Chapter 26.

JASON

The gala’s afterparty is a summer thunderstorm. Stifling heat and overwhelming with noise: donors pouring champagne, laughing too loud, their eyes glazed and voracious. It’s supposed to be a “VIP thank-you,” but it’s really nothing but a velvet-rope zoo. I’m at a folding table in the service tent, checking dashboard analytics, watching the line of notifications tick up, my own face ghosted in the laptop glare. Nobody talks to me except for Dani, who drops off a tray of dirty glasses with a distracted nod.

I keep glancing through the swaying entrance flaps over to the main tent – bigger, brighter, pulsing with LED lights. It’s walled off, security at the entrance, velvet rope holding back even the rich kids. I’m told I’m “backend only” tonight. “Let the stars shine, Jay. We’ll ping you if we need tech. Keep an eye on the donation board for us!”

Parker disappeared with Cate a half hour ago. When I texted, all I got was a single heart emoji in reply. I don’t know if she’s in there rehearsing, or if this is something else. I pour myself a drink. The cheap stuff is all Cate left in here for the plebs. I hate champagne, but I’m sure it’d all taste like sand right now anyway.

If I really strain, I can hear muffled applause, laughter, the low thump of bass across the way. Sometimes the crowd falls silent and a woman’s voice – Cate’s – rises, glossy and honeyed, narrating for the donors. It’s hard to make out the words. Every so often, the crowd erupts again, sharper, wilder. It feels like I’m outside the world, the only person not in on the joke.

From my spot, I catch the tiniest glimpses through the tent’s seam: gold and red drapery, shadowy figures moving behind the gauze. I see Cate, radiant in black velvet, microphone in hand, prowling the edge of the low-lit stage. Every so often, I swear her voice cuts clear: “This is her trial by fire, gentlemen. Watch her give everything.”

PARKER

The inside of the VIP tent is a fever dream – too hot, thick with the scent of sweat, cigar smoke, and champagne. Strings of lights bleed gold against crimson drapes. A row of masked donors crowds the edge, faces indistinct, their attention almost physical. Cate’s perfume stings – bitter orange, predatory at a cypress smoke crossroads – darkly claustrophobic as she leans in close, pausing as she holds the blindfold above Parker’s head. “Ready, Persephone? It’s your time to show them what bravery looks like.”

The lozenge Cate gave her hits harder now – a slick, chemical heat blooming on her tongue, flooding her veins with fearless need. The silk blindfold slides down, plunging her into darkness, cutting off everything but sensation. Her skin buzzes; every shift of air, every whisper is a caress. She hears the soft chuckle of laughter, the clink of a belt buckle, then the soft rustle of fabric, closer than expected.

Hands – one gentle, one rough and unfamiliar – position her at the center of the dais, guiding her down. When the robe slips away, the air bites at her nipples. She’s trembling, but she straightens for the audience, willing the mask of courage onto her own face, ignoring her own racing heart. The hush is absolute, every breath from the crowd holding her captive.

Cate’s voice ripples over the PA: “Our new Verena, unafraid. A goddess among mortals.”

A cock – hot, salty, familiar – presses to her lips. She opens, humming softly as Noah slowly fills her mouth, her jaw feeling a light stretch and a subtle reminder of their first time, tongue swirling in time with his gentle encouragement. Behind her, the second set of hands finds her hips, steadies her, and then the unfamiliar cock – thicker, blunt, insistent – slides against her from behind. Parker gasps around Noah as the swollen rod presses forward, the stretch sharp, thrilling. She cannot see, cannot know for sure who is inside her, but the roughness, the weight, the deep growl tell her it’s someone else – someone watching, owning her.

Cate’s voice cuts through, sultry and omnipresent: “That’s it, darling. Show the donors true courage. Let them see how far you’ll go for them.” Each word makes her skin burn hotter. The crowd is silent, then explodes with cheers, cameras flashing, voices chanting her name.

Parker struggles to take in the present moment; the wet slide of Noah’s dick, the blunt fullness of the thick fire pressing inside her, the blindfold making everything sharper. Each thrust jolts her further onto Noah, making her gag and cough, spit threading her jaw, face flushed with heat and streaked by tears. The man behind her – unknown, unstoppable – pulls her hips back, jabbing deeper, his shaft a thick, insistent brand stretching her anew, different from Noah’s more urgent invasion in her dorm room. A relentless, claiming pressure, each thrust a raw shock that her body meets with an almost greedy clench of her inner muscles, straining against a helpless cold rush between her legs, nerves misfiring, shame slick on her thighs.

A low voice rumbles behind her – rough, amused, a little out of breath. “C’mon, Chase, don’t leave her waiting. Give her the full show.”

Noah’s words, soft but unmistakable, cut through the pulse of music and crowd noise.

The crowd murmurs ominously as Cate responds, her tone low and dangerous, “Yes Chase, help her. You too Noah. Pound Verena into her.”

Parker freezes, realization dawning even as the next thrust rocks her forward. Chase. The hands at her hips, the man inside her, it’s him – Cate’s chosen. The embarrassment burns, sharp and hot, but it mingles with a helpless, quiver that leaves her breathless.

Noah’s hand strokes her cheek, gentle, coaxing her back to the rhythm. “You’re doing perfect, Parker. Take all of him. Let them see how much you love it.”

She’s dizzy, floating on sensation – her knees sliding on velvet, the blindfold hot against her brow, the sweet sting of Noah’s cock against her lips. Chase’s hands are rough, anchoring her hips; each thrust drives her forward, making her mouth swallow more of Noah, her face slick with spit. Every time she moans, it vibrates around the intruder in her throat, and the taste – bitter, salty, alive – changing with each of his groans – makes her ache deeper, her own spit mingling with his pre-come, a slick, almost desperate lubrication for the harsh pace he sets.

Her body is a live wire, sweat trickling between her shoulder blades, the stretch inside her raw and electric. The tent is full of heat and the faint musk of cologne and sex, the air alive with anticipation. She can hear the cameras clicking, the crowd gasping, “God, look at her.” Someone laughs, another voice low and swollen: “That’s it, let her work for it.” The shame is sharp, but the pleasure outpaces it – she’s never felt so owned, so seen.

She tries to gasp, but Noah fills her mouth with steel, making her eyes tear. Chase accelerates, his hips smacking her ass, obscene, but lost under the thundering applause. A rough hand slides down her back – Chase’s? Noah’s? Cate’s? – fingers digging in, leaving fresh crescent-moons on her skin. Her nipples are hard as glass, every nerve ending tingling.

She’s not sure who she is, only that she’s needed, that she’s wanted, that she’s never felt more alive or more used.

JASON

The soundscape grows chaotic – cheers, a rhythmic clapping, Parker’s high, muffled cries blending with deeper male groans. Cate’s voice cuts through again, “Look at her – our Persephone – courage on her knees, pleasure in her mouth, all for you.”

It’s all so faint – am I imagining things?

My hands grip the edge of the table until my knuckles whiten, the burrs on the plastic tabletop gouging into my palms. Is that her? I try to picture Parker – my Parker – but the images that come are all wrong: open-mouthed, hair wild, a stranger’s hands twisting tighter and pulling her in. My dick aches in my jeans, shame pulsing through me as I strain to catch each gasp, each slick, lewd squelch. I hear the crowd cheer and my abdomen spasms painfully, the gutpunch nearly physical.

I struggle to breathe. It’s just the role. I repeat it like a mantra, but the sounds I swear I’m hearing are too real – the slap of flesh, the ragged breath, the guttural encouragements. I can’t look away. I can’t stop listening, even when it hurts. My eyes sting shut.

PARKER

Her world dissolves into taste, pain, pleasure, shame – each sense fighting for dominance. She is displayed, devoured, remade. All that exists is the sensation of being used, worshipped, adored, and humiliated before strangers.

Cate narrates: “Watch her. Watch how she claims this power, how she gives herself to the role, how Parker St. James is reborn for your generosity. Every new pledge is a promise – every gift, a mark on her soul.”

A thousand eyes crawl over her skin as her body lets go, her climax torn from her by a faceless crowd. She wants to scream, to disappear, but instead she opens – utterly, obscenely – becoming what they want, what Cate promised. There’s nothing left but the spotlight and the thunder.

JASON

From the service tent, all I can do is listen. The applause is thunderous, then it’s swallowed by a hush, and the ghost of Cate’s voice floats out over the PA – half-mocking, half-worshipful, impossible to read: “That’s it, take them both. Give the donors their reward. Show them how much you’ve learned.”

I freeze. Both? What the fuck does that mean? The cheap folding chair wobbles precariously, but I hardly notice, straining to make sense of the individual sounds I’m able to pick out. The crowd erupts – chanting, laughing – then somewhere there’s the pop of a cork, a burst of shuffling, and through it all, this wet, sucking noise, flesh on flesh, a whimper that slices through me. Maybe it’s not even Parker. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.

My cock throbs with a shame I can’t smother, dread and arousal coiling in my gut as I strain to make sense of the chaos.

Who am I kidding? It’s her. It’s Parker. I know it in my bones.

PARKER

Her legs shudder. Chase’s cock fills her completely, pushes her right to the edge, her own desperation lost as Noah presses deeper, also filling her throat. The heat of the stage lights, perspiration collected and running between her breasts, the tremor in her thighs – all of it blurs. Her hips grind back helplessly, chasing each thrust, every nerve alight with need and humiliation.

Noah whispers above her, “Good girl, just like that,” stroking her cheek, and the praise stings but thrills. She gags around him, coughs, then pushes back harder against the cock in her cunt, desperate to be filled, to be seen, to belong.

The crowd’s voices become a wave – cheering, howling, a low chant of “Verena, Verena.” The whole tent seems to pulse with her. When her next orgasm hits, it’s a calamity; her body seizes, spasms rippling through her. Tears spill, her mouth stuffed full, her pussy pulsing around Chase. The world vanishes – only sensation, only need.

JASON

A cry rips through the tent – so raw, so piercingly familiar, it freezes the breath in my lungs. I tell myself it’s just performance, just theater, but my body won’t believe me. I know that cry, even though I’ve never heard it quite like this.

I close my eyes and it’s like I can see her: hair matted to her cheeks, mouth open and wild, that look she used to save only for me. But now it’s for them – for all of them, for everyone but me.

My dick jerks in my jeans, shame crawling up my spine. I want to look away, to disappear, but I can’t move.

Cate’s voice soars over the applause, barely audible: “She’s perfect, gentlemen. Persephone – no, Verena – is yours.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I have never felt further from her, or from myself.

PARKER

Parker is dizzy, high, buzzing. The applause and the wet crush of bodies blur together. Her throat vibrates in pleasure around Noah, her fingers digging into Chase’s thighs, needing them both, wanting them both. The crowd urges her on, voices blurring with the music and the donations scrolling up the wall. A deep chuckle drifts from the edge of the crowd, “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

A nexus of sensation, Chase’s relentless pounding filling her from behind, a raw, deep friction that makes her buck, each impact jarring Noah’s cock further down her throat. The disparate rhythms threaten to tear her apart, yet she rides the chaotic wave, one part of her brain registering the slick heat in her mouth, the other consumed by the grinding invasion between her legs.

She loses herself completely in the movement – rocking between them, her cunt stretched, her throat full, every nerve ending alight. The heat is unbearable. Her body shakes, sweat running down her spine, mouth drooling around Noah’s meat as she chokes, swallows, nearly smiling. She’s never been so exposed, so possessed, so celebrated.

JASON

Outside, every sense is an assault. Applause, shouts, the sharp staccato of Cate’s narration – “Deeper, Persephone, show them you can take it all. Make them believe in you. Give them everything.” I try to tune it out, but the crowd’s roar is tidal, a wall of sound that drowns out all reason.

I try to focus on my dashboard, but every spike in metrics is yet another tally of loss. My mouth is sandpaper, my hands shaking as I try to wipe away the clammy moisture. My dick aches, hard and raw against my jeans. I try to tune it out, but every thump, every muffled moan, is a fresh humiliation.

“Are you still listening Pirithous? Go on, wring your hands and let the torrid sounds of failure wash over you.” Cate’s bark cuts through the haze, startling me.

I lurch for my drink, knocking it over, spilling cheap champagne into my lap. The denim sticks to my thighs, and I jump to my feet but my legs don’t want to work right. I could leave. I should go change.

The unsteadiness in my legs is too much. I sit back down on the wet chair and put my face in my hands.

PARKER

Chase’s thrusts grow desperate, his fingers digging into her hips. She feels the thickness, the stretch, the steady building burn as he pistons into her, rougher now, the crowd’s encouragement ringing in her ears. Noah’s length throbs in her mouth – she can taste the salt, the tension in his thighs, the shudder in his breath each time she takes him deeper. Her scalp burns as he twists his fist in her hair, holding her to the base. Parker shudders helplessly around him, choking, spit pouring down her chin as the pain and pleasure intertwine.

Suddenly, Chase drives in deep – one last brutal thrust – and she feels the pulsing rush inside her, his cock jerking as he fills her, hot and claiming. The sensation tips her over: her own orgasm rips through her, body spasming and fluttering around him. She sobs around Noah’s shaft, thighs quivering, tears leaking hot beneath the blindfold.

Her body thrashes, out of control as Chase slows, his deflating member slipping out wetly, her aftershocks heightened. Parker’s core, full with a massive scalding deposit for the first time, causes her to gasp around Noah as he accelerates suddenly.

A few seconds later Noah grunts above her, hips jerking, and she feels the first thick, salty spurt across her tongue – his cum spilling hot in her mouth, flooding her. Parker swallows reflexively, choking, milking him as he empties himself, filling her until she has to pull away, gasping, her mouth raw and leaking with spit and seed.

Chase collapses against her, breath ragged, hands still firm on her waist, holding her in place. The crowd erupts. Flashes go off – hot, white, searing. The sound is deafening, the lights bright even behind the silk.

The world spins – she’s unified now, split wide and shining, baptized in sweat and seed, built for the spotlight.

Cate’s voice, velvet and victorious, is the last thing she hears before the blindfold comes off: “Let’s hear it for Parker St. James – brave, beautiful, and utterly unforgettable.”

JASON

Cate’s voice again, triumphant: “An unbelievable performance that broke every record so far, gentlemen! Your pledges make this all possible! Thank you for your generosity, and I hope you enjoyed the show!” Every word is a wound.

My stomach lurches, a dry heave driving a dagger under my sternum. I fight back the urge to vomit.

I look at the dashboard through the tears. The flashing colors and celebratory graphics blur into noise, and I feel them tighten around me like chains. Not satisfied with simply binding me here, they drag me down into the depths. The aftertaste of cheap champagne lingers in my mouth, paired with a hint of bile.

PARKER

The blindfold lifts. The white light stabs her vision. She blinks, tears streaking down as air cools raw skin. Blurry motion and confusion. She catches the outline of a man’s fist pumping the air in triumph. Another voice, female, croons, ‘You’re perfect, baby. Show them how it’s done.”

Hands – too many, too unfamiliar – help her up. The applause breaks like thunder.

For half a heartbeat, she searches the crowd for Jason’s face, panic rising – but the applause wins through. She smiles, empty and triumphant, knowing she’s been remade for them. Carved anew. For Cate. For the crowd. But as she feels the raw truth of her own thrill rise to the surface, her smile blossoms – this triumph no longer just theirs, but hers too, dazzling and real.

JASON

The applause surges again, brutal and endless. I press my hands to my ears, but the sound finds me anyway. I don’t know what happens next.

The wet chair soaks into my jeans. I want to stand, to scream, to tear the tent down. My mouth fills with bile, my hands shake so hard I spill the rest of the champagne. Someone outside the tent laughs – maybe at me, maybe not.

Somewhere, behind this wall, Parker became someone else forever – and the world cheered her on.

Chapter 27.

JASON

The applause still rings behind my eyes as Parker finds me – robe clinging to her, face flushed, eyes wild and wet. I start to speak, but she shuts me down with a kiss, breath hot and frantic.

“Jay, not now. Please – I need you. I need you so bad,” she begs, voice cracking in a way that feels rehearsed and raw at once.

I try to pull back, to search her face for answers. “Parker, what happened? I heard – ”

For a second, something cold flickers across her face – a flash of exasperation, or maybe guilt – but then she’s all softness again, eyes wide and pleading. She cuts me off, urgent. “Don’t make me talk about it. Please, I just… I just need to feel close. You promised. Remember what we said about our first time? That it would be ours, no matter what?”

I nod, even as my stomach twists. “I remember.”

Tugging me away, guiding me through a maze of curtains, past the muffled party. Her fingers are tight on my wrist. I stumble after her, nearly tripping over the edge of the astroturf runner that serves as flooring, littered with stray sequins and confetti. The air is thick with sweat, perfume, the industrial sharpness of cleaning spray. Somewhere nearby, a chair drags across plywood; I flinch, nerves raw.

She leads me to a battered, plastic couch tucked behind a screen, someone’s forgotten purse kicked under one arm. She sits, letting the robe slip away, and the sight of her hits me like a punch. Every secret curve, every mark and pore and bead of sweat – she’s devastating, overwhelming, too much to take in all at once. For a heartbeat, she looks like a stranger. She adjusts, peeling herself back on the sticky vinyl, the sound obscene in the hush, then spreads her thighs open – an invitation, a command.

I kneel, the turf biting into my knees. I can’t look away. My whole life with her – movie nights, holding hands, every slow kiss, every half-drunk daydream – rushes back and vanishes, replaced by this: Parker, naked and shaking and impossibly real, framed by the flickering light leaking through the curtain. She’s beautiful, sweat gleaming on her skin, leaving prints on the couch beneath her.

She’s a flashbulb. Her skin is flushed and mottled from the heat and whatever just happened, goosebumps running over her breasts and thighs. Her nipples are hard, perfect, pink and shining with sweat. There’s a purpling bruise high on her hip and faint red marks at her waist – proof of hands that weren’t mine. I’m sure the clues could lead me to clarity on what actually happened in that tent, but she’s looking only at me now, green eyes wide and desperate, mouth parted, her chest rising and falling so quickly it makes her breasts quiver, and I can’t focus on anything else.

The soft down of hair on her belly, the pale stretch-marks on her hips I’ve only ever felt under clothes, the sweet, vulnerable arch of her ribcage. The shadow between her thighs is dark, slick, almost obscene.

I can’t look away. My heart driving so hard I’m scared she’ll hear it. She’s always been beautiful, but like this – open, offered, suffused with need – it’s overwhelming. I ache to touch her everywhere, to have her, to memorize every inch so nothing can take her from me..

She sees my hesitation and draws me in, her voice gentle but insistent as she strokes my cheek. “I want this. I want you. You’ll make me feel better, Jay. Please. I need to know you still want me. You’re not mad at me, are you? You promised you wouldn’t be. Please, Jay – I need this. I need you.” I don’t know where to start. My hands hover uselessly until she takes control, guiding me exactly where she wants me. Even now, she’s the one in charge. She takes my hand, placing it on her inner thigh, then threads her fingers through my hair, urging me down.

I kneel between her legs, the astroturf biting into my kneecaps, the cheap couch creaking as she shifts. The smell of plastic and sweat and her. It fills my brain, sharp, tangy, heady, and somehow primal. I hesitate, but she’s already pressing my face closer, hips rising to meet me. “Just taste me, baby. I need it. You’ll be so good, I know you will…”

Her skin is fever-hot under my lips. I trail kisses over her thighs, and she shivers. Her hand is firm on the back of my head, guiding me lower. I fumble, uncertain, trying to remember what I’ve read or watched. My palm slips on the vinyl couch as I steady myself, cold against her warm thigh. She hisses, “There- use your tongue, just like that. Don’t be shy. You’re perfect, Jay.”

I part her folds with my tongue, not sure what I’m supposed to do, but she groans – loud and grateful – and grinds herself against my mouth. She’s soaked, messy, slick in a way that’s both exciting and bewildering. There’s a strange, almost metallic tang under the sweetness that makes my head swim.

My forehead brushes her belly, and the faint, sticky imprint of the couch clings to her skin. I can hear, distantly, laughter and music from the other side of the curtain, but in here, it’s us alone, breath and heat and the quickening pulse of her body under my mouth.

“Like that, Jay… right there, yes, don’t stop-” Her voice is desperate, nearly pleading, breath hitching. She writhes, rolling her hips to rub herself over my lips and tongue, gasping and praising me. “God, you’re perfect, you’re making me feel… so much better, a little bit more-”

She doesn’t let up, pushing my face closer, teaching me how to move with vague instructions and needy moans. “Use your tongue, baby, just like that… yes, keep going, don’t-” I try to follow, my tongue tracing slow circles, then flicking the way she likes. Every time I slow or pause, she tightens her grip in my hair, riding my mouth harder, chasing her own relief. My tongue is numb, jaw trembling, and my knees burn where the turf bites in, but I pursue every shudder, desperate to make her want me.

I lose track of time. My jaw aches, lips slick, her taste everywhere. At some point she starts crying, muttering thank yous, tugging me in even tighter. Each time her back arches, there’s a peeling, velcro sound as her damp skin separates from the plastic. I feel her thighs quake around my ears, her whole body shuddering as she cries out, coming hard and messily against my tongue. She grabs my hair, out of control, not gentle, keeping me in place, grinding herself against me until my mouth is flooded, slick and overwhelming. I drink her down, seeking any scrap of approval or intimacy she’ll give. She’s moaning, begging me, praising me. “Don’t stop. Not now. Please, don’t let go. Make me forget everything, Jay. Prove I’m still yours… Prove you’re still mine.” And when she finally shudders and slumps, her legs loosening, I draw back, mouth raw and wet and numb.

When she finally pulls me up, her praise is a balm and a leash. “That’s my good boy… I needed that so bad. Only you, Jay. Only you could make me feel this whole again.” Her words land like a collar, not a reward, and I realize I’d wear it gladly, as long as she keeps me near. As she praises me, her grip in my hair is unyielding, steering me, as if to remind me I’m here to serve. She kisses me, messy and deep, smearing her essence across my mouth.

Voice soft, soothing, but I can’t shake the bitter reminder of our past promises. We said we’d be each other’s first everything. We said it would be ours alone. I never imagined it would feel like this.

My brain’s scrambled, every nerve lit up, desperate for her, for reassurance, for anything.

Her whisper tickles my ear, “Now let me take care of you.” She works my jeans open, hands and mouth eager. “Let me make you feel special.” Her lips don’t even fully reach my dick before the rush overwhelms me. I gasp, helpless, hips jerking embarrassingly as I spill all over her fingers, hot shame flooding my face.

I feel it, sticky and cooling on my belly, her fingers gentle as she wipes me clean. My face hot, my heart thudding with shame.

Parker smiles softly, almost maternally, reassuringly, ‘It’s okay, baby, you needed this too.’ Her gentle tone makes it worse, like she’d expected nothing more from me.

Afterward, she cradles my head in her lap, stroking my hair, “You saved me. That’s what love is, right?”

I nod weakly against her thigh, her juices still thick on my tongue, my mind a fractured mess of shame, relief, and the terrible certainty that I would do anything for her, even let her break me, as long as she keeps me close. The tightness in my chest confirms I’d forgive her anything, as long as she keeps lying to me sweetly.

She caresses my neck with her hand, her thighs soft and warm under my cheek, but her eyes are already turned away, glassy and distant, watching a crowd only she can see. Somewhere, beyond the curtain, applause rises and falls again, like a tide pulling her further from me.

She’s right here, holding me close, but all I taste is salt and everything I’ll never be allowed to understand.

Chapter 28.

JASON

The auditorium is alive – louder, warmer, more electric than I expected. Stage lights shimmer on gold banners, crests shining from every surface. The heat from hundreds of bodies is stifling, sweat and perfume tangling heavy and invasive. There’s a homecoming vibe, everyone’s faces alight with anticipation, like they’re all about to witness some historic campus moment, an honest excitement and celebration in the air. I feel like the only one who’s already at the funeral. Phones hover like halos over every head. On the giant digital scoreboard above the stage, Theta Lambda’s Final Pledge Rankings scroll, numbers locking into place with a chime that sets the whole room buzzing.

Hailey and Zoe, clutching each other near the stage, can barely stop crying as their names come up: third and second place. The crowd, half alums and half current sisters, erupts in cheers. Even the girls who didn’t make the cut get a round of applause as they step back, blinking away tears and forcing smiles. I halfway believe this is exactly as advertised.

But my gaze keeps finding Parker. She’s at the edge of the group, clutching her robe, fidgeting with the hem, eyes wide. Not with happiness, but something else. She’s been through hell, but right now she glows in the spotlight, her hair still damp from nerves or the ritual shower, her face is scrubbed clean and shining with exhaustion. I can’t tell if she’s glowing with pride or about to collapse. She doesn’t look my way. Is she afraid to see me?

Cate takes the stage in black silk, her posture regal, her smile slicing through the air. She waits for the room to fall quiet, relishing the suspense, the admiration, the envy. Her voice, when it comes, is low, smooth, and perfectly amplified: “Congratulations to our new sisters. Your courage, creativity, and willingness to push boundaries have brought you here tonight. Each of you has made Theta Lambda proud. But every journey needs a star; someone willing to go further than anyone else.”

The scoreboard locks in with a thunderclap. The room holds its breath. One name glows at the top – Persephone. Parker.

Cate’s eyes glitter. “Only one pledge has earned the highest honor. Parker St. James. Your Persephone. And debuting tomorrow as our Verena.”

The applause is thunderous, punctuated by shrieks and whistles. Some pledges hug her, others keep a careful distance, but all eyes are fixed on her as Cate beckons her forward, center stage. For a heartbeat, Parker looks terrified – then she lifts her chin, lets the robe fall to her elbows, and lets herself be led.

Cate takes her hand, smiling wide for the cameras. “Tonight, we aren’t here to simply celebrate. We are here to consecrate.” Her gaze finds mine in the crowd – a warning, a dare. “Every sister gives something of herself, but only a few become legend. Only a few are remade forever.”

A velvet tray is brought forth… Cate draws back the cloth. Our promise ring. The one Cate took. The one Parker swore she’d get back. The one that hasn’t touched her skin in weeks – and has haunted my every waking thought. The one she hadn’t worn since Cate first put it on that goddamn chain for safekeeping. My gut clenches, a cold premonition like a lead ball. Cate wouldn’t bring it out now unless it was for something final, something terrible. Its silver glints cruelly in the stage lights.

The crowd hushes as Cate holds the ring up. “A promise,” she announces, her voice resonating, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips. “We take such care with them, don’t we? Protect them from the little things, like a splash of chlorine.” A ripple of knowing laughter from some donors. “But real transformation, true power, isn’t about preservation. It’s alchemy – lead into gold.” She turns as a goldsmith rolls a small cart alongside her. The crucible is ready. A tiny steel cauldron, set over a sodium-yellow flame. A shade that reminds me of Parker’s sundress, now sick with heat. “From a static symbol, to a wealth of possibility in an instant. If you have the courage to take the plunge.”

She lets the ring tumble down. The hiss is sharp, a sizzle that cuts the applause to nothing. As the silver foams and spits, filling the room with a scorched, metallic stench, my own promise ring suddenly feels heavier on my hand, hotter against my skin, just like it did that day Parker first handed hers over. But this time, there’s no tote bag, no pretense of care. Just fire, and Cate’s sly, knowing smile as our promise pooled into liquid nothing. “Cross this threshold and the maiden burns away,” Cate murmurs – not Cate, Jason hears, but Hecate – guardian of liminal doors. “We’ll return to this,” she purrs, “but first…”

A tattoo artist, sterile, masked and dressed in black, steps into the light. Cate guides Parker to a low chair, sliding her robe up to expose the bare, vulnerable skin above her hip. “Just as your mark has been forever made on this sisterhood. For the rest of your life, you’ll carry our crest. Theta Lambda’s mark. A living commitment to courage and transformation.” She brushes Parker’s hair back from her face, her touch oddly gentle, almost intimate.

The discordant buzzing of the needle fills the air, drilling into my skull. Parker closes her eyes, her jaw tense, breath shallow. I can see her thighs quiver, the imprint of her robe on her skin. The needle bites, black and red ink blooming in her flesh. Tears well, but Parker doesn’t flinch. Her lips are white, biting back a scream. Sweat beads on her brow. The needle’s buzz is relentless. She opens her eyes and finds Cate’s, nodding once. She wants this – God, she needs it now. The crowd is riveted, half in awe, half in something like lust.

The tattooist steps back with a flourish, revealing fresh, angry lines shining with ointment. The buzz still jarring inside my head. Cate kisses Parker’s forehead, leaving a smear of red lipstick like a second mark. “With this, you now belong to Theta Lambda, Persephone.”

The house lights dim further, focusing all attention. Cate turns to the goldsmith, who discreetly hands her a small, cloth-wrapped object. Cate’s fingers close around it, her expression unreadable in the shadows.

“And now,” Cate’s voice drops, intimate yet carrying through the silent auditorium, “for a promise not broken, but reforged. For the sister who gave everything, a mark of her new devotion: more intimate, more permanent.”

With a deliberate, almost reverent flourish, Cate reaches for Parker’s robe. Her fingers hook the silk at the shoulder. The fabric hisses as it slides down, baring Parker’s left breast to the sudden, harsh kiss of the stage lights and the collective intake of breath from the devouring eyes of the crowd. Parker shivers violently as the silk falls away, her nipple instantly puckering, peaked and starkly vulnerable in the sudden glare. For a breath, her whole body seems to recoil, but then, almost imperceptibly, a change: her shoulders settle, her chin lifts a fraction of an inch, no longer simply enduring the exposure but… offering herself to it. A sacrifice, or a debut?

Cate moves closer to Parker, her body momentarily obscuring the intimate act from many in the audience, though not from the strategically placed livestream cameras, nor from my horrified vantage point. She turns her head and locks eyes with me before snapping back to her work. My stomach turns.

I see a glint of silver in Cate’s hand, then the subtle, precise movement, sharp, moving with finality. Parker’s breath hitches violently, a strangled sound torn from her throat; her body arches sharply, knuckles clenching white, eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open in a silent scream that morphs into a devastating gasp – a sound that is pure pain, pure shock, and yet, terrifyingly, threaded with a flicker of desperate, devastating pride. Her eyes flick open, her gaze sweeping just once across the silent, watching donors, her chest still heaving defiantly.

Then Cate steps back, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face. She presents Parker to the crowd, one hand gesturing to the perfect pink nipple, jutting out for all to admire. A silver barbell, delicate and brutal, adorns Parker’s breast, the sorority crest glinting at its ends, gleams like a rebuke to everything we built. Her nipple – mine, I thought, once – now glistening and impaled for the world.

“Your promise is part of her now,” Cate says, her gaze finding mine, cold and triumphant. “A pledge and a brand, forged in fire, witnessed by all. She carries it on her, in her.”

The crowd erupts into screams, applause, wild ovation. Parker bows her head, her hair falling like a curtain, tears streaking her cheeks, but when she looks up, she’s glowing. Lit from within by something I can’t reach.

For one searing second, the spotlight drinks in every detail: the red, shining tattoo on her hip, the fresh silver barbell gleaming in her nipple, the singular claret drip dancing down Parker’s magnificent breasts, her skin flushed, her proudly bared body now a billboard, a trophy, a public art piece. She’s a goddess in pain, a living, breathing brand. Breathtaking vulnerability transforming into a raw, exhibitionistic power that held every eye in the room captive. Arching her back and rocking up on the balls of her feet as the crowd drinks her in. I hate myself for wanting her, for wanting to look. I’m nothing but another pair of eyes.

I used to try and separate them in my head – Parker, and the Verena role Cate was so determined to graft onto her. But watching her now, enduring the needle with that terrifying flicker of pride, the way she owned her bared body for the crowd… the line between them had vanished. This wasn’t an act anymore. This raw, radiant, branded creature was her. Or… was this Verena’s ultimate performance, the role consuming the girl so completely that even I couldn’t see where one ended and the other began? Maybe, just maybe, Parker was still in there, playing the part of her life to survive.

Cate, ever the showman, gestures to the giant scoreboard, which dramatically highlights Parker’s ‘Persephone’ at the top with her winning score. “One more round of applause for this year’s champion… her courage will serve her in any role!” Then, with a flourish, the board scrolls all the way down to the very last entry: ‘Pirithous – 10 points,’ a grin like the Cheshire Cat broadens as she speaks. “Oh, and last… And most definitely least…”

Cate’s eyes find mine across the room, a cruel, knowing smirk playing on her lips as she starts to move my direction. As the initial chaos of applause dies down and Parker is being swarmed by a few select donors, Cate stops sharply in front of me. She’s smiling like a devil, holding the still-warm goldsmith’s die.

“A memorable finale to pledge week, wouldn’t you say, Jason?” she chuckles, her voice dripping with condescension. She glances pointedly back at the scoreboard, where ‘Pirithous’ still glows faintly at the bottom. “It seems not everyone is destined for the spotlight. Some are merely… supporters.”

She then presses the die into my palm, folding my hand closed around it and holding my arm, her nails biting. It sizzles, sending a jolt up my arm. I can’t tell if the metallic taste in my mouth is from the pain, or just bile rising. Cate’s perfume, all citrus and cruelty, floods my nose as she leans in. “She’ll carry your promise still,” she hisses, too quietly for anyone but me. “She’s a true lead now. She’s learned to let go. And you, Pirithous, can keep the mold. A little something to remember your place.”

I clutch the die, pain blooming in my fist, as Parker – marked, pierced, branded – raises her arms to the crowd. The scoreboard fades to black, her name burning longest. The applause is a storm, and I’m nothing but debris left behind. I want to run, to vanish, but my body won’t move. The applause washes over me, and the hot die in my palm is the only proof I was ever here at all.

Chapter 29.

JASON

I wake to a gray, liminal light, the kind that makes it impossible to tell if it’s dawn or dusk. I’m not sure how long I’ve slept. The applause and the pain in my palm from last night still throb. Muscles aching like I’ve been emptied out and refilled with someone else’s regret. My body feels brittle, my skin too thin for this new reality. I move through the halls as if underwater, every surface too bright, voices warping at the edges. It feels like I’m haunting my own life.

I keep replaying last night: the tattoo, the cheers, Parker’s body – branded, pierced, claimed. The memory burns, but there’s nothing left to do but move forward. That’s what everyone else seems to be doing. Campus is alive, buzzing for the showcase. For the legend. For Verena.

I check my phone for the tenth time. No new messages from Parker. There’s a reminder for my “wrap-up meeting” with Dr. Laird. I briefly consider skipping it and just vanishing, but something stubborn drags me to his office, clinging to the hope of some small normalcy. One last opportunity to be seen as more than a spectator at my own loss.

The walk to Laird’s office is surreal. Theta banners are everywhere, draped with gold ribbons and congratulatory signs for “Tomorrow’s Big Reveal!” Strangers pass by in clusters, abuzz about Parker’s name, Persephone, Verena, the “legendary pledge.” No one looks at me. My shadow pales.

The professor’s office is warm and overbright, bookshelves lined with awards and plaques. Laird stands as I enter, face open and kind – genuinely kind, and shakes my hand, calls me by name like it matters. He thanks me for my work on the dashboard, calling it “visionary,” “essential.” He says it’s made waves in the program, that I’ll have my pick of grad schools, maybe even job offers. For a few precious minutes, I almost forget everything else. Laird’s praise is steady, generous. He promises to write a letter of recommendation that will open doors. For a fleeting moment, the world feels possible again. I’m more than what I’ve lost.

Cate arrives as I’m about to leave, filling the doorway with too-bright eyes and her rehearsed smile. “Jason,” she says, warmth in every syllable, “we couldn’t have pulled this off without you. You were the quiet engine behind it all: steady, adaptable, discreet. The platform you built, Jason – your system, gave her the leverage she needed to truly soar. Your technical devotion was the backbone. Your work made sure Parker had room to become herself. Not everyone could have handled that.” There’s a flicker of something in her tone; a sly, secret gratitude that makes my skin crawl. I want to pull away, but I don’t. I let her praise wash over me, starving for any scrap of approval.

Cate assures me there’s a future in this project if I want it. “We’ll talk next week, after the big show. For now, celebrate what you’ve built.” Her gaze locks with mine for long enough to let me know she’s watching, that I’m still part of her story, but not the way I want to be.

I stumble back to my room, the halls thick with laughter and music. Every surface is plastered with Parker’s name, her face. I shut the door behind me, the silence so complete it hums in my ears. My bed is a mess, my desk cluttered with papers I can’t remember writing. I see it then: a white envelope, perfectly centered on my pillow. My name, in her handwriting.

Just Jason. Not “Jay,” not “love,” not anything more.

My hands shake as I open it. Her scent is right there on the paper. Parker’s scent. No hint of bitterness or fruit or wine, just that subtly sweet vanilla note front and center, the scent that always makes me feel safe in the embrace of love.

---

---

JASON

I read it once, then again, then again. I trace her signature with my thumb, eyes blurring. The perfume, the little heart over her “i” – it’s all real, all Parker.

I let myself believe every word. I tell myself this isn’t a goodbye. That she’s scared, not gone. That if I just hold on, if I just show up, maybe everything will make sense. Maybe she’ll come back to me once the role is over.

The campus outside explodes in celebration, the sound muffled through my window. I stay in the hush, clutching her letter, letting hope flicker to life in my chest – small, bright, and heartbreakingly fragile.

I choose to believe her. I choose hope, because I don’t know how to survive without it.

Chapter 30.

JASON

The campus feels like another world tonight; buzzing, fluorescent, alive in a way that should be thrilling but only makes me feel lighter, almost insubstantial. Banners for StageLights and Theta Lambda drape every railing, the quad flooded with students, alumni, faculty. The theater glows at the center like a heart, pulsing with expectation.

My seat feels too small, the velvet worn thin from years of hope and heartbreak. When the house lights finally dim, there’s a charge in the air. A prescient inhalation. A hush ripples through the auditorium: anticipation, reverence, something like prayer. When the curtain lifts, the stage is drenched in honeyed light. Parker stands alone, poised on the edge of something vast, her pale slip almost iridescent in the glow. She seems impossibly young and impossibly ancient. Like a myth made flesh. The audience leans in, spellbound before she speaks a word.

What follows is not simply a play, but an invocation. Every scene unfolds like a secret. Shadows ripple across gauze, bodies caught in silhouette – suggestion more powerful than revelation. Music weaves through the dark, fragile and fierce, underscoring each heartbeat. When Noah joins her, their every movement is charged, deliberate: a brush of fingertips, a glimmer of longing in the half-light, the choreography of restraint. Each exchange is both chaste and erotic, innocence perched on the edge of surrender.

There is a scene – bare feet in moonlight, the two of them curled on a bed of shimmering cloth – where Parker’s laugh rings out, clear and genuine, and the auditorium exhales as one. There is another, later, when she kneels alone, haloed by a single shaft of light, and her voice quavers with such vulnerability and hope that I forget to breathe.

Cate’s fingerprints are everywhere: the timing, the stillness, the poetry in every tableau. It’s masterful. Unquestionably art. Every line, every pause, every shadow, is perfectly chosen. By the final act, the story has become a kind of benediction. About loss and transformation, the price of courage, the beauty of letting go.

And then for a heartbeat, I’m back, sitting in her room in her parents house, Parker tracing lines on my palm, confessing her dreams for the future. I can believe she’s still that girl, and I’m still the boy who can save her.

When Parker stands for her final monologue, the set falls away. She steps forward, illuminated by a pale column of light, the silk of her slip long discarded. She is draped now in nothing but shadow and smoke – a living statue, vulnerable and defiant, body bared but somehow inviolable. Every line, every angle, is shrouded by artful light and movement, so the audience sees only grace and courage, never shame.

She speaks of forgiveness, of fierce insistence on meaning, of finding oneself through darkness. Her voice is strong, luminous, unafraid. In that instant, she is untouchable. The theater holds its breath – I – hold my breath – reverent, and I am left wondering how anything this beautiful could be wrong. Staring, my eyes locked on her form, I start shaking, overwhelmed and exhausted. Tears roll down my cheeks, unbidden.

When the curtain falls, the silence is stunned, awestruck, holy. And then the applause: thunderous, endless. I finally understand what it means to share her with the world. Bittersweet, heartwrenching and joyous. I’m on my feet with everyone else, hands aching from clapping, heart full to bursting. My ovation is not only for her, it’s for the miracle of what she’s survived. What we’ve both survived.

For the first time in weeks, pride and relief and longing all churn together. How could any of this – how could anything that led to this – be wrong? How could suffering be meaningless, if it makes something this beautiful? I let myself believe, that we’re both redeemed by her art.

Backstage, the chaos of flowers, congratulations, cast photos. Parker slips through the crowd, still in costume, her makeup smudged. She kisses me softly, her hands cool on my cheeks. “I’m so glad you came,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Jay. I told you I’d make you proud.”

She hugs me tightly, trembling, her face so close I think she might start crying, or confess something. Then it’s gone, replaced by that determined, dazzling smile. “I’m heading to the wrap party. You should go home and rest. You’ve done enough. I’ll come find you in the morning, I promise.”

For a second, I almost protest. But she looks so tired, so happy. I let her go.

She disappears down the hallway, a final furtive glance over her shoulder, then swept up in a sea of friends and applause. I stand there, dazed, clutching the program to my chest.

On my way back out, the crowd thins. Cate materializes beside me, arms folded, smile as bright as the house lights. I can’t speak. The words choke out of me before I can stop them.

“I… I’m sorry, Cate. For doubting you. For doubting any of this. It- It was… exquisite.”

I see a look of shocked amusement flash across her face. Gone so quickly I doubt my own eyes. Did I imagine that? Her expression remains cool, unreadable. Then she reaches out, squeezes my shoulder.

“You only ever wanted the best for her.” Her voice is low, almost kind. “But look at her now, Jason. She’s everything we dreamed she could be.”

I nod, the shame and relief mixing until I can barely breathe. A choked sob escapes before I can stop it, then forcing it all down.

“Thank you,” I manage to croak. “Really.”

Cate’s smile never falters. “You enabled her to become what she is now. You should be proud. That’s something no one can take away.”

Outside, the city is alive. The city lights are brighter, the air almost sweet. For once, I’m not haunted by what I’ve lost. I let myself believe: maybe I still have everything that matters.

The city lights glitter on the rain-wet pavement, and for the first time in weeks, I’m not counting my losses; I’m counting every hope. I clutch the program to my chest, willing the feeling to last until morning.