Chapter 2

Zoey's face crumpled into something wounded.

"It's all my fault, Ryan. I don't deserve this honor. I'll step down and give it back to Stella—"

She wiped at tears that weren't there.

Ryan's face flooded with concern. He turned and shot me a hard look.

"Take us to court? With what?"

"Even if the cops showed up, all they'd find is you smearing innocent people."

"Apologize to Zoey. Right now."

President Janet looked me up and down, voice flat with contempt.

"Stella, you can't win this one. Apologize to Mr. Ryan and maybe you'll still have a place at Columbia. Otherwise—"

I looked at all three of them. Then I laughed.

"No need. I quit."

Janet ran her mouth plenty, but she got one thing right—Columbia wasn't good enough for me.

I turned and walked out through their cursing without looking back.

When I got home, someone had spray-painted my door. The smell burned my eyes.

The hallway was full of neighbors staring at me like I was something that crawled out of a gutter.

"Living next to something like this is so disgusting."

"Anyone with pets, keep them far away from this freak."

I walked in without expression and pulled the divorce papers out of the desk drawer.

When I'd given them to Ryan before all this, he'd been too busy throwing Zoey a birthday party to even look at them, just scrawled his name and handed them back.

I picked up my phone and scrolled straight into Zoey's latest Instagram post.

[Grateful for Ryan's incredible gift! As Columbia's new tenured professor, I'll keep working hard and won't let anyone down!]

In the photo, she was leaning against a Maybach, grinning ear to ear.

The comments were a pile of praise.

[Insane!! Youngest tenured professor in history!]

[So talented! Professor Zoey, please look after us!]

I zoomed in. It was the car I'd ordered last week. I hadn't even picked it up yet.

My blood ran hot. I typed a comment.

[Stealing cars now? Do Columbia professors really make that little?]

I hit post. Ryan called before the screen even dimmed, his voice sharp.

"What is that comment supposed to mean?"

"Do you know Zoey just got publicly announced? She can't have any scandals right now."

"Delete it. Record a video apology. Now. Or we're getting divorced."

I almost laughed.

Why? Why did I have to hand over everything I had to that woman?

I gripped my phone.

"Fine. Let's get divorced. I've been waiting."

"And if that car isn't returned to me within two hours, I'm calling the police."

I hung up.

In the comments, my Columbia colleagues had already picked a side.

[Someone is just bitter. Can't earn tenure yourself so you trash-talk everyone else.]

[Oh she definitely earned something. The dog can confirm.]

I pressed my palm flat on the table and started packing.

A while later, the restaurant called to confirm my reservation.

I'd booked a private room to celebrate my tenure.

But Ryan had burned that. And my colleagues had scattered the moment the wind changed.

I went alone, sat down in front of a full table of food, and drank.

Shot after shot. The liquor went down hot, and everything from that day got sharper, not duller.

From the private room next door, cheering broke through the wall.

"Congratulations, Professor Zoey, Columbia's newest tenured professor!"