Page 78 of The Sweetest Revenge

"Bring me back a strawberry lime?" I tried to keep my voice light, but my eyes were already fixed on the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs. The same door we'd been standing near when everything went down.

The MacBook felt like lead in my arms as I climbed. Each step brought me closer to the door that led to a hallway filled with memories of fear.

Behind this door, sneakers had squeaked against polished floors, and voices had echoed off high ceilings. Behind this door, those ordinary sounds had been replaced by screams and gunshots and?—

I pulled my hand back, wiping my palm against my jeans. The shooter was dead. The hallway was just a hallway now. I repeated these facts like a mantra, but my heart still hammered against my ribs.

Three deep breaths. I forced air into my lungs once, twice, three times, then pushed the door open before I could change my mind. The lights hummed overhead—a sound so normal it felt wrong. My footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, each one a reminder that I was alone here. That I was safe. Yet my shoulders remained tense, my body ready to run, as if it remembered something my mind was trying to forget.

"Ms. Ledger." Coach Hillard's voice cut through the empty hallway. He stood in his office doorway, shoulders rigid, lip in a tight line instead of his usual easy smile.

"Hey, Coach." The words stuck in my throat. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, but my feet carried me forward anyway. "I got your email."

"Come in." He didn't step aside right away, his massive frame blocking most of the doorway. When he finally moved, it felt less like an invitation and more like a trap closing.

"Is something wrong?" I asked over my shoulder, but froze when my gaze shifted forward and landed on Dean Sweeney sitting behind Coach's desk. "What's going on?" I flinched when the door slammed behind me.

"Ms. Ledger," Dean Sweeney forced a smile. "Why don't you have a seat?"

I shook my head. "No, thank you." I crossed my arms over my chest. "What's going on?"

Dean Sweeney pushed out of her chair, pressing her hands flat on the desk as she squared her shoulders. "A video that's been circulating on campus was brought to our attention."

Video.

I pressed my lips into a tight line, and my eyes closed on an exhale. There was only one video she could be talking about, the one of Coach Palmer and me.

"Unfortunately," Dean Sweeney's manicured nails tapped against her desk, "This kind of behavior is unacceptable. It reflects poorly on our institution." Each tap felt like a countdown.

My brows slammed together. "Behavior like what?" In my peripheral vision, Coach Hillard shifted his weight. "Being forced—" I stopped myself because Coach Palmer hadn't technically forced me. I knew what was required to make the team, and I knew what was required to get a full scholarship. Even though I didn't want to, I'd willingly gotten on my knees because if I hadn’t, college was off the table for me. The dance team I'd dreamed about being part of since I was a little girl would be gone.

"Are you saying Zaiden Knight forced you?"

"Zaiden?" I shook the confusion out of my head. "What are you talking about?"

The photo slid across the polished mahogany. My fingertips went numb as the image came into focus. Me—on my knees in the dim light of the football party. The grainy quality didn't hide what was happening, didn't blur the shame that rose like bile in my throat.

It didn't surprise me that someone had videoed it, but until then, I'd been able to pretend there wasn't video evidence of Zaiden forcing me to my knees in front of everyone. Of him claiming me as his, in front of my entire team.

"Where—" My voice cracked. I tried again, tasting copper where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek. "Where did you get this?" My hands shook as I flipped the photo over, but the image was already burned into my retinas.

The memory rushed back, the weight of Zaiden's hand on my head, the feel of him deep in my throat, the taste of his cum on my tongue, the music thumping overhead where the party continued without us as everyone watched.

"It doesn't matter." Dean Sweeney's voice cut through my spiral. "Now that it's been brought to our attention, we have to deal with it."

A laugh bubbled up in my chest, high and hysteric. Deal with it? Like this was a missed homework assignment or a dress code violation. Since when did a blow job become a concern of the school?

"I don't understand." My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "Why is this a school issue?"

"You are a dancer." Coach Hillard said, squaring his shoulders. "You represent this school."

Represent. The word echoed in my head.

My vision blurred as I stared at Dean Sweeney.

"You're off the team, Ms. Ledger, and you're suspended pending further investigation."

Dean Sweeney's words hit like physical blows. Off the team. Suspended. Possible expulsion. Each pronouncement drove another nail into the coffin of my future, the dance scholarship I'd spent years earning.

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