Chapter9
Celestia's POV
The elevator descended in silence. Each floor that passed felt like another layer peeling away。
My reflection fractured across polished chrome.
The lobby doors opened to cold. I walked without direction, letting muscle memory guide me while my mind circled the same thought.
My phone buzzed.
Celestia, please. Let me explain.
I stared at the message. Part of me wanted desperately to believe him, to find some explanation that would make this hurt less.
But I'd died once already from trusting the wrong person.
I deleted it. Blocked the number. Turned off my phone and shoved it deep into my bag.
By the time I reached my apartment, weak sunlight had started bleeding through clouds. I stood under scalding water until my skin turned pink, but his voice kept echoing.
I love you. You're the only real thing in my life.
I pressed my forehead against the tile and let the water run.
Three hours later, I turned my phone back on.
Forty-seven missed calls. Over a hundred texts.
Mia's message was the most recent: WHERE ARE YOU? Have you seen BU Secrets?
Cold flooded my veins. I opened Instagram.
[EXPOSED] The Truth About BU's Charity Case
Photos of me climbing into my father's Rolls-Royce. Theodore's profile blurred through tinted windows, just enough to suggest without confirming. Timestamp reading 11:47 PM.
The comments were vicious.
She should be expelled.
Sleeping with someone her father's age for money.
I sat on my bed and stared until the screen went dark.
Isabelle. This had her fingerprints all over it. The timing too perfect, the photos too professional.
Fine. When they learn who that man really is, I'll remember every single face.
I dressed carefully. Pulled my hair severe and tight. Red lipstick like war paint.
The whispers started the moment I walked through campus gates.
"That's her."
"She actually showed up."
My locker hung open, lock broken, stuffed with garbage. But the photos taped inside made my hands curl into fists.
Glossy prints from every angle. Someone had written across the bottom in Sharpie: HOW MUCH?
"Celestia!" Mia appeared, face pale. "It's everywhere. You have to tell people the truth."
"Look around, Mia. You think they want truth?"
Inside the lecture hall, Professor Johnson's gaze found me immediately. "Next week's final exam will determine scholarship renewals." His eyes locked on mine. "I expect competition based on merit and actual ability, not external advantages."
The room erupted in snickers.
When class ended, Mia pulled me aside. "If you ace it, destroy their curve, you'll prove you belong here."
"You're right. I'll take first place and make them eat their words."
We were cutting across campus when the crowd surrounded us.
At first just a few students following. Then more joined from side paths until we were boxed in, being herded toward the athletics complex.
Someone shoved my shoulder from behind.
"Oops. Didn't see the homewrecker."
Laughter erupted. More hands pushed, prodded.
"Where you going, Celestia? To your sugar daddy?"
Mia grabbed my arm. "We need to go."
But they'd already cut off retreat, pressing closer with each step.
"Move," I said.
"Make us." A blonde from Isabelle's sorority stepped forward, phone recording. "Or are you only good at spreading your legs?"
The crowd pressed tighter, herding us through the gymnasium doors. I could have fought, could have dropped half of them. But there were too many phones. Any violence would only confirm their narrative.
They shoved us into the equipment room. The door slammed. A lock clicked.
"Let us out!" Mia pounded on metal.
Laughter filtered through. Then voices rising.
"Homewrecker!"
"Gold digger!"
"Whore!"
Through the small window, I could see them. Students I'd sat next to in class, all united in righteous fury, phones raised and recording.
At the back of the crowd stood Isabelle, face arranged in concern, eyes gleaming with triumph.
"Celestia." Mia's voice shook. "What do we do?"
I checked my phone. No signal in this concrete box.
Something slammed against the door. They were kicking it, the metal rattling.
Mia pressed against the wall, tears streaming.
I felt something cold settle in my chest. Not fear. Just recognition of what happened when you gave people permission to be cruel.
Every face. Every voice. Every phone. I'll remember.
Then, cutting through the chaos, a voice boomed with authority.
"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?"
The crowd's roar dropped to murmurs. Through the window, I saw students parting.
Theodore Ashford strode through the entrance, flanked by security, expression thunderous.
But the crowd saw what they wanted. The expensive suit. The age difference.
"That's him!"
"She called him!"
Phones lifted higher.
"Someone open this door. Now." Theodore's voice could cut steel.
Nobody moved.
"I said NOW."
A maintenance worker fumbled with keys. The lock clicked. The door swung open.
I stepped out into a sea of phones.
"Well," someone said triumphantly. "Guess we know it's true."
Nervous laughter spread through the crowd.
"EVERYONE STEP BACK RIGHT NOW."
Dean Patricia Morrison strode in, heels clicking like gunshots, campus security fanning out behind her.
"What," she said, each word deadly, "do you think you are doing?"
The crowd went silent.
"Locking students in rooms? Mob harassment?" Her voice rose. "On my campus? You should all be ashamed."
"But she..." someone started.
"But NOTHING. I don't care what you think you know. This behavior is unacceptable."
She turned to Theodore, and I watched recognition flicker across her face. Then understanding. Then horror.
"Mr. Ashford. I apologize for this disgraceful display."
Theodore's jaw tightened. He looked at the Dean, at the crowd still recording, then at me.
I could see the calculation in his eyes. Whatever he said next would either damn me or change everything.
The crowd waited, phones raised, hungry for scandal.
Theodore took a breath. His hand settled on my shoulder, protective and unmistakable.
"Dean Morrison," he said, voice carrying across the silent gymnasium. "I believe we need to have a very serious conversation about what just happened to my daughter."
The word detonated in the silence.
Daughter?
I watched comprehension ripple through the crowd. Faces shifting from certainty to horror. Phones trembling in nerveless hands.
Isabelle, still lingering at the edge, went white as snow.
