Page 79 of Claiming Atlas

God, I’m horrible.I shake my head and run my hands over my face. “I’m sorry. That was...”

“Mean?”

“Yeah.” I look back up at her.

“I forgive you because you’re obviously heartbroken.”

“I’m not going to the concert, so please drop it.” I reach past her. “Hand me that other glass.”

“What happened between you two, really?”

I clench my jaw and look up at her. “You saw the magazine.”

“And? So some tabloid creep lied about you. What’s the big deal?”

I take a deep breath through my nose, then stand. “Fine. You want to know what happened.” She moves to the couch as I walk past her to the little breakfast bar attached to our tiny kitchen. The letter arrived yesterday, just four days after the magazine published that bullshit piece about Atlas and me.

I’ve almost finished crying. Almost.

I pull the letter from the envelope and unfold it gently, careful not to tear it. It’s so worn out from how many times I’ve read it, and it’s stained with my tears. I turn around and join Scarlet on the couch. I hand it to her, then stare at the wall as she reads the worst letter I’ve ever received.

After a few long minutes, she sighs. “How long have you had this?”

“It got here yesterday.”

She gasps softly. “How’d they send it so fast?”

I shrug. “Magic?”

Scarlet’s brow furrows. “How many times have you read it?”

I shake my head. “Too many.”

“Did you call them? Did you try to explain?”

“Of course I called them.”

“And? Did they listen to you?”

I shake my head as tears well in my eyes. “No. They said that they understood my circumstances, and they sympathized, but they couldn’t have their name tarnished by being linked to a possible call girl.”

“Oh my God.”

I swallow hard as emotion closes my throat.

“Can you sue the magazine?”

I meet her gaze. “For what? Lying? Isn’t that just, like, what the tabloids do?”

“Yeah, but, this is... this affected yourlife, Kay, they published your real name... something should be done. I mean, there’s got to be some kind of recourse—”

“There’s not. There’s nothing I can do.”

She sets the letter down on the coffee table, then turns toward me and tucks her legs up beneath her. “This is slander. And these people”—she waves toward the letter—“to take away your funding like that.”

“I guess they don’t think anyone is going to want to enroll their kids in a school owned by a whore.”

“Kayla,” she says on a gasp.

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