The slap still echoes in my ears like a bell that won't stop ringing.
Even now, twelve hours later, I can feel the sting in my palm, can see Madison's head snapping to the side in perfect slow motion. Her smile had curved into something sharper afterward, more dangerous, as whispers spread through the graduation crowd like wildfire. Liam's face frozen in shock. Zoey's wide-eyed gasp of disbelief. Dozens of phones lifted high, recording every second of my public breakdown for posterity.
By the time I made it home, the adrenaline had completely burned out of my system, leaving me raw and trembling like I'd just run a marathon. My mom cornered me in the kitchen, her voice dropping to that hushed, furious tone she reserves for what she calls "family embarrassments"—the same voice she used when I accidentally spilled wine on her book club friends, or when I got caught sneaking out sophomore year.
Dad barely looked at me during her lecture, just muttered something under his breath about "keeping the peace" and "not making scenes" while he sorted through the mail with unnecessary aggression.
And Madison? Madison played the victim with Oscar-worthy performance skills.
"I was just trying to be supportive," she said sweetly, pressing an ice pack to her reddened cheek with delicate fingers. "Poor Avery's clearly overwhelmed by everything that's happened. I should have been more understanding."
The ice behind her eyes could have frozen hell, but her voice stayed syrupy and concerned. And somehow—somehow—my parents bought every word of it.
"You can't just hit people because you're upset," Mom scolded me while rubbing Madison's shoulders like she was the wounded party. "That's not how we handle problems in this family."
Right. Because Madison stealing my boyfriend was totally acceptable family behavior, but me finally fighting back was the real issue.
The next morning arrives with another delightful family announcement. My parents corner me at breakfast, their expressions wearing that particular mixture of determination and false cheer that usually means I'm about to hate whatever they're planning.
"We're all going to UCLA's reception dinner tonight," Mom declares, buttering her toast with aggressive precision. "It's important for the family to make these connections. Networking, Avery. You should start thinking about your own future."
My future. The words sit like lead in my stomach.
Once upon a time—roughly seventy-two hours ago—UCLA had been my dream school. Or maybe not UCLA specifically, but the idea of being close to Liam. I'd spent months daydreaming about walking the same campus where he studied, grabbing coffee after his psychology classes, taking aesthetic couple photos under those famous brick arches for my Instagram feed. It was supposed to be our future, mapped out in shared apartment leases and study dates and graduation photos with both our families beaming in the background.
Now, the mere thought of setting foot on that campus makes bile rise in my throat.
"I don't want to go to UCLA anymore." The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and honest in a way that makes my parents both freeze mid-chew.
Dad sets down his coffee cup with a sharp clink against the saucer. "Don't be dramatic, Avery. It's one of the best schools in the country. You'd be foolish to throw away that opportunity because of some teenage relationship drama."
"There are other schools—"
"Other schools," Mom cuts me off with the dismissive wave she uses when she thinks I'm being unreasonable, "don't have the same prestige. Don't have the same connections. Besides, Madison's already established herself there. It's practical for you both to be in the same place."
Of course. Madison paves the way, I follow in her shadow. That's been the story of my entire life.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. "You're not even listening to what I'm saying."
Mom sighs like I'm the most exhausting creature on earth. "Sweetheart, sometimes you just have to suck it up and think about the bigger picture. This isn't about your feelings. This is about your future."
The bigger picture. Translation: be more like Madison. Be less complicated, less emotional, less inconveniently human.
The UCLA reception dinner is held in Royce Hall, one of the campus's most impressive venues. The kind of place that screams old money and academic prestige with its soaring ceilings, polished hardwood floors that gleam like mirrors, and crystal chandeliers that cast everything in warm, golden light. Round tables draped in pristine white linen fill the space, each one set with enough silverware to confuse a etiquette expert and crystal glasses that probably cost more than my car.
The air carries the mingled scents of expensive catering—herb-crusted chicken, roasted vegetables, something that smells suspiciously like truffle oil—and the particular fragrance of wealth that clings to events like this.
Parents cluster in small groups, their smiles practiced and bright as they exchange business cards and discuss their children's achievements with barely concealed competitiveness. Soon-to-be freshmen gather near the appetizer stations, most of them looking simultaneously excited and terrified about the next chapter of their lives. Everyone is dressed to impress, from the fathers in their most expensive suits to the mothers showing off their latest designer purchases.
I trail behind my family like a reluctant shadow, tugging at the hem of the black cocktail dress my mom selected for me. It's beautiful—sleek, sophisticated, appropriate for the occasion—but it feels like a costume. Like I'm playing the role of the perfect daughter instead of actually being her.
Madison glides ahead of us, resplendent in champagne-colored silk that clings to her model-thin frame in all the right places. She draws eyes like a magnet, conversations pausing as she passes, heads turning to follow her progress across the room. My parents beam with pride as they watch her work the room, their faces glowing with the particular satisfaction that comes from having produced something everyone else admires.
I keep my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline, scrolling through my Instagram feed to maintain the illusion that I'm unbothered by the situation. My latest post—a carefully staged photo of me in my graduation gown captioned "Senior send-off 🎓✨"—has already surpassed twenty thousand likes in just six hours. The comments are overwhelmingly positive: proud of you queen, you deserve the world, what's next for our girl??
That last question hits harder than it should. What is next for me? I honestly don't know anymore.
I'm halfway through pretending to sip my water—the crystal glass feels heavy and expensive in my hands—when I see him.
Across the room, near the small stage where the dean is preparing to give some kind of welcome speech, a man stands out from the sea of tailored suits and polite academic chatter. He's tall, easily six-three, with broad shoulders that fill out his navy blazer in a way that suggests he actually works out instead of just paying for an expensive gym membership he never uses. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms with casual precision, revealing strong hands and a expensive-looking watch that catches the light.
His salt-and-pepper hair looks almost artfully tousled, like he ran his fingers through it but somehow made it look better instead of messy. When he speaks to the dean beside him, his voice is low and commanding, the kind of tone that makes people lean in to catch every word. I watch as other faculty members drift toward their conversation, drawn by whatever gravitational pull he seems to possess.
There's something magnetic about him, something that cuts through all the pretense and performance of the evening. While everyone else in the room is trying too hard—smiling too bright, laughing too loud, name-dropping too obviously—he simply exists in his space with complete confidence.
Dr. Ethan Parker.
I recognize him instantly, though until this moment he was nothing more than Liam's father—a blurred figure in the background of family photos, a name mentioned in passing during phone calls. But here, in his element, surrounded by colleagues who clearly respect him, he isn't just someone's parent.
He's something else entirely. Something dangerous.
I know I shouldn't stare. Every rational part of my brain is screaming warnings about appropriate behavior and family dynamics and the thousand ways this could go wrong. But my eyes trace the way he moves through the room, the easy confidence in his posture, the way conversations seem to revolve around him without him demanding attention.
And then it happens.
He looks up from his conversation with the dean, his gaze sweeping across the room in a casual survey of the gathered crowd. His eyes find mine across the space filled with chattering families and clinking glasses.
Our gazes lock.
My breath catches in my throat, my phone slipping slightly in my suddenly sweaty grip. For a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, the entire dinner party falls away—the ambient chatter, the clinking of silverware against china, even Madison's constant presence at the center of attention. The room full of people becomes background noise.
It's just him and me and the weight of recognition passing between us.
He doesn't look away immediately, and neither do I. There's something curious in his expression, something that suggests he's seeing more than just another teenager in a pretty dress. Like he's actually looking at me—not through me the way most adults do, not around me the way my parents have been doing all evening.
Heat crawls up my neck, spreading across my cheeks in a way that has nothing to do with the warm room or my nervousness about being here. My pulse pounds so loudly in my ears that I'm certain Zoey, sitting beside me and scrolling through her own phone, must be able to hear it.
I force myself to look away, focusing intently on my water glass as if it holds the secrets of the universe. But when I risk a glance back across the room a few seconds later, he's still watching me with that same quiet intensity.
And for the first time since Madison dropped her bombshell at graduation, I feel something other than rage or heartbreak coursing through my veins.
I feel possibility.