Chapter 3

My blood ran cold. The image of the knife in my door was a clear, violent message. It wasn't a plea for help, it was a threat.

"Mark, look at this," I said, my voice trembling as I showed him the phone.

He stared at the picture, his face hardening. "Okay, this changes things. This is a direct threat. We' re going to the police."

"What if they don' t believe me?" I asked, the words of the housing advisor echoing in my head. "What if she says it was a joke?"

"A picture of a knife in your door is not a joke, Chloe," Mark said, already standing up and throwing a few bills on the table. "Let' s go. We' ll go to the city police, not campus security."

We drove to the nearest precinct. The officer at the front desk looked as bored as the housing advisor had. I showed him the photo and the texts. He squinted at the screen.

"So, your roommate is threatening to hurt herself?" he asked.

"No, she' s threatening me," I clarified. "That' s my bedroom door. She' s trying to scare me into coming back to the apartment."

The officer sighed. "Look, miss. It' s a picture. There' s no explicit threat against you. She says she might hurt herself. The best we can do is send a car to do a wellness check."

"But she' s manipulating the situation," I insisted. "Her boyfriend assaulted me yesterday."

"Did you file a report?"

It was the same question, the same dead end.

"No," I said, defeated.

"Then there' s not much we can do. It' s a domestic dispute. You should talk to your university."

We left the station feeling frustrated and powerless. The system was failing me at every turn.

"They' re not going to do anything until she actually hurts you," Mark said, his voice filled with a cold fury. "So we have to get you out of there. Permanently."

We went back to his apartment, and I tried to sleep, but the image of the knife was burned into my mind. I barely slept.

The next morning, I knew I had to go back to the apartment to get the rest of my things. I couldn' t just abandon my clothes, my books, my entire life. Mark insisted on coming with me.

When we arrived, the apartment was quiet. The knife was gone from my door, but a deep, jagged hole remained. The message was still there.

I started packing frantically, throwing clothes and books into cardboard boxes. Mark helped, moving with a quiet efficiency. We worked in silence, the tension thick in the air.

Suddenly, the front door opened. It wasn' t Tiffany. It was Brett.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene – the boxes, me and Mark working together. A slow, ugly smile spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Moving out? And you brought your little boyfriend to help you. How sweet."

Mark stepped in front of me, positioning himself between me and Brett. "We' re just getting her things. We don' t want any trouble."

"Trouble?" Brett laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. "I' m not the one who makes trouble. I' m a nice guy." He looked past Mark, directly at me. "Tiffany is a wreck, you know. She' s been crying all night. She thinks of you as a sister."

The absurdity of his words was breathtaking.

"She stabbed a knife in my door," I said, my voice shaking with anger.

Brett' s smile faltered for a second. "That was a cry for help. She' s very fragile. You abandoned her."

"We' re leaving," Mark said firmly, picking up a box. "Excuse us."

He tried to walk past Brett, but Brett didn' t move. He blocked the doorway.

"Not so fast," Brett said. "Tiffany is on her way here. She wants to talk to you, Chloe. And so does someone else."

As if on cue, the elevator dinged, and Tiffany appeared in the hallway. She wasn't alone. Walking beside her, looking calm and authoritative, was Dean Thompson.

My heart sank. The Dean of the university was here. In my apartment.

"Chloe," Tiffany said, her voice trembling. "I' m so glad you' re here. I was so worried."

Dean Thompson stepped forward, his eyes surveying the boxes with a look of mild disappointment.

"Ms. Miller," he said, his voice smooth and practiced. "I was just having a meeting with Ms. Gold and her family' s liaison when she became very distressed about your well-being. She told me you had a small disagreement and ran off. We were all quite concerned."

He was framing it as me being the unstable one. Tiffany was the concerned friend. I felt like I was in an alternate reality.

"Dean Thompson," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "There was more than a disagreement. Brett assaulted me. And Tiffany has been harassing me."

I saw a flicker of annoyance in the Dean' s eyes before it was replaced by a look of paternal concern.

"Now, Chloe," he said, taking a step closer. "Those are very serious accusations. Brett here is one of our star athletes, and Tiffany' s family are... very significant benefactors to this university. We have a new library wing thanks to the Gold family."

The threat was no longer veiled. It was right there in the open. The library wing. The money. It was all more important than my safety.

"Brett," the Dean said, turning to him. "Did you assault Ms. Miller?"

"No, sir," Brett said, looking the Dean straight in the eye. "We had an argument. She was yelling at Tiffany. I asked her to calm down, and she stormed out."

It was a lie, polished and perfect.

"Tiffany," the Dean continued. "Did you harass Chloe?"

"No!" Tiffany cried, fresh tears appearing on demand. "I love Chloe! I was just upset that she was leaving me. I might have sent some emotional texts. I' m just... I' m not good with being alone."

She was playing her part perfectly. The fragile, emotional victim.

The Dean turned back to me. His face was a mask of gentle reason. "Chloe, it seems like there' s been a major misunderstanding here, fueled by high emotions. I think the best thing for everyone is to put this behind us. Brett is willing to apologize for any misunderstanding, and Tiffany just wants her friend back."

I felt a surge of rage so powerful it almost choked me. They were all in on it. They were going to sweep this under the rug and paint me as the hysterical, ungrateful problem.

"I am not her friend," I said through gritted teeth. "I am moving out."

"I' m afraid that' s not possible right now," the Dean said, his voice losing its gentle edge. "An emergency transfer request based on unsubstantiated claims against a trustee' s son and a major donor' s daughter would create a very... complicated situation. For you."

My academic career. My scholarship. He was threatening it all.

I looked at Mark. He looked as furious as I felt, but he knew we were cornered. We were two students against a mountain of money and power.

I started to break down. The injustice of it all was too much. The fear, the anger, the helplessness. It all came crashing down on me at once. Tears of pure frustration and despair streamed down my face. I couldn' t stop them. I sank onto one of the cardboard boxes, burying my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with sobs.

Tiffany rushed to my side, putting an arm around me. "Oh, Chloe, it' s okay. We' ll work it out. I forgive you."

Her touch felt like poison. Her words were a twisted, final insult. She was forgiving me.

While I was sobbing, overwhelmed and humiliated, I didn't see her pull out her phone. But later, Mark told me what he saw.

Tiffany, with one arm around my shaking shoulders, was secretly angling her phone, taking a selfie of the two of us. Me, a complete wreck. Her, with a look of saintly, concerned forgiveness on her face.

An hour later, the picture was all over campus social media. The caption read: "So glad we could talk it out. Friendship is about forgiveness. So proud of my roommate for having the courage to admit her mistakes and work through things. ❤️ #makingup #friendship #healing"

The comments were a flood of praise for Tiffany' s grace and maturity. And a flood of venom for me.

"Wow, Chloe Miller is a psycho. So glad Tiff is the bigger person."

"Heard she totally lied about Brett, too. Just for attention."

"What a manipulative bitch. Tiffany, you' re too good for her."

The smear campaign was complete. They hadn' t just silenced me. They had turned me into the villain of a story they wrote, and the whole university was reading it. My reputation was destroyed. I was trapped.