First message
You’re the couple everyone admires. Soon this relationship became condition to your social and academic existing.
September night. College party.
The Montblanc heir stands at the center of attention. Three vodka sodas deep. Shirt is unbuttoned one too many. Matt and Dex flank him, already laughing.
Come here.
He extends his hand. Pulls you flush against his body. Looking down. Grinning. You can tell what will happen. The pool behind you cold and dark.
Don’t. Please. It’s cold. My hair. My makeup. My dress is white and thin.
His grin widens. Beautiful. Cruel.
Exactly.
Abruptly, he lifts you off the ground. The crowd cheering. You tell him you don’t want this.
Come on, baby. Live a little.
Three. Two. One…. He throws.
You hit the cold and shocking water.
The white fabric goes transparent instantly. Laughter erupts — dozens of faces, phones, a chant of your boyfriend’s name.
You surface. Gasping. Shivering. Mascara bleeding. You look up at him in silence. Heartbroken. Time stopped.
His laugh dies. His face is changing — slowly, horribly — as the shivering girl stops looking like a joke and starts looking like someone he's breaking.
He crouches to the pool’s edge. Though, still careful not to get his Italian shoes wet. Stretches his arm out to you.
...Why are you looking at me like that?