Chapter 18
Jul 4, 2025
The second I walk onto campus, I know something is wrong. It’s too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around your neck and waits. Eyes snap to me. Not in the usual way. Not admiration. Not curiosity. This is sharper. Hungrier. Like they’re waiting for me to bleed.
I take two more steps before I notice the smirks. Phones tilted just enough to capture me from the corner. Girls pretending to whisper when they’re clearly not pretending at all. My skin starts to itch. My throat dries. I want to turn around and walk right back out the gate, but I keep moving. Stupid.
At my locker, I freeze. The door’s been defaced in thick black marker. “SAINT JULIET” is scrawled across the middle. A little halo above the J. And two crooked devil horns drawn right underneath. I stare at it like it’s a punch to the face. People walk past me and laugh. I can’t tell who’s laughing at the joke… or at me.
Someone brushes past me. Then I hear the ping.
Airdrop request.
I glance at my phone. Unknown sender. I should decline. I should throw my phone in my bag and pretend it never happened.
But I don’t.
I accept it.
And then I see it.
My lips. My shoulder. The hem of the silk slip I swore I’d never let anyone see. My thighs, glowing in soft hallway light. It’s my photo. The one I sent in a moment of madness. A moment of hunger. A moment of trust.
And now it’s everywhere.
My heart falls out of my body. I press my hand against my chest like I can hold myself together. But I can’t. I’m coming undone in the middle of the hallway, and no one stops it. They just keep walking. Keep laughing. Like I’m not even a person anymore. Just a story. A scandal. A slut.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from screaming.
A girl walks by and doesn’t even try to whisper. “Guess she’s not such a saint after all.”
I don’t respond. I don’t breathe. I can’t.
Every step to my next class is agony. I sit at my desk. I keep my head down. I grip my pen so hard my knuckles turn white. But nothing drowns out the snickers. The eyes. The phones. The image I now know lives on dozens of screens, passed around like gossip candy.
By third period, I’m shaking.
And then the announcement comes.
“Juliet Alden to the Dean’s office. Now.”
The air in the classroom shifts. I feel the stares before I even rise. The girl beside me won’t stop smiling. Like this is the best day of her life.
I walk to the office like I’m walking into a courtroom. Maybe I am.
When I step inside, my stomach flips.
My father is already there—standing, pacing, red-faced, fists clenched at his sides. Rage rolling off him like smoke in a cartoon. My mother is seated next to him, her hands clasped in her lap, lips thin and colorless. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She doesn’t look at me at all.
The Dean gestures to the chair in front of the desk. I sit. I feel like a criminal.
He says nothing at first. Just opens a drawer, pulls out a folder, and slides it across to me.
The manila makes a scratchy sound against the wood. It lands in front of me like a death sentence.
I hesitate. My hand hovers. Then I open it.
I wish I hadn’t.
Screenshots. Photos. Messages. Time stamps. Every private moment. Every thing I whispered into that glowing screen, laid out like court evidence. I see my own face. My own body. My own words.
I go completely numb.
My ears ring. My mouth tastes like metal.
The Dean clears his throat but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
The shame is already crushing me.
My father turns to me slowly.
His voice is low. Shaking. Dangerous.
“You’re a disgrace.”
I flinch.
He storms out without another word.
The door slams behind him.
I want to run after him. I want to say something—anything—but my knees won’t move. I just sit there, staring at the mess I made, frozen in a chair that feels colder than stone.
