We unpacked and caught up. Cleo told me about beach parties and moonlit swims and Ayden falling off a jet ski like some kind of romantic comedy disaster. I told her about… nothing. Because I had nothing. No Lewis, no closure, no resolution. Just silence and the growing suspicion that I’d never get answers.
And now, to make this semester even more psychologically complex, I had a class with Dr. Vaughn. The same woman who’d sent him away. The woman who’d destroyed everything because she couldn’t stand seeing me in her place.
Fucking fantastic.
The lecture hall was already half full when I arrived, probably because students actually cared about their education instead of wallowing in academic trauma.
I slid into a seat in the very back row, as far from the front as physically possible without actually leaving the building.
The syllabus sat untouched on the desk in front of me. I couldn’t bring myself to care about feminist literary theory when my entire life felt like a cautionary tale about power dynamics gone wrong.
Vaughn stepped in a few minutes later, wearing a crisp navy dress and heels that clicked across the floor like she was marking territory.
Her hair was perfectly pinned, lipstick a cold, deep red that probably had a name like “Professional Revenge” or “Academic Betrayal.”
She looked like someone who hadn’t spent a single second regretting what she’d done. Like destroying my life had been just another Tuesday for her.
I stared at her without blinking, willing her to feel my hatred radiating across the room like toxic energy.
She didn’t look at me. Not once.
“Welcome to Gender and Power in Literary Canon,” she began, voice smooth and professional as poisoned honey. “This class will explore how identity intersects with authorship, desire, and influence across different periods-“
I tuned her out completely.
I hated her voice. Hated how calm it was, how it didn’t shake or crack under the weight of what she’d done. She was the reason no one would even say his name anymore.
She was the reason I’d spent the summer feeling like half of myself had been surgically removed.
To her, I wasn’t a person. I was a reminder of her own failure, a replacement she couldn’t tolerate.
My phone buzzed against my thigh.
I frowned and glanced down. Unknown number. Probably spam about student loans or campus dining plans.
I clicked it open anyway. Only one sentence that made my entire world tilt sideways:
Private Room Service: Missed me, Cinderella?
—The End
