Chapter 26

Sunday afternoon, the pale sun filtered through the bare branches of the campus trees, casting long, cold shadows across the gravel paths. Alan wandered aimlessly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched under the lingering weight of the night before, as if it had seeped into his very skin.

He’d woken up late with that clammy, unrested feeling, his mind still churning with jagged fragments of the party—sharp, acidic flashes that twisted in his gut.

Every word he’d let slip to Madison, every coerced confession, every deliberate stroke along her thigh ... it all looped endlessly in his head like slow-acting poison.

Fuck, what the hell did I do? he repeated silently, jaw clenched tight. Anger rolled through him in waves, first aimed at himself—that spineless coward who’d gone along with Rebecah’s scheme with barely any pushback, spilling those words to manipulate her, to pile on the guilt.

Then at her, that vicious slut who’d been yanking their strings from the very beginning, holding that video over them like a knife to the throat.

He crossed part of the campus without really registering the familiar buildings, the clusters of laughing students, or the empty benches beneath the dark lampposts.

His footsteps fell heavy and mechanical, as though he could stomp the rage out into the ground beneath him. The video. That goddamn video. It had haunted him for days now, a ghost that jolted him awake drenched in sweat at night and knotted his stomach with every buzz of his phone. If she caught wind that he’d slipped up, that he’d confessed everything to Madison ... she’d blast it everywhere.

To his parents, his friends, his professors. Their whole lives shattered and laid bare like an open, festering wound. He was trapped, and the thought made him physically sick—that deep, visceral stress that refused to loosen its grip, the constant paranoia of being watched even here, in the middle of nothing.

He eventually dropped onto an isolated bench near a small grove edging the main walkway. The cold wood bit through his jeans, but he barely noticed. Elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands, he stared blankly ahead.

She thinks she’s untouchable, he thought through gritted teeth. Rebecah with her sweet, innocent smile, her lawyer daddy, and the money that let her buy whatever the fuck she wanted. She literally had them by the balls, and she knew it.

How could he trap her? How could he flip this nightmare, get solid proof of the blackmail and the twisted control she’d exerted over them for weeks? An idea began to take root, smoldering like an ember in the dark.

Record her. Get a clear, undeniable confession—her admitting to the video, the whole plan, the manipulation.

Maybe even threaten to take it to the cops, or at least use it as leverage to force her to back down. He wasn’t sure yet how to pull it off or if it would even hold up legally ... but fuck, it was better than doing nothing. It might be enough to pressure her, make her destroy the original, and finally leave them the hell alone.

He was done. Completely at the end of his rope. This simmering fury, the exhaustion eating away at his bones ... he needed it to stop.

He had to tell Madison everything before she wrote him off for good as some kind of psycho, the monster he wasn’t.

Lay out the full truth—the blackmail, the orders, the way Rebecah had pushed him to touch her, to break her down. She’d understand.

She had to. He knew exactly what he needed to do now.

He pushed up from the bench, legs heavy but his resolve sharper than it had been in days, and started walking back toward his apartment.

The campus felt grayer and more oppressive around him, but for the first time in what felt like forever, a faint outline of a plan was beginning to cut through the chaos.

The evening had settled like a heavy veil, smothering the last echoes of student laughter drifting from the neighboring dorms. In her cramped apartment, Madison stood in front of the small stovetop, mechanically stirring a pot of pasta that bubbled listlessly.

The salted water lapped weakly, and the bland smell of overcooked spaghetti filled the stale air, mixing with the musty scent of damp laundry drying on the radiator.

She was exhausted—not just physically, but with a bone-deep weariness that clung to her like a second skin. All day she had planned to make progress on her job search: polishing her résumé, scouring listings for those small finance firms where she could finally get a foot in the door after her aborted internship. But nothing. Not a single line written, not one extra click.