Page 3 of The Players We Hate
She followed my gaze. “By the way, your lipstick’s great. It doesn’t screamvote for me,but that’s probably why I like it.”
That earned a smile. A real one.
She nudged her shoulder lightly against mine. “Let me know if you want to duck out early. I got bored backstage and found where they’ve stashed the good cookies.”
She started to walk away but glanced over her shoulder once more.
“I see you, Wren. Just so you know.”
Then she was gone, slipping into the noise.
And for a moment, I didn’t feel quite so invisible.
ChapterOne
Wren
I lingered outside the lecture hall, my backpack straps snug on my shoulders as the mid-October sunlight baked the brick walkways of Rixton University. The air hummed with cicadas, carrying the faint scent of pine and freshly cut grass.
This wasn’t Kolmont. No breezy walks under sprawling oaks or the distant sound of the ocean. This was Tennessee. Familiar. Heavy. Too close to everything I left behind, and everything I was still expected to carry.
I adjusted my shoulders and squared my stance, slipping into the version of myself I’d perfected since I was twelve: polished, unshakable, and perfectly in control. The one who spoke only when she was sure of her words. The one who dressed for the camera, even when there wasn't one.
The day I transferred to Rixton, the headlines followed.Governor’s Daughter Leaves Kolmont University and Returns to Tennessee: Optics or Oversight?
They could spin it however they wanted. This wasn’t about image.
It was about survival.
Most nights, I disappeared into the library, and tonight was no different. The faint smell of floor polish mixed with the dusty scent of paper was oddly comforting. I stretched out at a back table beneath the soft hum of fluorescent lighting. My laptop glowed with color-coded tabs, highlighters scattered around me like candy. Time blurred as I lost myself in case studies and court rulings. Every word was another layer of armor I wrapped tight around myself.
By the time I packed up, it was nearly seven. My bag hung heavy with books, the weight grounding me as I made my way across campus. The sun dipped low, spilling gold over the brick walkways. From the commons, a guitar drifted on the breeze, mingling with the sound of girls laughing in the grass. I kept moving, not slowing my pace.
Friday nights weren’t my favorite. They never were.
By the time I reached my building, I’d already planned the rest of my evening. Loaded grilled cheese with tomato soup from a spot down the street, sweet tea, and a solo movie night withTo All the Boys I’ve Loved Beforeor maybeMe Before You.Something I knew the ending of. Something safe.
I swiped my ID at the entrance, stepping into the familiar chill of the stairwell. My phone buzzed before I reached the second floor.
Mother: How were classes? Did you introduce yourself to your poli-sci professor like we discussed?
Mother: And remember, even from here, you’re being watched. Faculty talk. Students gossip. You’re not invisible just because you’ve crossed county lines.
I sighed and typed a quick reply.
Me: Classes were fine. Sat near the front. Participated in the discussion.
Mother: Good. Let’s keep it that way. Your father’s campaign team is still tracking campus media. No surprises, Wren.
Mother: Heading to Nashville tomorrow for a photo op with the education board. I’ll send you talking points, in case anyone at school asks. Don’t forget our agreement about campus security.
I didn’t need the reminder.
When I enrolled at Rixton, we negotiated the terms as if it were a contract. I could attend without full-time protection, but only if I agreed to my parents’ demands. Daily check-ins. Approved travel within city limits. Notification to campus security if I plan to leave campus after dark.
It wasn’t 24/7 surveillance, but it felt like it.
This was the reality of my life—controlled freedom. Every inch I’d been given had been pre-approved, cleared, and measured. I didn’t make my own choices. I followed protocol. My days were laid out in itineraries, and every decision was calculated.
