Page 30 of Terror Tuesday
Every sorority president is expected to embody their house’s power. And as leader ofOmega Nu Epsilon, mine is divine femininity sharpened into a siren’s call.
Sora’s note is pinned just below the neckline:
Your throne awaits, Olivia. Slay. Literally.
Normally, I’d laugh. Snap a selfie. Make a joke about putting a Viscount’s head on a spike. Tonight? I just stare at the dress in all its bold, beautiful splendor. It’s everything I used to be.
But as I run my fingers over the slick fabric, I don’t feel like royalty. I’m a sacrificial lamb. Precious enough to be marked for the gods’ pleasure.
Still, I lay it gently across the chair. If I can’t control the night, I can at least choose the costume.
When I move to the mirror, casually undressing, something catches in the crotch of my thong—brittle and crusted. My throat tightens as my upper lip curls with dread... Not again.
I strip faster, like the fabric might bite me if I don’t. Then, I toss it in the hamper like I’m exorcising a panty demon. Behind me, the garment glows softly in the lamplight—like it’s watching…waiting for me to do the wrong thing. An act not fitting for the crown.
My reflection in the mirror looks composed, but something’s fraying around the edges of my mascara. The pink gown sits across the room like a tiara I haven’t earned. Or a noose I’m expected to don like jewelry.
As I reach for my diary, my fingers tremble. I sink onto the edge of my bed, cross-legged like I’m twelve again, and crack the spine open to the last blank page.
The words spill out:
I don’t know who I am anymore. Not really. Olivia Cardell died somewhere in a warehouse. I’m what’s left. Something is happening. Something dark. I can feel it pressing in from every corner. Yet I’m smiling. And no one sees the blood. No one sees me.
Throat tight, I carefully close the diary. Maybe to hide it or protect it. But then I see a drawing that wasn’t there before.
A new Monarch butterfly is inked onto the back page with intricate, delicate strokes. So perfect, it looks like it could beat its wings. Beneath it, a new message.
You’re not alone, Chrysalis.
The journal hits the floor with a thud. My pulse spikes so fast I hear the static rush in my ears.
Vanq has been here. More than once. The crusted panties. Theofffeeling. The second butterfly wing. He’s not just watching…
He’stouching.
Heknowsthings about me.
I stumble back from the bed like it’s on fire. My stomach lurches. I want to scream, but there’s no air left in my lungs. Vanq isn’t done with me.
My eyes snap to my balcony windows, onto the lake in the distance. The cameras flash from their tall poles.
His eyes aren’t far at all...
No.
He’s extremely close.
nine
ThetaRho Zeta’sgarage isn’t a place for cars.
It’s a monument to inherited excess—an old-world carriage house the size of an airplane hangar, dressed in limestone, hung with chandeliers, and lined wall-to-wall with Maseratis, Ducatis, and vintage automobiles that haven’t been street-legal since the city still used gold coins.
At night, it’s even quieter than the main manor. No parties. No foot traffic. Just the whir of temperature control and the occasional low hum of a charger feeding something that costs more than most people’s futures. Which is why I chose it.
I’m tucked into the equipment room near the back—past the wine lockers, behind the row of monogrammed racing helmets. It smells like motor oil, metal polish, and money. No one checks it, because none of theThetasdo their own work. They don’t even pump their own gas.
My laptop’s jacked into the wall, a direct hardline feed boosted by a mobile satellite spike I mounted to the rafters last week, disguised as a roof inspector. Signal’s clean and fast. I wouldn’t risk wireless here. Too much interference fromTheta’s“smart manor” bullshit. Three extra monitors I set up on some boxes. Two keyboards. One biometric pad I reprogrammed to accept my palm print. This is my makeshift war table.
