Chapter 1

The first sign of trouble was a pair of dirty socks.

They were lace-trimmed, probably cost more than my textbooks, and they were sitting right in the middle of the kitchen counter, next to the toaster. I stared at them for a full minute before picking them up with two fingers.

"Tiffany," I called out, my voice echoing slightly in our overpriced university apartment.

No answer.

I walked to her bedroom door, which was, as always, wide open. Tiffany Gold was sprawled on her bed, scrolling through her phone, a silk sleep mask pushed up on her forehead. The room looked like a designer boutique had exploded. Clothes, shopping bags, and makeup were everywhere.

"Hey," I said, holding up the socks. "These were on the kitchen counter."

She glanced up, her expression a perfect blank. "Oh, thanks. Just toss them in the hamper, would you?"

Her hamper was overflowing. I knew this without looking.

"The hamper' s in your closet, right?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"Yeah, just push some stuff aside. Thanks, Chloe, you' re a lifesaver."

She went back to her phone. I stood there for a moment, the socks dangling from my hand. I wasn' t her maid. I was her roommate. Chloe Miller, journalism major, on a scholarship that barely covered tuition, let alone this apartment. The only reason I was here was because the housing office had a last-minute mix-up, and Tiffany' s original roommate had dropped out. I was the lucky winner.

I dropped the socks just inside her doorway and went back to the kitchen to make coffee. This wasn' t the first time. Last week, she' d asked me to re-do her bibliography because the formatting "looked ugly." The week before, she' d "borrowed" my favorite sweater and returned it with a wine stain. Each time, she' d offer a breezy, "Thanks, you' re the best," as if she' d done me a favor by giving me a task.

I was trying to avoid a fight. I needed to focus on my classes and my internship applications. A bad roommate situation was a distraction I couldn't afford. So I just cleaned up after her, kept my space tidy, and tried to stay out of her way.

A key scraped in the lock, and the front door swung open. Brett, Tiffany' s boyfriend, walked in like he owned the place. He was big, with the kind of polished, aggressive confidence that came from a lifetime of never being told no. He dropped his gym bag on the floor, letting it hit with a loud thud that made me jump.

"Hey," he said, not looking at me. He walked straight to the fridge and pulled out my carton of orange juice, drinking directly from it.

"That' s mine," I said, my voice tighter than I intended.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the carton back. "Sorry. I' ll buy you another one."

He wouldn' t. He never did.

He disappeared into Tiffany' s room, and soon I could hear their low murmurs. I tried to ignore them, focusing on an article I needed to edit for the campus newspaper. But then their voices got louder. It was a familiar pattern. A quiet start, then Tiffany' s voice would get high and whiny, and Brett' s would become a low, angry rumble.

I put on my headphones, but I could still feel the tension through the floor. I decided to get out, go to the library. I packed my laptop and my books into my bag.

As I walked toward the front door, Tiffany' s door flew open. She was standing there, tears streaming down her face, her mascara already starting to run. Brett stood behind her, his jaw tight.

"Where are you going?" Tiffany demanded, her voice thick with fake sadness.

"The library," I said. "I have to study."

"You' re leaving? Now? When I' m so upset?"

I was confused. "Upset about what? What happened?"

Brett stepped forward, putting a hand on Tiffany' s shoulder. He glared at me. "She' s upset because of you."

My stomach dropped. "Me? What did I do?"

"Don' t play dumb," Brett snarled. "You' ve been making her feel uncomfortable in her own home. The passive-aggressive comments, the little sighs every time you have to clean something. She told me everything."

I looked at Tiffany, who was now sobbing into her hands. It was pure theater. I hadn't made any comments. The sighs were real, but they were directed at my tuition bills, not her mess.

"That' s not true," I said, my voice shaking a little. "Tiffany, what is he talking about?"

"You' re just so judgmental," she whimpered. "You think you' re better than me because you have a scholarship."

The accusation was so ridiculous, so out of left field, that I almost laughed. But the look on Brett' s face stopped me. He was angry. Really angry.

"I need to go," I said, turning for the door.

Brett moved faster than I expected. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "You' re not going anywhere until you apologize to her."

The sudden violence of it shocked me. His grip was like iron. Pain shot up my arm.

"Let go of me," I said, trying to pull away.

"Apologize," he repeated, his face inches from mine. I could smell the stale coffee on his breath.

"Brett, stop it, you' re hurting her," Tiffany said, but there was no force behind her words. She was watching, her eyes wide.

"I have nothing to apologize for," I spit out, adrenaline coursing through me. "You' re the one who needs to let go of my arm."

He tightened his grip, and I cried out in pain. He shoved me backward, and I stumbled, my back hitting the wall hard. My head snapped back and connected with the drywall with a dull thud. For a second, the room spun.

"You see what you made me do?" Brett shouted, finally letting go. He pointed a finger at me. "You push and you push."

I slid down the wall to the floor, my head throbbing. I couldn' t believe this was happening.

I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking so badly I could barely unlock it. I was going to call campus security.

"Who are you calling?" Brett demanded.

"Security," I managed to say.

Tiffany rushed forward and snatched the phone out of my hand. "No! Don' t do that! You' ll get him in trouble!"

"He just assaulted me!" I yelled, scrambling to my feet. "Give me back my phone!"

"It was a misunderstanding," Tiffany said, clutching the phone to her chest. "Brett has anger issues. He' s working on them. Calling security will ruin his life. His father is a trustee, Chloe. Think about what you' re doing."

The threat was clear. The power imbalance was sickeningly obvious. His father was a trustee. Her father owned half the city. And I was Chloe Miller, the scholarship kid.

I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. They had all the cards.

"Please, Chloe," Tiffany begged, her tears starting up again. "Let' s just forget this happened. Brett is sorry. Aren' t you, Brett?"

Brett just grunted, not looking at me.

Tiffany handed me back my phone. I felt defeated. I knew if I called, they would twist the story. It would be my word against theirs, and I knew whose word the university would believe.

Later that night, I was lying in my bed, an ice pack pressed against the growing lump on the back of my head, when my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification.

Tiffany had posted a new photo. It was a selfie of her and Brett, both of them smiling. She had re-done her makeup.

The caption read: "So lucky to have someone who always protects me from toxic people. Some people just try to tear you down, but love always wins. #blessed #boyfriendgoals"

Underneath, a flood of comments from her friends poured in.

"OMG what happened? Are you okay?"

"Whoever it is, cut them out of your life, Tiff!"

"Brett' s the best for standing up for you!"

I stared at the screen, the cheerful photo and the supportive comments blurring in front of my eyes. She had pushed me, had Brett assault me, and then framed me as the villain to her thousands of followers, all in the space of a few hours. This wasn' t just a spoiled rich girl. This was something much darker.

I turned off my phone and stared at the ceiling. The throbbing in my head was a dull, constant reminder of what had happened. I finally understood. I wasn't her roommate. I wasn't her friend. I was a prop in her drama, a supporting character in the Tiffany Gold show.

And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I had to get away from her. But I also knew it wasn't going to be that simple.