hockey internship.”
“End of the hall. Left at the mural.”
She says it all without looking up. No name. No welcome. No questions.
Giving her a final glance, I follow her instructions, heading down a corridor lined with backlit portraits of championship wins and faded, framed jerseys that I don’t stop to linger over.
Everything about this place screams legacy and dominance.
The weight of expectation grows heavier the further down the hall I go, like even the air has been conditioned to punish weakness.
I find the mural easily—an oil-painted monstrosity of Kings’ players in mid-celebration, arms thrown up in victory. I turn left and spot the brass plaque mounted on the wall beside a matte black door that reads Dean Carver, Team Operations Manager.
Stopping in front of the door, I take a moment to gather myself. Inhaling deeply, I blow out the breath before raising a shaky fist to knock.
“Come in,” a voice calls, clipped with impatience.