Page 92 of Don't You Pucking Dare

But how far is far enough?

The music building smells like always—wood polish and anxiety. Amanda drops into the seat next to me in class, her coffee sloshing dangerously close to her sheet music. For a moment, everything feels stupidly normal, like I don't have over a million dollars sitting in a new bank account.

"So, the Halloween party this weekend is going to be insane." Amanda pulls out her laptop, showing me pictures from last year. "So, everyone dresses up. You have to come with me." Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself nodding along.

"Yeah, I’ll come. Let’s get ready together."

One by one, students take their turns at the piano. The familiar nerves of performance class settle over the room. Amanda's up next, and I watch her wipe her palms on her jeans before approaching the keys. She's gotten better—her Bach isn't perfect, but there's feeling there now. The sunlight through the practice room windows catches her hair as she plays, and for a second I forget about everything else.

I text Brody before I forget.

Lola: Meet me for dinner tonight?

Brody: Yeah

Walking back across campus, reality crashes back. The crisp air carries fallen leaves across the sidewalk, and each step feels heavier than the last. $1.5 million dollars. My mother's fake smile at the bank. The warning letter crinkles in my jacket pocket with every movement.

"Lola!"

My blood turns to ice. Amanda stops mid-sentence about Halloween costumes, turning to the parking lot.

"Shit," I breathe, glancing at my mom. This can’t be good. "It's my mom."

Amanda's face lights up—she doesn't know better. "Oh, how nice of her to visit! I'll see you later." She waves, completely oblivious to the way my hands have started shaking.

If only she knew…

My mother stands between two oak trees, wearing that calculated smile like a mask. She's still playing normal, still pretending. Students stream past us, laughing, heading to class, no idea that I'm terrified of what happens next.

"What're you doing here?" I ask.

"Get in the car, Lola." She gestures to a black sedan idling nearby. Tinted windows. Running engine.

I shake my head, taking a step back. "No."

The mask slips. Her face twists into something familiar—the mother I grew up with, the one who threw plates and didn’t give a fuck about me. "Get in the fucking car."

I start to turn, to run, but hit something solid. Her supposed boyfriend towers over me, reeking of cigarettes and cheap cologne. The look he exchanges with my mother tells me everything.

His hand clamps over my mouth before I can scream. The parking lot is emptying—everyone's in class now. He drags me toward the car as I kick, my bag falling to the sidewalk. Books and papers scatter across the concrete.

The door opens and they shove me in, catching my legs as they slam it. Pain shoots up my thighs. I lunge for the door handle, but the child lock is on. The window controls don't respond.

My mother slides into the front seat as the car peels away from the curb. "You ungrateful little bitch," she snarls, all pretense gone now. "Did you think you could just walk out of the bank with all that money and run away from me?"

Her boyfriend throws my shit on my mom’s lap, not leaving evidence that I’ve been kidnapped right on school grounds.

Through the window, I watch the campus grow in the distance. This place was supposed to be my fresh start, the start of a new life. And somehow, my life is very far from that.

"Mom!" My voice bounces off the car's interior, too loud in the confined space. The boyfriend takes a sharp turn, throwing me against the door.

She whips around, mascara already smearing at the corners of her eyes. "Don't fucking talk to me in that tone, Lola! I have to do this because you're a spoiled brat! The money is mine!"

The car speeds past campus buildings, past students who have no idea what's happening behind the tinted windows. My heart pounds against my ribs. "Mom, where are you taking me?"

"Middle of fucking nowhere!" She's bouncing in her seat now, that familiar manic energy crackling off her. Her fingers drum against the dashboard—tap tap tap—like counting out doses.

I press back against the leather seat, trying to put distance between us. "Why do you need the money, mom?"

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