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I didn’t give it to her.
Then, her words start to click and I know exactly who she is.
“You’ve been stalking me… harassing me,” I say, pointing a finger as anger begins to thrum through my body. “Who let you in here? How did you—”
Before I can react, her hand strikes my cheek and takes my breath away in the process.
“I’m the one who gets to do the talking,” she seethes. “I talk. You listen. Understand?”
My ear is ringing and I gingerly move my jaw, trying to get my bearings. “You bitch,” I mutter. “You fucking bitch.”
Wringing the hand that just slapped me, she begins to pace the small bathroom, never moving from in front of the door. Her harsh laugh cuts through the small space.
“I’ve spent so much time and energy trying to get your attention… so much fucking time and energy, and for what? For you to not even know my fucking name! Lydia Dalton, does that ring a bell?”
It does sound familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Let me help you out,” she says, taking a step in my direction and forcing me to back up against the counter. “We attended the same prep school. I was a scholarship student, so of course you never gave me the time of day. We didn’t really run in the same circle.”
I swallow, my eyes scanning her face. “I remember,” I tell her, forcing my voice to remain calm. “You were in journalism class with me. I think we worked on a project together.”
She smirks, sucking through her teeth as she shakes her head. “A project you took full credit for.”
“I don’t remember that,” I confess.
“You had it all—the family, money, clothes, friends. Guys fell at your feet. All I wanted was to be noticed, but you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“I’m sorry you felt that way.”
I know it’s a backhanded apology, but I refuse to take responsibility for something I don’t remember doing. Sure, I vaguely remember her, but I don’t recall specific interactions. In high school, I mainly just hung out with Sophie. It wasn’t like I was a snob or better than anyone, I just kept a close circle.
But I know my response was the wrong thing to say when I see her expression grow even colder.
“You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to,” she huffs out, eyes turned to the ceiling. “I’ve left you messages, notes. I went to the same college as you. Took a job at your family’s company! And yet, still no one notices me. All I hear is Greer this and Greer that. Greer doesn’t want to work here. Greer thinks she’s too good. Greer is a fucking spoiled brat!”
Her voice grows louder and louder with each unhinged declaration and my hope is someone will hear her, but I know I can’t wait any longer.
That’s when I see the knife.
At some point, she must have taken it out of her purse.
Not willing to die in this bathroom, I make a run for it. When I lunge for the door, she reaches for me and the knife she’s holding slashes through my dress and pierces my stomach. Blood immediately begins to seep through the satin fabric.
Looking up, I see so much hate in Lydia’s eyes and when she notices the blood, it only multiplies.
“You’re not getting away that easy.” She shoves me back against the wall and I trip over the hem of my dress, my shoulder connecting with the metal door of a bathroom stall. “I didn’t come here to kill you, but I will do what needs to be done. Whatever it takes to make you listen.”
“I’m listening,” I tell her, my breaths coming out in shallow pants, all pretense of calm gone. “Whatever you want to say. I’m listening.”
For some reason, my acquiescence infuriates her even more. Her hand comes up and grasps my throat and I instinctively grip her wrist, my eyes trained on the metal blade in her opposite hand.
“Everything I’ve done for the last eight years was to get your attention. I just wanted you to notice me… I even dyed my fucking hair!” She pulls at the strands, her eyes going wide and unfocused. “I fucking hate brown hair!”
Her hold on me tightens and I feel my airway constrict as my vision fades.
Fuck.
“Just tell me what you want…w—what do you want from me?”
