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He studies his chunky black boots, turned a dull gray from snow and salt. “I was a dumbass kid; adults should know better.”
“Adults should be civil. I’m being social; that’s what I’m doing.” I can’t ignore the way his eyes burn holes into my confidence. A sweater slips off a velvet hanger, and I curse softly as I pick it up off the floor. A small brown patch of dust clings to the delicate fibers, and I beat it off with my hand while he silently watches me. My nerves start to rattle under his scrutiny.
When I had nothing, I had nothing to lose, but now that I have it back, I feel a growing panic as I try to keep all of it. I shake the unwelcome thought out of my head.
I tilt my nose and refuse to look at him, as if his opinion is insignificant. “You try hard, Asher, but you don’t understand how things are done socially.”
The smirk on his lips guts me. “I understand your game, Ms. Howland. Maybe I don’t want to play it.” Asher fingers a print blouse from Stella McCartney, but instead of appreciation, there’s disgust in his eyes. I yank it off his hand as if his judgment will soil the fabric.
His guarded gaze meets mine as he walks to the door. “Be careful, Charlotte. Or you might turn into the bitch I once thought you were.”
I would’ve kicked the door shut if he hadn’t closed it first. I ball a pink angora Prada sweater into a knotted ball and launch it at the door. Fuck him.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte
Scandal-Ageddon
My phone chimes again, and I want to switch it to do not disturb, but FOMO keeps me from doing it. I’m too sleepy to stop myself from swiping the screen. It isn’t an email but a text.
$ugar doll, just a little sample of you.
Below the message is a screenshot of my mask slipped off and my lips wrapped around Jaxon’s cock. Our private moment is now searchable on the internet because of some psycho stalker.
The creep started a throwaway account, and he promises this is a teaser of what’s to come. I tap on it, and it leads to a full account. I report it, but it only takes seconds for someone to download the entire content. Worse yet, my name is tagged on each picture. By the next morning, I’m trending.
I barely slept last night, not that I get a full eight hours any night. I dab concealer under my eyes, but nothing is going to hide the red rims from crying. Discouraged before the day has started, I lie down again and try to convince myself to keep going. The thought of dropping out becomes even more appealing and reasonable.
I refuse to engage. He wants me to swallow down the bait—to threaten him, then beg, and lastly, agree. My phone chimes again, and I have to check the screen.
$ugar doll, meet me, and we’ll talk. Last chance.
The knock on the door makes me inhale my breath sharply down my throat. Hand on my chest, I hesitate, but the second knock rouses me to get up and check. Hudson doesn’t wait for me to step aside. He walks past me into the room and pushes the door shut. He pulls me into his arms and presses me against his comforting chest. I want to be held.
“You’re trembling.” He runs his hands over my bare forearms. “I guess that’s my answer.”
I knew the question. “He sent a text. My name is trending because of that POS. Did you see it?”
Hudson glares at my iPhone as if it’s at fault. “You’re not to contact him.”
Glaring, I shake my head. “Never. I never want that man anywhere near me. But he was at Alva Park.”
Hudson’s eyes widen in alarm. I had only told Astrid. “You should’ve told me sooner.” Hudson’s words snap in my face, and I cringe. He pauses. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you.”
Tenderly, he presses his lips against my cheek. He hasn’t shaved yet, and the roughness of his whiskers rubs against my skin. Feeling him calms me. My hands wrap around his biceps, and I pull him closer. I touch reality instead of worry over a virtual world. His concern brings me back into the moment, and I feel safe with Hudson. Understanding each other’s painful pasts replaces the distrust. I never want to go out into that fucked world again. I want Hudson to tell me it will get better. He runs his fingertip over my lip and then replaces it with another kiss.
“You look tired. Come on.” We sit on the bed, and I wrap the duvet around us. My phone chimes again. He catches my wrist before I can pick it up.
I yank my hand out of his strong grip and grab my phone anyway. The photos are no longer on social; it’s on a fake news site as clickbait. The details of my life are wrong. I smirk when the writer describes Monarch Academy as an exclusive prep school. But my giggle catches in my throat when I see a photo I didn’t know existed. My head is cut off in all the OnlyFriends photos—it could be any girl in lacy underwear. But this photo can’t be any girl. It’s definitely me in a photo from that high school party. My head is bent, displaying ragged hair and a patchy bald spot. My anxiety tightens my throat. How did the creep get this? It’s a different experience to see a picture of what happened. I touch my hair and stroke it, unconscious of what I’m doing.
Hudson takes the phone out of my hand. He stares in wonder, not immediately comprehending what’s on the screen. Gradually, he does, and the shock is apparent in his expression. His hoarse tone expresses rage. “When did this happen? Who did this to you?”
I tell him everything. Well, almost. I don’t mention Asher’s name. I only tell him about the girls who jumped me. He stares into my eyes and strokes my hand while I confess. For someone who is demanding and sometimes cruel, his touch is gentle. I hate pity, but his look is deeper than sympathy. It’s an understanding that my life is no longer dipped in gold. I had told Hudson it wasn’t, but seeing that picture has changed him and me. Now I don’t care if he sees me cry.
“I’ll go after the site.” Hudson takes out his phone. “We’ll shut this shit down now.”
“I don’t want to hang out here today,” I whisper.
