Brenda shoved the phone into her pocket.
She walked out of the campus gates, her legs feeling like lead. She needed to go back to her off-campus apartment. She needed a hot shower to scrub the smell of the hotel and the university politics off her skin.
She walked the three blocks to the old brick apartment building she shared with her roommate, Sloane.
As she approached the entrance, her steps slowed. A sleek, silver Porsche was parked illegally by the fire hydrant.
Emery's car.
Brenda's jaw tightened. She assumed he had come to beg or threaten her again. She walked past the car, entered the building, and took the slow, creaking elevator up to the fourth floor.
She pulled her keys from her bag and slid the key into the deadbolt.
It didn't turn. The door was already unlocked.
Brenda pushed the door open quietly. She stepped into the narrow entryway.
A sound stopped her dead in her tracks.
The living room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single floor lamp she had left on that morning. The cheap fabric sofa was facing away from the entryway, creating a perfect blind spot. A wet, heavy slapping sound, followed by a high-pitched moan. It was coming from the living room.
Brenda's blood ran cold. She took two silent steps forward and peered through the gap in the decorative wooden divider that separated the entryway from the living room.
On the cheap fabric sofa Brenda had bought herself, Emery was on top of Sloane.
Sloane's hands were tangled in Emery's hair. She let out a breathy laugh. "You're so much better than Brenda. She's so boring."
Emery grunted, his hips moving. "She's just a boring bookworm. You know how to actually have fun."
Brenda didn't scream. She didn't cry. The betrayal was so profound, so utterly disgusting, that it bypassed sorrow and went straight to a cold, clinical rage.
Her hands were completely steady as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She opened the camera app, switched to video, and hit record.
She slipped silently behind the corner of the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. From this concealed angle, she stood perfectly still, recording the clear audio and the undeniable visual evidence for thirty agonizing seconds.
Then, Brenda lifted her heavy keychain. She threw it as hard as she could against the metal entryway table.
CLANG!
The sound was like a gunshot in the small apartment.
The two bodies on the sofa scrambled apart. Emery fell off the edge, his pants around his ankles, his face pale with terror. Sloane shrieked, grabbing a throw pillow to cover her bare chest.
Brenda stepped out from behind the divider. Her face was an expressionless mask.
"If you couldn't afford a hotel room, Emery, you should have asked your mother for an allowance," Brenda said, her voice dripping with ice. "Instead of dirtying my sofa."
Emery scrambled to pull his pants up. His hands were shaking. "Brenda, wait, it's not what it looks like. I was drunk, I-"
Sloane immediately started crying, huge fake tears rolling down her cheeks. "Brenda, please! We couldn't help it. We fell in love. Please forgive us!"
Brenda felt bile rise in her throat. She walked past them into the open kitchen. She grabbed a large plastic cup, filled it to the brim with ice water from the fridge dispenser, and walked back to the living room.
Without a word, she threw the freezing water directly into Sloane's face.
Sloane screamed, dropping the pillow to wipe her eyes.
Emery jumped forward, stepping between them. "Are you crazy? Leave her alone!"
Brenda laughed. It was a harsh, broken sound. She held up her phone, the screen still showing the paused video of them together.
"Get out," Brenda said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Get out of my apartment right now, or this video goes to the university's internal forum. Let's see what the principal thinks of her son fucking a student on a cheap sofa."
Emery's eyes widened in sheer panic. He knew his mother would cut him off completely if a scandal like this broke. He grabbed his shirt, grabbed Sloane's arm, and dragged her toward the door.
"We're leaving! Just don't post it!" Emery yelled as they stumbled out into the hallway.
The door slammed shut.
The apartment was dead silent.
Brenda looked at the stained sofa. Her stomach violently contracted. She ran to the bathroom, fell to her knees in front of the toilet, and dry heaved until her ribs ached.
When she finally stood up, she washed her face with cold water. She couldn't stay here. The air felt poisoned.
She grabbed a duffel bag from her closet and shoved a few days' worth of clothes and her laptop inside. She threw the strap over her shoulder and left the apartment.
She took the elevator down to the basement parking garage. She threw her bag into the passenger seat of her beat-up Toyota Corolla and got behind the wheel.
Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached. A single tear escaped, hot and angry, rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away viciously.
She started the engine and drove up the ramp onto the street.
Just as she pulled up to the intersection, a silver Porsche swerved in front of her, cutting her off.
Emery jumped out of the driver's seat. He ran to her window and started pounding on the glass with his fists.
"Brenda! Open the door! You have to delete the video! You can't do this to me!" he screamed, his face twisted in panic.
Brenda hit the door lock button. Her heart pounded in her ears. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal and jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, trying to drive around his car.
The road was slick from a recent drizzle. The Corolla's worn tires lost traction.
The car skidded sideways. Brenda pumped the brakes, but it was too late.
She didn't notice the massive, black Maybach that had been methodically tailing her since she left the university campus, now perfectly positioned at the red light just ahead.
CRASH!
The front bumper of her Toyota slammed violently into the rear of the unyielding luxury vehicle.
The airbag didn't deploy, but the impact threw Brenda forward. Her forehead smacked against the steering wheel. A sharp, blinding pain shot through her right knee as it smashed into the hard plastic under the dashboard.
She groaned, her vision blurring for a second.
Outside, Emery saw the crash. He looked at the Maybach, realized the massive trouble he had caused, and ran back to his Porsche. He peeled out, leaving her behind.
Brenda gasped for air, holding her head. She looked up through the cracked windshield.
The driver of the Maybach stepped out. He was a massive man in a black suit. He walked over to her car, his face furious, and knocked hard on her window.
Brenda unbuckled her seatbelt. Her right leg throbbed with a sickening, burning pain. She pushed the door open and stumbled out, heavily favoring her left leg.
"I'm so sorry," Brenda started to say, reaching for her insurance card. "I was cut off, I-"
The rear window of the Maybach slowly rolled down.
Brenda's words died in her throat.
Bryon Reeves sat in the back seat. His dark suit was immaculate. His slate-gray eyes locked onto her pale face, then drifted down to her trembling right leg.
He didn't look angry. He looked entirely in control.
"Get in," Bryon commanded. His voice left absolutely no room for argument.
