9. Brooke

Iwoke up the next morning alone, the other side of the bed cold and untouched. The events of yesterday flooded back in a painful rush, fueling the fury that had simmered into a low, persistent burn overnight. Connor"s words, his demands, echoed in my mind, a bitter reminder of the twisted reality I now found myself trapped in. I was furious—furious at Connor, at my father, at myself for somehow ending up in this situation.

Determined not to let the previous night"s humiliation define me, I forced myself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water was a slight comfort against the chill of dread that had settled in my bones. As I stood there, letting the water cascade over me, I made a silent vow never to allow anything like that to happen again. Connor might believe he had power over me, but I wasn"t about to make it easy for him. I had my pride, battered and bruised though it was, and I clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

After my shower, I dressed in my uniform with mechanical precision, each movement an attempt to piece back together the semblance of normalcy. The fabric felt stiff, foreign, as if I was putting on a costume rather than clothing I had worn every day for years. It was a stark reminder that nothing was the same anymore. My reflection in the mirror was a girl I barely recognized—stoic, guarded, ready to face the world with a facade of indifference.

As I made my way to class, the weight of my situation hung heavily on me. I was no longer just a student at Crestwood Academy, but a pawn in a cruel game I had never asked to play. The halls that once felt familiar now seemed hostile, filled with potential whispers and judgments about my sudden and inexplicable living situation with Connor Bradley.

The relief of not encountering Connor as I navigated through the morning was a small, precious comfort. The mere thought of facing him, after everything that had transpired, filled me with a tumultuous mix of dread and anger. Avoiding him wasn"t just about evading an uncomfortable confrontation; it was about preserving the fragile semblance of control I felt I was clinging to. Instead of risking a run-in, I made my way to the River Styx, the quaint on-campus café that had become my sanctuary on mornings like this. Ordering a mocha and a pastry—my self-proclaimed breakfast of champions—provided a fleeting sense of normalcy amid the chaos.

With an hour to spare before my first class, I found solace in the familiarity of the café"s cozy interior. The need to escape Connor"s house had been pressing, almost suffocating, but as I sat there, sipping my mocha, I couldn"t quell the curiosity gnawing at me. Where was he? What was he doing? The questions lingered, uninvited, as I tried to focus on the warmth of my drink and the sweetness of my pastry, attempting to drown out the uncertainty with simple, tangible pleasures.

Outside, the chill of a December morning was palpable, even from the relative warmth of the coffee shop. I was grateful for the uniform-sanctioned tights that shielded me from the bite of the cold. Gazing through the window, I wondered if the month would bring snow, imagining the silent beauty of a winter wonderland enveloping the world outside. But this random thought was tinged with bitterness. The realization that I wouldn"t be decorating the Christmas tree or the house as I had done every year at the start of winter break was a stark reminder of the joy that had been stripped away, the normalcy I had lost.

The holidays had always been a time of warmth and festivity, a bright spot in the darkest month. The thought of missing out on those cherished traditions because of my current predicament left me feeling hollow. The joy of stringing lights, hanging ornaments, and the anticipation of Christmas morning seemed like distant memories, luxuries from another life. It was another thing Connor had taken from me, another slice of my identity and happiness eroded by the situation he had forced me into.

As I finished my breakfast and prepared to face the day, the weight of what lay ahead felt heavier than ever. I might have been robbed of my traditions and my sense of safety, but I refused to let this situation define me. No matter what, I was determined to find moments of joy and normalcy, even in the darkest times. Connor might have thought he controlled my life, but he couldn"t control my spirit.

In my business classes, I threw myself into the work with an intensity I hadn"t known I was capable of. I took meticulous notes and paid attention to every word the professors said, desperate to cling to something that felt normal, something that was mine and mine alone.

"And don't forget," Professor Bradshaw said after he dismissed us. "Your final is in a couple weeks. You're in the homestretch. Let's not lose sight of that, yeah?"

My stomach curdled.

How could I forget?

Winter break was coming. Three weeks of freedom from classes and assignments, under normal circumstances, would be a welcome relief. But this year, it filled me with dread.

The idea of being alone with Connor for an extended period of time made the walls of the classroom feel like they were closing in on me. Every glance at the calendar, every mention of the holiday season, was a stark reminder of the looming solitude and tension. It was enough to send a shiver down my spine. It wasn"t just about avoiding discomfort; it was about preserving my sanity. I had to devise a plan, something that would allow me to escape, even if only for a little while. The thought consumed me, turning the ticking clock at the front of the room into a countdown to a situation I was desperate to avoid.

The buzz and chatter of campus life felt oppressively loud that day. Each laugh, each snippet of conversation, seemed to echo louder in my ears, yet another reminder of the normalcy I had lost. Craving solitude and a respite from the relentless reminder of my situation, I decided to head to the library. It was a place where the quiet was a balm to my frayed nerves, where I could blend into the background and nurse my wounds in peace.

I settled into a study room, pulling out a textbook and a couple of notebooks. Before I could dive into Marketing, my phone buzzed softly against the wooden surface of the library table, a gentle interruption in the heavy silence that surrounded me.

Glancing down, I saw Minka"s name light up the screen, her message simple yet loaded with concern: How are you? Do you need anything?

My chest tightened painfully at the words. I wanted nothing more than to pour out everything to her, to share the burden of the secrets and the shame that had become my constant companions since yesterday. Yet, the words wouldn"t come; the embarrassment was too deep, too raw.

It felt ridiculous, really. Minka, of all people, would understand. She"d been through her own public scandal just a few months ago, emerging with her head held high despite the whispers and the stares. She was the epitome of strength and resilience in the face of adversity, but I found myself unable to reach out, to admit the depth of my predicament. The fear of judgment, of pity, held me back, keeping my fingers frozen above the keyboard, unable to respond.

Not yet, I told myself, not ready to bridge that gap between my reality and her willingness to help.

Instead, I turned to my notebooks, picking up a pen. I wasn"t there to study, not really. The looming finals were the least of my concerns compared to the pressing need to devise an escape plan from the situation that had ensnared me. The silence was a double-edged sword, offering peace while amplifying the ache of my father"s silence. He hadn"t checked in, not even a cursory text to pretend he cared.

I opened a textbook to distract myself, determined not to dwell on his absence. I refused to let the hurt and the abandonment consume me, focusing instead on the pressing need to find a way out, any way out, of the nightmare my life had become.

As I tried to immerse myself in the textbook before me, my phone started buzzing again. Initially, I assumed it was Minka, persisting in her concern. However, when I glanced at the screen, my heart did an unexpected leap—not out of nerves, but from the uncertainty of seeing Stephen"s name illuminated there.

For a moment, I hesitated, caught between the desire to connect and the fear of where the conversation might lead. Yet, deciding to answer felt empowering, a small reclaiming of control in a life that had recently been dictated by Connor"s whims.

"Hey, Stephen," I began tentatively, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Brooke? Hey... I was surprised to see you called," he said, his tone a mix of curiosity and something I couldn"t quite place. "How have you been?"

"Good, good. You know, just the usual chaos of end-of-quarter assignments and exams looming over," I replied, skirting around the truth of my turmoil.

"Yeah, I remember those days" he said, chuckling, the sound awkwardly floating between us. "It's been a while, hasn"t it?"

"It has," I agreed, the silence that followed feeling heavy with unspoken words. "I saw you"ve been doing well in your games. That"s great."

"Thanks, yeah, we"ve had a good season. Um, how"s everything else? Family, classes?"

"Everything"s fine. Just focusing on school mostly," I deflected, not ready to dive into the reality of my situation. "How about you? Still enjoying pro life?"

"Yeah, it"s good. Busy, but good. Can"t believe it"s almost winter break. We get a few days off, Christmas Eve, Christmas, and then we're on a road trip on the west coast."

"At least the weather will be nice," I murmured.

"I"ve missed you, you know," he admitted, and the simplicity of his confession took me by surprise. His words hung between us, a bridge over the distance that had grown with time.

"I... didn"t expect that," I confessed.

"Yeah, well," he chuckled softly, easing the tension. "There"s a home game this weekend. Maybe we could see each other after? Catch up properly?"

I hesitated, the offer tempting but fraught with complications. "I don"t know, Stephen," I murmured, the weight of my current predicament pressing down on me.

Just then, my phone started buzzing incessantly with texts. "I have to go," I said quickly.

"Okay," he replied, his voice tinged with disappointment. "Look, if you can go, text me and I'll get you a couple of tickets, okay? It would be…it would be really nice to see you again."

Hanging up, I was left with a tumult of emotions—surprise at Stephen"s admission, warmth at the thought of reconnecting, and a pang of sadness for the simplicity we had once shared. It was a brief respite, a fleeting moment of normalcy in the storm that was my life. But as I turned my attention to the barrage of texts, I knew that any decision about seeing Stephen would have to wait.

Each one was a text from Connor, and as I scrolled through them, a cold fury settled in my stomach.

Clean the study.

Cook dinner so that it"ll be ready by six.

Organize the books in the library alphabetically.

The messages read more like commands from a master than anything else, each one a subtle slap in my face.

Suddenly, the anger bubbled up within me, hot and fierce, but it was quickly chased by an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Tears threatened to spill over as the reality of my situation hit me with full force. I was living under someone"s thumb, expected to jump at every order, my autonomy stripped away as easily as one peels an apple.

But as quickly as the tears came, I blinked them away, refusing to let them fall for him. Because of him.

Determination replaced the brief moment of despair. I wasn't someone"s puppet to be commanded at whim. The texts on my phone only fueled my resolve to make his life hell. If he wanted me to clean his study, I would trash it. If he wanted me to cook dinner, I'd make sure it was charred. And if he wanted me to alphabetize his bookshelf, I'd start with J and skip two letters.

Just because I belonged to him didn't mean I had to listen to him.

If my life was hell, his was going to be filled with every damn layer in Dante's Inferno. And I was going to enjoy every second of it.