Wednesday morning I walk into school and immediately know something's catastrophically wrong. The whispers aren't just whispers anymore—they're declarations, accusations, verdicts.
"Caleb's slut." "On her knees." "Begging for it."
People hold up their phones as I pass, some laughing, others looking disgusted like I'm contaminated. Madison and Stacy materialize by my locker like vultures who've been waiting.
"I told Noah he'd have a reason to get over you," Madison says, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Didn't take long for you to prove me right."
Stacy holds up her phone, and my world implodes.
There I am in grainy parking lot footage from last night, on my knees in front of Caleb. The video cuts before showing everything, but the audio is crystal clear:
"Please fuck me, use me, anything. I'm begging you. I'll do anything you want."
The timestamp glows: 12:17 AM.
Someone was watching. Someone filmed my complete breakdown, my most desperate moment.
V4L is officially dead, replaced by something infinitely worse. "Caleb's whore" is already written on my locker in red lipstick, the letters dripping like blood.
"What's going on?" Caleb appears, and for once his presence doesn't make things better.
"Did you know about this?" My voice cracks as I show him Stacy's phone.
His face goes dark, genuinely furious. "What the fuck, Stacy? You followed us? You filmed this?"
Stacy shrugs, completely unbothered. "Public parking lot. Fair game. Maybe your little virgin shouldn't beg so loud if she doesn't want an audience."
Caleb steps toward her, radiating violence. "Take it down. Now."
"Or what? You'll hurt me? In front of everyone?" Her laugh is poison. "It's already everywhere, Cal. Your precious project is exposed for what she really is."
I can't listen anymore. Can't stand their eyes on me. I run to the bathroom, lock myself in the furthest stall, and sob until I can't breathe.
I run to the bathroom, my footsteps echoing off the linoleum. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, making everything look sickly green.
The bathroom reeks of cherry vape smoke and cheap perfume, graffiti covering the mint-green stall doors. I lock myself in the furthest stall, the one with "Katie S is a slut" carved into the paint, and sob until I can't breathe.
The toilet paper dispenser is broken, hanging at an angle. There's a gap between the door and frame where anyone could see in if they wanted.
My knees hit the grimy tile floor as I collapse, not caring that it's probably covered in things I don't want to think about.
The door opens. "Evie? I know you're in here."
It's Mia. Hope flares desperately in my chest.
"Mia, please, I can explain—"
"Explain what? The video of you begging Caleb to fuck you at midnight? In a parking lot?" Her voice is arctic. "After lying to me, to your father, throwing away your entire future?"
I open the stall door, mascara definitely destroyed. "You don't understand. I need him—"
"You need therapy, Evie. Professional help. You've become someone I don't even recognize." She backs toward the door like I'm contagious. "That girl on her knees, begging to be used? That's not my best friend. That's not anyone I want to know."
"Mia, please—"
"We're done."
The door slams with finality.
My father pulls me from sixth period. The car ride is silent until we turn into the church parking lot instead of our driveway.
"We're going to pray," he says, voice terrifyingly calm. "Pray the devil out of you."
The next three hours are actual hell. Father Martinez talks about temptation, about purity, about the fires that await the unrepentant.
My father makes me kneel on the stone floor and confess my sins while congregants stare and whisper. Even here, in God's house, they've seen the video. Even here, I'm Caleb's whore.
"Please, God, save my daughter from her wickedness," my father prays loudly, performing his righteousness. "Cast out the demons of lust that have possessed her."
When we finally get home, he locks me in my room from the outside.
"You're transferring schools. Sacred Heart Military Academy in Montana. The paperwork is already started. They specialize in troubled girls."
At midnight, I climb out the window again. I don't care if he catches me. Don't care if he sends me to military school or a convent or hell itself. I have nothing left to lose.
Caleb opens his door before I knock, pulling me inside quickly.
"I'm sorry about the video. Stacy's always been vindictive but this is—"
"I don't care about the video." I'm already pulling at his shirt, desperate. "Everyone already knows what I am. Your whore, remember? It's written on my locker."
I drop to my knees right there in his living room, looking up at him with no pride left.
"Please. I'm not upset anymore. Not angry or sad or desperate from pain. I just need you. I've lost everything—my future, my father, my best friend. All I have left is this need for you that's eating me alive."
He studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his eyes.
"You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
What happens next breaks me and rebuilds me and breaks me again.
"Get on the couch," he commands, and I scramble to obey, already trembling.
For four hours, he destroys me with methodical precision. His mouth, his fingers, things I didn't know existed in his arsenal. He maps every sensitive spot on my body like he's studying for an exam, cataloging every gasp, every whimper, every broken plea.
By hour two, I'm begging incoherently, making promises I can't keep, offering him things I don't even own. My body isn't mine anymore—it's a live wire he's playing with, bringing me so close to the edge I can taste it before pulling me back.
By hour three, I'm crying, actual tears streaming down my face, my entire existence narrowed to this unbearable need. I tell him I love him, hate him, need him, would die for him—words spilling out without thought or filter.
"Please," I sob for the hundredth time. "Caleb, please, I can't—"
"You can," he says calmly, starting again. "You will."
By hour four, I've transcended words. I'm just sensation and desperation, my body one exposed nerve he's orchestrating like a maestro. When he finally stops, I'm shaking so violently I couldn't stand if my life depended on it.
"You lasted," he says quietly, helping me dress with surprisingly gentle hands. "Four hours without breaking."
"But you still didn't—we didn't—"
"No." His voice is soft. "Not yet. You're close though. So close."
He drives me home in silence. I climb back through my window at 4 AM, my entire body aching, mind fractured, knowing tomorrow will bring fresh hell.
My father's sending me to military school. The video's everywhere, my humiliation complete and public. Mia's gone. My grades are destroyed.
And I still haven't gotten what I need from Caleb.
Rock bottom has a basement, and I'm living in it. But even from here, even destroyed and exposed and abandoned, all I can think about is him.
I'm exactly what they say I am—Caleb's whore. The terrifying part is I don't want to be anything else.