Chapter 3

Jillian Bridges POV:

The second I stepped across the locker room threshold, a wave of hushed whispers hit my ears. While the door had been kicked open, a crowd of students had gathered in the hallway to watch the show.

They leaned into each other, their eyes darting between my scraped arm and Dalvin and Delina walking out right behind me, their faces lit up with malicious curiosity.

"Look, isn't that Jillian? I heard Dalvin just dumped her on the spot."

A girl in heavy makeup covered her mouth and giggled.

"She really thought some broke girl scraping by on work-study could keep a guy like Dalvin? She had it coming."

A guy in a lacrosse jersey chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery.

I tuned out the grating comments and walked straight toward the battered canvas tote bag I had dropped by the wall earlier.

Just as my fingertips brushed the frayed cotton strap, a sharp, diamond-studded stiletto heel slammed down squarely onto the center of my bag.

I looked up past the long, tanned legs. Delina had slipped back into her custom Chanel tweed suit and stood over me with her arms crossed, staring down with smug superiority.

"What kind of rotting garbage are you carrying in this rag? It's polluting the air in the whole building."

Delina wrinkled her nose in disgust and twisted the point of her heel hard into the canvas fabric.

A soft crunch came from inside the bag—that was the cheap discount sandwich I had bought this morning to save for my lunch break.

I straightened up and looked coldly into her eyes.

"Get your foot off my bag."

"Oh, still acting tough?"

Delina let out a condescending laugh, unclasped her limited-edition Hermès bag, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and tossed it toward my sneakers like she was feeding a stray dog.

"Take it and buy yourself a new bag, and get some real food while you're at it. Stop walking around looking like a starving rat—it ruins my appetite."

The hallway erupted into loud laughter. Dalvin stood right beside Delina, not only saying nothing to stop her, but wearing a flattering, eager smile on his face.

I looked down at the hundred-dollar bill lying on the tiles. Instead of bending down to pick it up, I lifted my worn canvas shoe and stepped directly on Benjamin Franklin's face, grinding my sole over the paper.

"Keep your dirty money to buy yourself a decent coffin."

I stared straight at Delina, my voice quiet but cold enough to freeze the air between us.

Delina's smile stiffened on her painted lips. She clearly hadn't expected me to push back in front of an audience, and her face twisted as she pointed a trembling finger at my nose.

"Who the hell do you think you are to curse at me, you lowlife?"

I ignored her shrill tantrum, bent down after she yanked her foot back, picked up my dusty canvas bag, and slapped the dirt off the fabric.

"Dalvin, the ATM machine you picked out has nothing inside her head but air."

I looked past Delina and swept a flat, icy gaze over Dalvin's face.

Stung by my words in front of his frat peers, Dalvin's expression darkened. He lunged a step forward and reached out to grab my arm.

"Jillian, you better watch your mouth—"

I sidestepped his hand cleanly, looking at his outstretched fingers with undisguised revulsion.

"Don't touch me. You're filthy."

Leaving the crowd staring in stunned silence, I slung the canvas strap over my bruised arm, kept my back straight, and pushed through the circle of students toward the gym exit.

The jeering laughter behind me died down into an awkward quiet as my footsteps echoed down the hall.

When I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the gymnasium, the harsh afternoon sunlight hit my face. I squinted against the glare, feeling the dull, rhythmic throb radiating from my bleeding elbow.

Two years of sacrifice had ended in a cheap betrayal. I thought I would break down once I got outside, but my mind felt strangely clear and hollow.

Was being poor a crime in their eyes? Did having an empty bank account mean anyone could stomp on my lunch and throw money at my feet?

I gripped the frayed strap of my canvas bag until my knuckles turned white.

Never again. I would never let anyone put their foot on my neck again.

I dragged my aching body across campus and walked twenty blocks back to my tiny, hundred-square-foot studio apartment in the run-down tenements on the edge of town.

Pushing open the creaking wooden door, the damp smell of mildew and old pipes greeted me in the dark room.

I collapsed onto the narrow single bed, the rusty springs groaning beneath my weight, and closed my eyes. Before I could catch my breath, my secondhand phone with the spiderweb-cracked screen began vibrating violently against the mattress.