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.
The envelope mocks me from where it sits propped against my lamp. Every time I walk past my desk, I see it. Thick, cream-colored paper that probably cost more than my entire college application fee. The UCLA seal embossed in blue and gold. Prestigious. Perfect. Poisoned.
I pick up the envelope. Feel the weight of it. Welcome to the Bruin family.
I want to burn it.
"You haven't responded yet." Mom leans against my doorframe, arms crossed. She's still in her work clothes, navy blazer and slacks. She works in insurance, spends her days explaining policies to people who don't want to listen. Maybe that's why she's so good at the patient, measured tone she's using now.
"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. The mattress dips. Outside my window, I can hear the neighbor's sprinklers. It's the sound of summer in Sacramento, the endless hiss of water trying to keep lawns alive in hundred-degree heat. "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. Being the girl who stayed behind while her sister visits her ex-boyfriend at the school that should have been mine.
"I'll figure it out," I mutter.
Mom sighs. Stands. The bed rises with her. "You have forty-eight hours. Make a decision."
She leaves, and the silence in my room feels suffocating.
I stare at the letter. The paper is so pristine it practically glows in the afternoon light streaming through my window.
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. Where everyone in the communications department will know exactly who I am because the screenshots reached there too. I saw them in the Class of 2029 Facebook group before I deleted my membership, saw the comments from people who would be my classmates dissecting my humiliation.
My phone buzzes against my nightstand.
Zoey: did u commit yet Me: no Zoey: avery Me: i cant Zoey: yes you can Zoey: youre not letting them win Zoey: youre not letting HIM ruin your dream school
I throw my phone on the bed. She doesn't get it. Nobody gets it. Zoey's going to Sacramento State. She'll be close to home, close to her family, close to everything familiar. She's not walking into a war zone.
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, settle back against my headboard. The screen is still smudged from yesterday when I cried watching college move-in vlogs. Search "colleges still accepting applications June."
The results are depressing. Community colleges. Schools I've never heard of in states I've never visited. Programs that don't have communications majors. Nothing with the prestige I need. Nothing that will look good on my Instagram bio.
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. Build wells in Guatemala. Teach English in Thailand. Find yourself in Bali. All of it costs thousands of dollars to do what poor people do for free.
I close the laptop and stare at the acceptance letter again.
The seal is embossed, raised under my fingertips when I trace it. 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. My finger hovers over the trash icon. But something makes me click. Curiosity. Masochism. The same impulse that makes you press on a bruise to see if it still hurts.
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. Because somewhere in UCLA's marketing department, someone saw my Instagram and thought, "That's the kind of student we want representing us."
They have no idea about the scandal. Or maybe they do, and they don't care. Maybe controversy is still publicity.
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. My fingers move before my brain can stop them. Search "Ethan Parker UCLA."
His faculty page loads. Professor of Communications. PhD from Stanford. Published author. Divorced. The word jumps out at me. I don't know why I notice it. Don't know why it matters.
There's a photo. Professional headshot against a neutral background. Same sharp features I saw at graduation. Same intense eyes that seemed to see through me. In the photo, he's wearing a charcoal suit, a slight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Handsome in that distinguished, intellectual way. Nothing like Liam's boyish charm.
I scroll through his bio. Awards. Publications. Guest lectures at conferences around the world. 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, spreading like poison ivy up the walls of my common sense.
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?
My heart starts racing. I can feel it in my throat.
I close the laptop before the thought can fully develop. Before it becomes something real and actionable instead of just a dark fantasy.
Stand up. Walk downstairs. My legs feel shaky.
Mom's in the kitchen with her coffee and her phone. The morning light through the window makes everything look too bright, too normal. The coffee maker gurgles its last drops. NPR murmurs from the radio on the counter.
"I'll go," I say.
She looks up, reading glasses perched on her nose. "Go where?"
"To UCLA. I'll commit."
Her face breaks into a smile, genuine and relieved. "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, understanding. Dad's been weird since the divorce, trying too hard to be the fun parent. It's exhausting. "Okay. Just us then."
I pour myself coffee. Add cream until it's the color of sand. My hands are steady now. Purpose does that, steadies you. Even if the purpose is revenge.
"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. Becoming the strong, independent daughter she raised.
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. Maybe it's time to stop being the victim in my own story.
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. Fabric in every shade of black, gray, and navy. "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, designer label visible on the inside. "Try this. I borrowed it from my sister."
I slip it on. It's fitted, modern, nothing like the boxy blazers Mom wears to work. The fabric is expensive, structured. It holds its shape.
"With this silk cami underneath." Zoey tosses me a champagne-colored top that catches the light. "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. Like someone who belongs in rooms with crystal chandeliers and important people.
"I don't know if I can do this," I whisper.
"Yes you can." Zoey meets my eyes in the mirror. Her reflection is fierce, certain. "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, protective. She's been my best friend since sixth grade. She knows how to fight my battles when I can't. "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. Almost feels real.
"What about Madison?"
"Same thing. Ice cold. You're above it." She adjusts my blazer, smoothing the shoulders. "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 like I'm studying for finals. Read articles by faculty members. Watch YouTube videos of campus tours. Memorize building names, program highlights, notable alumni. 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. Photos of my acceptance letter artfully arranged with coffee and flowers. Flat lays of dorm room essentials. Inspirational quotes about new beginnings.
The comments are mixed. Some supportive. Some still bringing up the drama. I ignore all of it. Delete the worst ones. Block the persistent trolls.
My follower count stabilizes. The bleeding stops.
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. The freeway stretches ahead, Sacramento fading behind us. We pass Davis, then Vacaville, then the Bay Area sprawl. 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 in that LA way, all modern lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. Chandelier in the lobby made of something that looks like crystalized water. Waiters with champagne flutes on silver trays. Women in cocktail dresses and men in suits. Everyone looks expensive.
I smooth down my blazer. The silk cami underneath feels cool against my skin.
"You look beautiful," Mom whispers. Her hand squeezes mine.
"Thanks."
We check in at the registration table. Get name tags printed on heavy cardstock. Avery Lane - Incoming Freshman, Communications.
The label feels like armor. Like a role I'm playing.
We walk into the main ballroom. Round tables with white linens and small floral centerpieces. A small stage at the front with a podium and the UCLA logo projected behind it. Faculty members mingling near the bar, laughing that comfortable laugh of people who belong here.
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, charcoal gray that probably costs more than my entire outfit. His posture is confident but not arrogant. And when he laughs at something she says, his whole face changes. Becomes almost boyish despite the silver at his temples.
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 that fills the space around him.
Liam demands attention. This man commands it.
"Should we find our table?" Mom asks.
"Yeah. Sure."
But I'm still watching him. Watching the way he listens to the woman in pearls, the way he nods thoughtfully, the way his hand moves when he talks. Everything about him is controlled. Deliberate.
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? Something else I can't name?
My breath catches.
Then someone calls his name and the moment breaks. He turns back to his conversation.
I exhale.
"Avery?" Mom's looking at me, concerned. "You okay?"
"Fine." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Let's find our seats."
We walk toward the tables, following the place cards. But I can still feel it. The weight of his gaze. The heat of it. And the dangerous, reckless thought that followed.
He noticed me.