The acceptance letter sits on my desk for three days before I can look at it.
UCLA. Communications major. Everything I wanted six months ago when I applied. Back when I thought Liam and I would be walking those brick paths together, back when college felt like the beginning of something beautiful instead of a prison sentence.
I pick up the envelope. Thick, cream-colored paper with a congratulatory tone. Welcome to the Bruin family.
I want to burn it.
"You haven't responded yet." Mom leans against my doorframe, arms crossed.
"I know."
"The deposit deadline is in two days."
"I know."
"Avery." She comes in, sits on my bed like we're about to have some heart-to-heart I don't want. "You can't throw away your future because of a boy."
"I'm not." I set the letter down carefully, like it might explode. "I'm just thinking about other options."
"What other options? Every school has already finalized their acceptances. It's June. If you don't commit to UCLA, you're taking a gap year."
The words hit like a punch. A gap year means staying in Sacramento while everyone else moves on. Watching my followers wonder why I'm not posting college content. Explaining over and over why I'm not in school. Being the girl who let a breakup ruin her life.
"I'll figure it out," I mutter.
Mom sighs. Stands. "You have forty-eight hours. Make a decision."
She leaves.
I stare at the letter.
UCLA. Where Liam is. Where Madison visits him. Where I'll have to see them, maybe in the dining hall, maybe at parties, maybe walking across campus holding hands while I pretend I don't care.
My phone buzzes.
Zoey: did u commit yetMe: noZoey: averyMe: i cantZoey: yes you canZoey: youre not letting them winZoey: youre not letting HIM ruin your dream school
I throw my phone on the bed. She doesn't get it. Nobody gets it.
It's not about letting him win. It's about survival. How am I supposed to walk those halls knowing what happened? Knowing everyone probably knows by now? The screenshots made it to UCLA's class of 2029 Facebook group before I left the group entirely.
I can't do this.
I grab my laptop. Search "colleges still accepting applications June."
The results are depressing. Community colleges. Schools I've never heard of. Programs that don't have communications majors.
I try again. "Late acceptance appeals." Nothing useful. "Gap year programs." A bunch of expensive volunteer-abroad nonsense that looks good on Instagram but teaches you nothing.
I close the laptop and stare at the acceptance letter again.
The seal is embossed. UCLA's logo. Official. Final.
This was supposed to be the best moment of my senior year. Instead, it feels like a trap.
The next morning, I find the email.
Subject: UCLA Incoming Freshman Reception - You're Invited!
I almost delete it, but something makes me click.
Dear Avery Lane,
Congratulations on your acceptance to UCLA! As a high-achieving incoming freshman with significant social media presence, you've been selected to attend our exclusive Welcome Reception on June 15th. This event will feature faculty presentations, networking opportunities with alumni and donors, and a chance to connect with fellow incoming students.
This is a formal event. Business attire recommended. Family members welcome.
Please RSVP by June 10th.
We look forward to celebrating your achievement!
I read it twice.
High-achieving. Significant social media presence.
They want me there because I'm an influencer. Because I have two million followers and I make their school look good.
I should say no.
But then I see the date. June 15th. A week away.
And I think about what Zoey said. About not letting them win.
If I don't go to UCLA, Liam wins. Madison wins. They get to keep their perfect little world while I hide in Sacramento like a coward.
But if I go...
I open a new tab. Search "Ethan Parker UCLA."
His faculty page loads. Professor of Communications. PhD from Stanford. Published author. Divorced.
There's a photo. Professional headshot. Same sharp features I saw at graduation. Same intense eyes.
Liam's father.
I scroll through his bio. Awards. Publications. Guest lectures. He's brilliant. He's untouchable. He's exactly the kind of man who would never look twice at a girl like me.
Unless.
An idea starts forming. Dangerous. Reckless. Probably insane. But it sits there in my mind, growing roots.
What if I don't hide from UCLA? What if I walk in there like I own the place? What if I make them regret everything?
I close the laptop before the thought can fully develop.
Stand up. Walk downstairs.
Mom's in the kitchen with her coffee and her phone.
"I'll go," I say.
She looks up. "Go where?"
"To UCLA. I'll commit."
Her face breaks into a smile. "Avery, that's wonderful. I knew you'd make the right choice."
"And I want to go to that reception thing. The one for incoming freshmen."
"Of course. We can make a day of it. Your father and I can both come, and..."
"Just you," I interrupt. "Dad makes everything weird."
She nods. "Okay. Just us then."
I pour myself coffee. My hands are steady.
"Can you help me find something to wear?" I ask. "It says business attire."
"Absolutely." Mom's practically glowing. She thinks this means I'm healing. Moving on.
She has no idea what I'm actually planning.
Because honestly? Neither do I.
All I know is that sitting at home crying didn't work. Deleting photos didn't work. Hiding didn't work.
Maybe it's time to stop running. Maybe it's time to play a different game.
Zoey comes over that afternoon with an armful of clothes.
"Okay, so for business attire that doesn't make you look like someone's mom, I'm thinking..." She dumps everything on my bed. "Blazer, but make it hot. Pencil skirt, but not too tight. Heels that say 'I'm sophisticated' but also 'I could kill you.'"
"That's a lot of pressure for shoes."
"You're about to walk into enemy territory looking like a whole meal. The shoes matter." She holds up a black blazer. "Try this."
I slip it on. It's fitted, modern, nothing like the boxy blazers Mom wears to work.
"With this silk cami underneath." Zoey tosses me a champagne-colored top. "And these pants instead of a skirt. More powerful."
I look in the mirror. The girl staring back looks older. Polished. Like someone who has her shit together even when she absolutely doesn't.
"I don't know if I can do this," I whisper.
"Yes you can." Zoey meets my eyes in the mirror. "You're Avery Lane. You built a following from nothing. You survived your sister's betrayal. You can walk into one fancy dinner."
"What if I see him?"
"Then you look through him like he's invisible." Her voice is fierce. "What if he sees you looking hot as hell and regrets everything? That's the energy we're bringing."
I try to smile. It almost works.
"What about Madison?"
"Same thing. Ice cold. You're above it." She adjusts my blazer. "Besides, she's probably not even invited. This is for incoming freshmen and their families. She's already a student."
That thought settles something in my chest. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can walk in there, head high, and prove I'm not broken.
Even if I am.
The week passes in a blur of preparation.
I research UCLA's communications department. Read articles by faculty members. Watch YouTube videos of campus tours. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to be ready.
I also start posting again. Nothing about the breakup. Nothing about Madison. Just carefully curated content about college prep, senior year memories, looking forward to the future.
The comments are mixed. Some supportive. Some still bringing up the drama. I ignore all of it.
By June 15th, I almost feel like myself again. Almost.
Mom and I drive to LA in the morning. She chatters the whole way about how excited she is, how proud, how this is such a fresh start. I let her talk. Smile when appropriate. And try not to think about what I'm walking into.
The reception is at a hotel near campus. Fancy. Chandelier in the lobby. Waiters with champagne flutes. Women in cocktail dresses and men in suits.
I smooth down my blazer.
"You look beautiful," Mom whispers.
"Thanks."
We check in at the registration table. Get name tags. Avery Lane - Incoming Freshman, Communications.
The label feels like armor.
We walk into the main ballroom. Round tables with white linens. A small stage at the front. Faculty members mingling near the bar.
And that's when I see him.
Professor Ethan Parker.
He's across the room, talking to an older woman in pearls. His blazer is perfectly tailored. His posture is confident but not arrogant. And when he laughs at something she says, his whole face changes.
He's magnetic.
I can't look away.
This is Liam's father. The man who raised the boy who broke my heart. But he's nothing like Liam. He's older, obviously. Mid-forties probably. But it's more than that. There's a gravity to him. A presence.
Liam demands attention. This man commands it.
"Should we find our table?" Mom asks.
"Yeah. Sure."
But I'm still watching him.
And then, like he can feel it, he turns. His eyes scan the room. Land on me. Hold.
I should look away. Should pretend I wasn't staring.
But I don't.
For three seconds, maybe five, we just look at each other across a crowded ballroom. His expression doesn't change. But something flickers in his eyes. Recognition? Curiosity?
Then someone calls his name and the moment breaks. He turns back to his conversation.
I exhale.
"Avery?" Mom's looking at me. "You okay?"
"Fine." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Let's find our seats."
We walk toward the tables. But I can still feel it. The weight of his gaze. And the dangerous, reckless thought that followed: He noticed me.