Samuel lay sprawled on his bed, the ceiling above him unfamiliar, as if the very architecture of his room had shifted overnight. The pillow was damp beneath his head. Sweat, maybe. Or tears. Or both.
He had dreamed again.
Of her breath hitching. Of hands pushing. Of the moment everything went quiet.
The silence had followed him into waking. Now, in the stillness of morning, the memory looped like static: the heat of her skin, the tremble in her limbs, the sound she'd made just before he silenced her.
He didn't know her name. Just the shape of her face. The hall. Her wrist beneath his fingers.
Shame flared, quick and sharp, but something else coiled beneath it. A darker thread. Satisfaction. He hated it. Or tried to.
He flipped onto his back, blinking at the bruised sky beyond the window. Clouds thick with the threat of rain. Everything felt heavier today, like the world decided to hold its breath.
He didn't move. Time passed in murky silence, like water in his ears.
Eventually, he showered. Dressed in a black pajama pants and cotton shirt. When his mother and sister knocked, he said nothing. When the cook tapped softly and asked if he wanted lunch, he turned his face to the wall.
Even his phone, buzzing beside his bed, felt repulsive. The weight of conversation, of consequence, it pressed in from all sides. He couldn't face it.
But thirst pulled him from the room.
The house was quiet as he descended the stairs. He moved through the marble hall. At the wine bar, tucked into a dim corner of the sitting room, he poured himself a drink. The glass was cold in his hand. His throat dry. Still, he drank.
One of the staff passed through, eyes flicking to him, then away. She had just delivered a milkshake to Georgia.
Upstairs, Georgia sat at her vanity, tears slipping silently down her face. In her hand was a photo, an old selfie from their last trip. Her father was mid-laugh, throwing up a peace sign, his smile wide and lopsided.
He was dead now. Three days gone. His body still waiting in the morgue.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, then tapped a notification without thinking.
A headline.
She read it once. Then again.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Samuel..." she whispered, standing too fast. The blood drained from her face. The milkshake spilled across her desk, soaking through her makeup, but she barely noticed.
She rushed into the hallway, still clutching her phone.
"Samuel!" she called. "You need to see this, it's everywhere!"
No answer.
She tried the handle. Unlocked.
The bed was empty. His phone lay facedown on the sheets, buzzing with message after message.
She picked it up.
"Samuel, what is going on?"
"Pick up your phone."
"Tell me this isn't true."
Downstairs, she found him hunched over the bar, fingers spinning the rim of his glass.
"Samuel," she said.
He looked up slowly, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, his eyes were storming.
She stared at the screen again to be sure.
"Samuel Boron... accused of sexual assault by a classmate."
He coughed. Choked on his drink. Set the glass down.
She waited, for a denial, for outrage, for confusion. Anything.
But he said nothing.
Her voice trembled. "This is a mistake. We'll sue them. Whoever posted this, we'll bury them."
Still, silence.
She moved closer. Touched his shoulder. "Samuel, please. Tell me it's not true. Tell me she's lying. That she made it up."
He stared past her. Into nothing.
Tears blurred her vision. "You wouldn't. You couldn't."
But the phone kept buzzing. The headlines piling up.
Her voice cracked. "What were you thinking?"
No answer.
"You know this could kill Mom," she whispered. "She just lost her husband. And now this? The press, the company, everything, it'll destroy her."
Her hand trembled as she placed his phone on the table.
"The calls won't stop."
She stepped back slowly, as if seeing him for the first time. The boy she'd grown up with had disappeared. What sat in front of her now was something else entirely.
She turned and left, her grief folding into something colder.
Samuel lifted his glass again and drained it. The burn didn't register.
He stared into the empty glass, not with guilt, but with an empty, bitter knowing.
What's done is done.
And for one monstrous heartbeat,
He remembered how it felt.
He had enjoyed it.
——-
Samuel sat slouched at the head of the dining table, a half-eaten plate of chicken wings in front of him, bones scattered. A film of sweat clung to his brow. His hand trembled slightly as he traced circles in the condensation on his wine glass.
The door opened without ceremony. Four boys filed into the room, their footsteps sharp against the tiled floor.
Clinton reached him first. "Samuel," he said, catching his friend just as he tried, and failed, to stand. Samuel swayed. Clinton grabbed his arm to steady him.
"You've been drinking," he muttered, nose wrinkling at the sharp, sour smell.
Samuel didn't answer. His eyes were slow to focus, as if recognition took effort.
"We've been calling you all morning," David said, crouching beside him. He pressed the back of his hand to Samuel's forehead. "You've got a fever. Jesus, have you even eaten?"
Samuel's lips parted, but no sound came out.
The silence was punctured by a crunch. Daniel had picked up a wing from the plate and was chewing. "Not bad," he mumbled, eyes on no one in particular.
Clinton shot him a look.
Harrison stepped forward and pulled a chair up beside Samuel. "Tell us what happened," he said. "Last night. After we left the hall."
For a moment, nothing moved. Then Samuel rubbed his temples, exhaled shakily, and said, "It happened."
The words fell. No one spoke. No one breathed.
"I did it," he added, voice flat. "I... I raped her."
Daniel stopped chewing. Clinton's jaw clenched. David turned away, as though the room had grown suddenly smaller.
"I don't know why," Samuel whispered. "I kissed her, and then... I couldn't stop. She didn't want it. I knew she didn't. But I just—" He broke off. His hands were shaking.
"You can't say that again," Harrison said, low and even. "Not to anyone."
"I'm not trying to confess," Samuel said, eyes glassy. "I just... I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
"You're not going to jail," David cut in, cool, resolute. "We'll fix it. We always fix things."
Samuel laughed, a sound without humor. "You can't fix this."
Daniel, who'd been scrolling through his phone, suddenly froze. His face went pale. "She's got a witness," he said.
The others turned.
Daniel held up his screen. A headline. A grainy photo of a girl in a hospital bed. Vivian named as eyewitness to assault.
"They say she saw it. From behind the bookshelf."
Samuel blinked slowly, like the air had turned to molasses. "What? No. There was no one there. I didn't see anyone." His voice rose in panic. "Why didn't she stop me? Why didn't she do anything?"
No one answered.
"If she'd said something, if she'd stepped in , maybe..."
"That's not the point," Clinton said sharply.
Harrison leaned back in his chair, calculating. "The girl can be dealt with. Her story isn't cemented yet."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "You think she'll lie for us?"
"She won't have to lie," Harrison replied, calmly. "Just... remember things differently."
Silence fell again. The others nodded, slowly, reluctantly. Except Samuel.
He stared down at the table, at the bones, at the wine glass now warm and empty.
He didn't ask for forgiveness. And none of them offered it.