Page 167 of Breakaway Hearts

“It’s taken me years to do anything about it.”

“It wasn’t your fault they didn’t listen.”

I smile at his attempt, but I don’t feel brave, especially not when my fingers shake as I take out my laptop and upload the article onto one of the blogging platforms.

My fingers hover over the PUBLISH button. I’m sure about this in theory, but in practice, I’m terrified. Jay already signed off on it, and I don’t care what the other guys want, but the backlash is going to eat me alive.

“You’ve got this Mads,” Owen tells me. “And whether you decide to publish it or not, I am so fucking proud of you.”

I take a deep breath and click, because not isn’t an option.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Madison

We regret to inform you

The backlash from my article started out slow, then snowballed until all my inboxes were flooded. At first, I wasn’t going to read the comments. I knew they’d all be calling me names, saying I asked for it, calling me a liar…basically what happened after I came forward in high school. But at lunch time, someone shared my post, saying that was exactly what happened to her when her boyfriend got accepted at Berwick. Then another girl said Trevor did the same thing to her at a party freshman year. The comments are still predominantly calling me out, some of them going so far as to threaten me, but there are enough from women who’ve gone through something similar, thanking me for speaking out, that I don’t have a complete mental breakdown over it. I do, however, let Owen bring me back to his place after class so I can hide from the rest of the world. He also gives me multiple orgasms in an attempt to take my mind off things, and I am not complaining.

While Owen gets us food, I grab my phone and let Jason know I won’t be coming home tonight. Which quickly spirals into checking my other notifications. I try to ignore anything pertaining to the article, but there’s an email from Pruitt & Dobbs. I found out through David that Owen went to apologize to Devon yesterday, but I’ve still been dreading this.

I open the email with the certainty that whatever is inside will change my life, for better or for worse.

Miss Finch,

We regret to inform you that you are no longer a candidate for our summer internship and scholarship programs, effective immediately.

Best of luck in your future endeavors.

I’m still sitting there, staring at my phone, frozen, when Owen walks in, balancing two plates of pasta and an assortment of cheeses.

“I’ve got—what’s wrong?” His face drops.

“It’s nothing,” I try to dismiss it and enjoy this, with him, but without that internship, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay.

“Mads, I want to know.” He’s not demanding, just reaffirming that he wants all of me, not just the good parts. Which is good, because I come with never-ending baggage.

“I didn’t get the internship.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Mads. This is my fault.”

“It was a long shot⁠—”

“No, you were the best candidate by far.”

“You don’t know any of the other candidates.”

“But I know you, and that’s enough,” he insists. “This is because I broke his son’s ankle.”

“Sprained it,” I correct, though I doubt it makes a difference. “And you apologized, which should count for something,” I continue, even as he tries to argue. “Given the timing, it’s more likely this is about the fact I just accused one of his teammates of sexual assault and implied it was a team sanctioned activity.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Owen repeats, this time for my loss rather than his part in it.

“It’s fine. I’ll…I’ll find another one. Figure something out. I always do,” I say with zero confidence.

Without a scholarship, there is no way I can afford law school, and if one firm turned me down over this, chances are others will too.

Chapter Seventy-Eight