Dinner kicks off at seven, and Mom and I end up at table twelve, surrounded by a patchwork of nervous freshmen and their parents. There's a girl from San Diego who wants to be a doctor, a business hopeful from Portland—everyone's fumbling for conversation, joking about cafeteria food and the horror of communal bathrooms.
I do what's expected—smile, nod, answer when I'm spoken to.
But my mind isn't in the room.
I catch myself scanning the faculty tables near the front. My eyes fix on Professor Ethan Parker, who's planted in his chair like he's carved out the space himself. He talks, people lean in. When he laughs, it's this low, easy sound, not forced like Liam's always was.
Mom elbows me. "Avery, honey—they're asking what you're most looking forward to."
I blink. "Oh, uh—the communications department, I guess. And all the networking stuff."
The pre-med girl lights up. "The alumni network here is wild."
"Yeah, totally," I say, almost on autopilot.
But really, I'm watching Parker.
He stands up, heads for the bar with the kind of sure-footed ease only people who never doubt themselves seem to possess. I watch him order a drink. Fiddle with his phone. Then he glances up.
And our eyes lock.
I look away so fast my neck hurts, cheeks burning. I grab my water, pretend the glass is suddenly fascinating.
"You alright?" Mom whispers.
"Just hot," I mutter.
After dinner, there's the usual parade of speeches. The dean welcomes us with talk about "limitless opportunity," professors pitch their departments, alumni tell stories that blend together. I only half hear any of it, because my attention keeps drifting back to Parker.
When the speeches wrap up, the crowd starts to scatter. Mom finds someone to bond with over housing costs and meal plans, so I'm left holding my glass of sparkling cider, feeling more awkward than ever.
I should be out there meeting people. Instead, I wander off to the windows, staring at the campus bathed in lamplight. Students float between the dorms. This'll be my life soon.
"Nice view, isn't it?"
A voice at my shoulder—deep, calm.
I turn. Parker is standing beside me, whiskey in hand.
"It's gorgeous," I say, a bit too quietly.
"First time here?"
"I toured last year, but it's a whole different thing at night."
He nods. "The place has a certain glow after dark." He studies me. "You're a freshman?"
"Communications."
He reaches out. "Ethan Parker."
His handshake is warm, steady.
"Avery Lane."
There's a flicker—recognition. "You're the influencer, right?"
Of course. I try to play it cool. "Yeah, that's me."
"Two million followers? That's a hell of a platform for someone your age."
There it is—the polite "but you're just a kid" dig.
"I just turned eighteen. Nineteen soon."
"Fresh out of high school." He sips his whiskey. "College is a big change. Freedom, all that."
It's the voice adults use when they're talking down to you but trying not to show it.
"I want to learn something real. High school was all surface."
"And you think college will be more authentic?"
"I hope so."
He raises an eyebrow. "What's your angle? What do you want to study?"
"Media psychology. How people build identities online. Why we perform."
His expression shifts, just a bit. "That's more specific than most."
"I've lived online for years. I should probably figure out what I'm actually doing."
His interest sharpens.
"Most kids just want the business side. Marketing, partnerships."
"I already know that stuff."
He lifts his glass. "So you're after the theory."
"I want to know why people believe what they see. Why they trust strangers online."
"Why they trust you."
"Exactly."
He considers me for a second. "We push students to think hard about this stuff here. It's not just about churning out content."
"That's what I want."
"But it's tough. The ones who think they know it all because they grew up online? They usually flounder."
There's that edge—friendly, but with a bite.
"I'll handle it," I say, maybe too flat.
"I'm sure you will." He doesn't mean it.
Someone calls for him. He gives me a nod.
"Have a good night, Miss Lane. Welcome to UCLA."
And just like that, he's gone.
Miss Lane.
That stings more than it should.
I spot Mom still mid-conversation by the dessert, and as I walk over, I catch two women gossiping, voices just low enough to sound juicy.
"He's alone again," one says, fiddling with her pearls.
"Isn't he always? Never lasts with anyone."
"He was seeing that adjunct. That fizzled—she wanted commitment."
They both laugh.
"He's got a type."
"Young. Smart. Never sticks around."
"Vanessa must hate it—her son's a freshman here now."
"Imagine your ex-husband teaching where your kid goes to school. Especially when your ex only dates twenty-somethings."
"Last one was, what, twenty-six?"
"Twenty-six, yeah."
My fingers tighten around my glass.
"Some guys never settle. Love the chase."
"Textbook commitment issues."
"Brilliant, but totally unavailable."
They drift away, still whispering.
I look for Parker—he's back with his colleagues, laughing, perfectly at ease.
With me, he was all polite distance.
Just a kid.
I think about Liam. Madison. The way Parker looked through me.
What if I wanted to hurt Liam the way he hurt me? Not with another boyfriend my age—that would just confirm what everyone says.
But his dad?
The one he looks up to, who just dismissed me?
That'd sting.
I shake it off. It's nuts. He's a professor. I'm a student. Lines you can't cross.
Still.
If revenge had a blueprint, this would be it.
I don't say a word to Mom on the drive home. She gushes about the evening, the campus, how proud she is of me.
I watch the headlights, mind spinning.
Liam hurt me. Madison turned on me. Parker brushed me off.
What if they're all part of the same equation? What if solving one fixes the rest?
It's reckless. Maybe impossible.
But I can't shake the thought.
Back in my room, I fire up my laptop.
Search: Ethan Parker UCLA.
His university profile pops up. Papers, awards, a photo—he's handsome, yeah, but there's something more. Real authority. The kind of presence Liam only pretended to have.
I skim through his research—media manipulation, the way people perform online. All the things I want to study.
Which means we'll cross paths.
Which means—opportunity.
I pull up Instagram. His account's private, fifty followers. Probably just family and colleagues. I send a follow request anyway.
Then I dig up an old podcast interview. Plug in my headphones.
He sounds different in it—looser, even funny. He lights up when he talks about his work.
"We're all playing a role, whether we admit it or not," he says. "The real question is, are we the ones in control?"
I stop the audio.
My whole life's been a performance. Every post, every caption, every "candid" smile.
Madison called me desperate. Liam called me a kid. Parker called me Miss Lane, like I didn't matter.
But what if I could make myself impossible to ignore?
What if I walked onto campus and made them all rethink every word they ever said?
I open my notes app.
Game Plan:1. Make him notice me2. Get into his world—classes, office hours, research projects3. Prove I'm not just a kid4. …
Number four hangs there.
What comes next?
Make him want me?
Make Liam watch from the sidelines?
It sounds insane. But the idea sticks.
I erase the note. Shut the laptop.
Lie back, stare at the ceiling.
"You took him from me, Madison," I murmur. "I'll take the one person you can't touch."
My phone buzzes.
Zoey: how was dinner?
Me: wild
Zoey: DETAILS???
I don't know how to explain this thing growing inside me—this cold, focused resolve that started out as self-defense but is turning into something way more dangerous.
Me: i'll tell you tomorrow
Zoey: you better
I set the phone down.
Let myself picture it for just a second.
Walking into his class. His eyes meeting mine.
The moment he realizes I'm not just another student.
The moment Liam gets it.
The moment Madison finally understands.
It's just a fantasy.
Maybe it's impossible.
But for the first time since everything fell apart, I feel something besides hurt.
I feel like I might actually have a shot.
And that's dangerous enough to keep me going.