Chapter 1 - THREE PEOPLE, THREE DIFFERENT INVITATIONS
The first thing I saw when I stepped into Bellamy University’s east courtyard was Vanessa Cole holding a garden hose.
The second thing I saw was her expression.
That should have been enough warning.
I stopped halfway between the student union and Kingsley Hall.
Around us, lunch traffic moved through the courtyard—students with backpacks, two guys carrying iced coffees, someone sitting beneath a maple tree with a laptop balanced on her knees.
Vanessa stood near the landscaping faucet in a cream blouse and dark pants.
Hose already running.
I had barely opened my mouth when she lifted the nozzle.
Water hit me directly in the face.
Hard.
Cold.
I stumbled backward.
“Jesus!”
She kept spraying.
My white shirt turned transparent enough that I immediately crossed one arm over myself.
Nearby conversations stopped.
A phone came up.
Of course somebody started filming.
Vanessa finally released the trigger.
Water dripped from my hair and chin.
“You wanted me alone?”
She threw the hose down slightly.
“Here I am.”
I wiped water out of my eyes.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You tell me.”
“I came because you texted me.”
Vanessa laughed.
That laugh did it.
Not the water.
Not the students watching.
The laugh.
Like she had just publicly proven something about me.
I stepped forward and grabbed the hose from her hand.
“You texted me first.”
Then I slapped her.
Hard.
My palm hit her cheek.
Vanessa staggered sideways.
Someone behind me yelled:
“Whoa!”
For half a second I knew I had crossed a line.
Then Vanessa punched me.
Her fist caught the side of my face.
My head snapped sideways.
Pain flashed through my jaw.
I stumbled two steps and nearly went down.
Every instinct in me told me to charge her.
I stopped.
Barely.
Vanessa stood with both fists clenched.
“I never texted you.”
Something about the way she said it changed the air.
Not mocking.
Not defensive.
Certain.
I touched my cheek.
“What?”
“I said I never texted you.”
“You sent me—”
“I didn't.”
Footsteps slapped against the concrete.
A red-haired woman hurried into the courtyard.
Brooke Miller.
She was carrying her laptop bag against one hip and looking furious before she even saw the two of us.
Then she saw me soaked.
Vanessa with a red cheek.
The hose.
Half the courtyard staring.
Brooke stopped.
“What the hell happened?”
Neither of us answered.
She looked between us.
“Which one of you texted me?”
My stomach dropped.
Vanessa turned toward her.
“What?”
Brooke held up her phone.
“I got told to come to Kingsley courtyard at noon because one of you had ‘proof.’ Which one?”
Vanessa looked at me.
I saw the suspicion return.
Fast.
Too fast.
“There.”
she said.
“What?”
“You did this.”
“Vanessa—”
“You called her too.”
“No.”
“You wanted witnesses?”
“I didn't call anybody.”
She grabbed the front of my wet shirt.
I slapped her hands away.
“Get off me.”
“Tell me what you sent.”
“I sent nothing.”
She shoved me backward.
Hard.
My heel slid on the wet pavement.
Something in me snapped.
I lunged forward and punched her.
Vanessa went down.
Not unconscious.
Not dramatically.
She hit one knee first, then both hands, then rolled onto one hip with a curse.
Brooke froze.
“Rachel!”
At that exact moment—
the door behind us clicked.
Kingsley Hall.
Heavy glass.
Electronic lock.
The door opened.
Polished dark shoes appeared first.
Men’s.
Dark trousers.
Slow steps.
The man stopped just beyond the threshold.
From where I stood, the glare off the glass kept his upper body in shadow.
I could see only his legs clearly.
Vanessa remained on the pavement.
Brooke turned.
I did too.
The man spoke.
Calm.
Almost too calm considering what he had just walked into.
“I called Rachel.”
Nobody moved.
Then:
“Who called you two?”
Brooke slowly looked toward Vanessa.
Vanessa stared up at the doorway.
May you like
I stood there dripping onto the concrete, my fist still clenched.
And for the first time since the hose hit my face, none of us knew who we were angry at.
