Chapter 1: The Bet That Broke Me

Nineteen and breathless, I lay in Lucas Grant’s bed—barely asleep, barely believing he’d chosen me—when his voice cut through the dorm’s midnight hush.

That memory still presses at my chest, sharp as glass—the heavy, stale dorm air, the hum of vending machines in the empty hallway, the way my skin tingled with hope and dread. I never pictured myself as the star of some college soap opera, but Midwestern State had a way of blindsiding you.

“Three days to win her over—you all lost.”

He sounded cocky, like he’d just nailed the game-winning shot at March Madness. I’d heard guys brag before, but something in Lucas’s voice—too confident, too smooth—made me want to believe every lie he told.

“I won’t believe it unless you send a photo of her in bed as proof.”

Lucas agreed, but at the last second, he hesitated—snapping only a photo of me sleeping, not what his friends demanded.

My ears rang. Maybe I misheard. Maybe this was a nightmare. But the ache blooming in my chest told me it was real. I stayed frozen, pretending to sleep, the covers tucked under my chin, my mom’s fabric softener wrapping around me like a shield. My phone buzzed on the nightstand—I didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe, wondering if he’d actually do it.

After that, night after night, he clung to me like he was addicted.

His texts would light up my phone at 2 a.m.: “You awake? Come over.” I never said no. I’d trek across the quad, the chill seeping through my hoodie, sneakers slapping the sidewalk. Every step, I told myself I could turn back—but I never did. Lucas would be waiting, shirtless, hair damp from the shower, grinning like he’d just gotten away with something.

And I, always quiet, always agreeable, never refused him.

It became a pattern—my heart racing, mind blank, hands trembling as I reached for his. I never asked what we were. I let myself drift in the heat of his attention, even when it burned.

But eventually, I went to the university farthest from him.

I got a scholarship clear down in Florida. Packed my bags, dyed my hair, deleted every trace of him from my phone—new number, new Insta, new life. I was determined. Nobody from home, and especially not Lucas, would find me again.

I wiped everything connected to him, vanishing like a ghost.

Every now and then, I’d see his name pop up in old group chats, or a tagged photo at a bar back in Indiana. But I never replied, and those messages faded. I wanted a clean slate—a place where nobody called me “that girl Lucas hooked up with.”

I heard Lucas was asking about me everywhere, searching for me like a madman.

A friend from my hometown DMed me: “Hey, Lucas keeps showing up at the food truck, asking for you. He seems kinda desperate.” I read it while sprawled on my new twin XL, Florida ceiling fan spinning overhead, and just smiled. The world felt huge, and for the first time, the ache in my chest didn’t hurt so much.

I just smiled and let it go.

At first, he chased me because of a bet, and I just played along.

I never fooled myself about what we were—he wanted a challenge, I wanted an escape. It was fun, for a while, being the girl every other girl wanted to be, the one the frat boys whispered about, the one in all his Snap stories.

Just enjoying the pleasure his face and body brought me.

Maybe that sounds cold, but sometimes all you can do is take what feels good and leave the rest. I never pretended it was love. But God, the way he’d look at me sometimes—like I was oxygen—sometimes I almost believed it myself.