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MAX: I don’t know how the fuck he’s gonna show his face on campus now that everyone knows he got the shit kicked out of him by someone nearly half his size.
Her flurry of texts all come in a rush, my phone pinging with each one, and I stare down at the screen.
Did the Sinners have anything to do with this? With making sure Cliff didn’t twist the truth to make this all look like it was my fault somehow? It’s still hard to believe they would, considering how much of the semester Gray has spent messing with me and trying to ruin my reputation.
But who e
lse knows the truth and could’ve made sure it was that story that caught on and not the lies Cliff fabricated? Max does, but she doesn’t have the kind of sway that could influence the entire school.
MAX: There’s a picture of him going around too. It’s pretty fucking bad. He looks like shit. Some of his fangirls are mad, and the rest of the Saints are sticking by him, from what I’ve heard.
ME: Jesus. Of course.
My lips curl in a grimace as I hit send. I wonder if Caitlin and her groupies are among those supporting Cliff. It wouldn’t fucking surprise me. She’s still got her sights set on Gray, but I’m sure she wants to keep her options open in case she doesn’t manage to snag him.
And who cares if your husband is an attempted rapist as long as he’s got wealth and power, right?
MAX: Right? It’s so fucking pathetic.
There’s a pause, and then another text comes through.
MAX: Hey. I’m proud of you for fighting against Cliff, and you know I’ll always have your back. But just make sure you watch out for retaliation.
My brows pull together, and I sink deeper into the cushions of my couch.
ME: You think he’ll try to jump me again? Or someone else will?
MAX: Not necessarily like that. I was talking more about legally.
I blink down at the screen.
Oh. Shit. I honestly hadn’t even considered that, but a ripple of worry moves through me. I pull up Max’s contact and hit the call button, and she answers after the first ring.
“Legally?” I ask, picking up where our text conversation left off. “What exactly do you mean?”
She sighs. “He’s probably not dumb enough to attack you again—although I wouldn’t put it past his fan girls or some of his bros who are pissed a girl didn’t just shut up and put out. But even if he doesn’t try anything physical, that doesn’t mean he won’t be out for some retribution. His family is one of the most powerful names in California. He’s a legacy child, and something like this is going to follow him. Where you have a mean right hook, Cliff has parents with lawyers.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my blue-streaked hair.
Max has a point. It’s something I never even considered as I was fighting off Cliff’s assault—not that I was thinking rationally or coherently at the time. And not that I would’ve done anything differently even if I had.
“Yeah. Welcome to the world of the wealthy elite,” she says dryly, although there’s an edge to her voice. “Where they can wreck your life without ever laying a finger on you.”
“Thanks for the heads up.” I chew on my lip, staring up at my blank walls, which are still devoid of art.
I never had to think about shit like this before. Back in my old life, when you got into bullshit with someone else, you handled it and then it was done. No one had a lawyer on retainer. No one could afford one.
Fuck. How much trouble is this going to bring me?
I don’t have to wait long for an answer.
On Monday, I’m summoned to the dean’s office before my second class even starts. The whole classroom breaks into whispers and murmurs as Professor Stanton calls me to the front, disapprovingly explaining that I’ve been asked to speak to Dean Wells.
There’s no question in my mind about what I’m being called in for—I haven’t done anything else worthy of note, and I’m sure as shit not being summoned for some kind of academic accolade. I don’t think they give those out to the scholarship students, no matter how well we do.
The campus is quiet as I walk across the lawn, but I still keep my gaze alert and my shoulders tensed up defensively. When I reach the admin building, the dean’s secretary ushers me inside his office.
Dean Wells is probably in his fifties, and he looks like a cartoon character of a rich man come to life. Everything about him is crisp, from his suit to his perfectly styled hair to his movements, and he gives me a curt nod as I walk in, gesturing for me to take a seat.
