VERA

The next day, I’d thrown on a simple gray tee and faded jeans, my hair pulled back in a messy bun. It was my version of armor. But even in invisibility mode, I felt eyes on me as I’d walked across Old Hartford’s campus. A few whispers, a head turn. People always said I had that "look," whatever that meant. All I saw in the mirror was the permanent shadow under my light-brown eyes and the tired set of my jaw. Good-looking? Feeling like a frayed nerve 24/7 wasn’t a vibe I thought anyone would aim for.

“Well, look at you, already crowned and everything,” a voice chirped from the doorway.

Speak of the devil. Sasha leaned against the frame, a smirk playing on her perfectly glossed lips. She was dressed like she was headed to a brunch in Manhattan, not a 9 AM paper submission. We were both Theater Arts majors, and it was the unspoken elephant in every room we shared: I was ranked first in our class. She was a permanent, furious second. Matty, my ride-or-die, thought Sasha was a bad influence, a social climber with a venomous streak. And yeah, maybe she was. But she also had connections. Or, at least, she talked a big game about them. I’d stayed close, hoping some of those “connections” would rub off, giving my acting career a leg up. Funny how she never quite got around to those introductions.

“Just trying to avoid the rush,” I said, sliding the paper into the submission box with a final, silent prayer.

“Uh-huh.” Sasha sauntered in, her perfume—something expensive and floral—filling the space between us. “You heading to the café later? Brett said they’re doing a new cocktail thing tonight. Could be fun.”

Before I could answer, another voice, warm and familiar, cut through the air. “V! There you are.”

Matty stood there, a stack of binders clutched to her chest, her comms project finally conquered. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, flickered from me to Sasha and back again. The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

“Hey, Matty! Finished the beast?” I asked, trying to inject some normalcy.

“Done and slaughtered.” She didn’t smile. Her gaze was locked on me, a silent message screaming from across the room. We need to talk. Alone.

I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head. It’s fine. She can hear.

Matty’s lips pressed into a thin line. She marched over. “Mrs. Thompson called me,” she said, her voice low but cutting. “She told me about Jett. About the money.”

My heart plummeted. Of course she had. Mrs. T worried like a mother hen.

Sasha perked up, sensing drama. “Money? What’s going on, V?”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “It’s just… Jett stuff. It’s handled.”

“It doesn’t sound handled,” Matty said, her eyes darting to Sasha with pure, undiluted dislike. “It sounds like you’re about to do something stupid because you think you have no other choice.”

Sasha put a hand on her hip. “Wow, Matty. Judgy much? Maybe Vera can make her own decisions.”

“Yeah,” Matty shot back, not even looking at her. “And maybe you can stop leading her to the ones that always end with her getting hurt.” She turned back to me. “Call me. Later. When you’re alone.” With a final, warning look, she spun on her heel and walked out.

The silence she left behind was heavy and awkward. Sasha let out a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know what you see in that girl. She’s so… intense.”

I felt a flicker of irritation. “She’s my friend. She cares.” I decided to turn the tables. “And what do you see in Brett’s bar lately? You’re there more than I am.”

Sasha’s smirk faltered for a half-second. “It’s a good scene. Good people. You should come out more, stop hiding in books and that café.”

Before I could reply, a new voice, soft and male, interrupted. “Vera? Hey.”

We both turned. Lester Luther. Even in simple glasses and a university hoodie, the guy looked like he’d stepped out of a medical drama promo shot. He was a year ahead of us, a pre-med star, and for reasons that baffled the entire campus, he seemed to have a thing for me.

Sasha immediately straightened up, flipping her hair. “Lester! Hi! We were just talking about how boring this place is.”

Lester gave her a polite, distant smile before his focus returned to me. His gaze was concerned. “Hey, are you okay? You look… tired.”

For a terrifying second, the dam almost broke. The words I’m not okay, I’m drowning, I need twenty thousand dollars by Friday were right there, on the tip of my tongue. The kindness in his eyes was a siren’s call. But I swallowed it down. Pride. Fear. Habit.

“I’m fine,” I said, the lie tasting like ash. “Just a long night studying.”

He nodded, not looking entirely convinced. “Okay. Well, if you need anything… a coffee, a study break… you know where to find me.” He offered a small smile just for me before continuing down the hall.

Sasha stared after him, then at me, her expression a mix of envy and disbelief. “How do you do that? Lester Luther. He barely even looked at me.”

I ignored her, the weight of the world pressing down again. “I have to go. I need to… make a call.”

“About Jett?” she asked, a semblance of genuine concern finally breaking through her facade. “Is he worse?”

“The surgery he needs… it’s a lot. The deposit is…” I couldn’t even say the number. “It’s a lot.”

Sasha’s face fell. “Oh, V. I’m so sorry. I wish I could help.” It was the kind of empty wish people make on shooting stars. It didn’t pay hospital bills.

I just nodded and walked away, pulling out my phone. I called Mrs. Thompson. “Hey, Mrs. T. I… I’m gonna be late for my shift. I have to make a stop first.”

Her voice was steeped in worry. “Everything alright, honey?”

“No,” I whispered, the truth slipping out. “But it will be. I’m going to fix it.”

The bus ride to the Donovan estate felt like a journey to my own execution. The houses got bigger, the lawns greener, the air somehow richer. I got off at the stop and walked up the long, winding driveway, my heart hammering against my ribs. The mansion loomed, a monument to everything that had been taken from me.

Clarissa was just coming out the front door, looking like she’d just stepped off a yacht in her pristine tennis whites. She stopped dead, a cruel smile spreading across her face. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Slumming it today, Veronica?”

“I need to see Eleanor,” I said, my voice tight.

“Mother’s busy.” She made to brush past me.

“Clarissa, please.” The begging started already. “It’s about Jett. It’s important.”

Just then, the door opened again. My stepmother, Eleanor, stood there, her expression one of pure, unadulterated surprise. “Veronica? What on earth are you doing here?”

I swallowed, my mouth dry as dust. This was it. The moment I sold the last piece of my pride.

“I need your help,”I said, the words tearing out of me. “It’s Jett. He needs another surgery. A big one. The deposit is twenty thousand dollars. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice.”

Eleanor’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her, as if my desperation might dirty the foyer. “Twenty thousand? And you came to me? That’s… ambitious.”

I pleaded. “Your late husband's son Eleanor.He’s my father’s son! You have the money. Please.”

She looked me up and down, a slow, cold assessment. “If you’re serious,” she said, her voice dripping with faux sympathy, “then show me. Kneel.”

The world stopped. I stared at her. Clarissa let out a tiny, excited giggle.

For Jett, I chanted in my head. It’s all for Jett. I felt the hot sting of tears as I slowly, painfully, lowered myself to my knees on the cold stone porch. The gravel bit into my skin.

“I’m serious,” I whispered, looking up at her. “Please. Help him.”

Eleanor tilted her head. “Further.”

A sob caught in my throat. I bent forward, pressing my forehead to the stone, my body curled in a posture of absolute submission. Humiliation burned through me, hotter than any fever. “Please, Eleanor. I’m begging you.”

There was a long, silent pause. I could hear Clarissa’s quiet, gleeful breathing.

Then, Eleanor laughed. A light, tinkling sound that was more terrifying than any shout. “Oh, darling. I don’t have that kind of money lying around. You should ask that boyfriend of yours. The Sterling boy. We both know his family comes from real money.”

I pushed myself up, scrambling to my feet, my cheeks blazing with tears and rage. “He’s like a son to you isn't he?! How can you just let him suffer?”

Her face hardened instantly. “That boy,” she spat, “is a nuisance. A constant reminder of your father’s poor judgment. Now, get off my property before I call security.”

I turned and ran. I ran down the driveway, past the manicured hedges, the tears streaming down my face, blurring the world into a watercolor of misery. I had knelt. I had begged. And it was all for nothing.

I didn’t go home. I went to the hospital. The smell of antiseptic was a familiar slap in the face. I slipped into Jett’s room. He was asleep, hooked up to monitors that beeped a steady, lonely rhythm. He looked so pale, so much smaller in the big hospital bed. But even now, I could see the ghost of the brother who’d taught me how to ride a bike, who’d cheered the loudest at my high school plays, who’d held me together when Mom died.

He had fought for me my whole life. And now, when he needed me to fight for him, I was failing.

I sat by his bed, taking his limp hand in mine. The cold weight of reality settled in my stomach. Eleanor was right about one thing. There was only one person left to ask.

The asking would most probably come with a price. A price I’d been unwilling to pay. But kneeling on that cold stone had changed something. That price no longer seemed as high as the cost of losing Jett.

I stood up, wiping my tears away. My decision was made. I would go to Brett. No matter what it took.