Veil Over Madeline

CHAPTER 3: WRITER

CHAPTER 3:

WRITER

A car speeds down the rain-slicked highway. Highlights cut through the darkness as I roll down the window. The cool air becomes my savior, my only friend, while I try not to throw up. They say, you reap what you sow. Maybe I should've fought harder with Nina, pried that phone from her hands, even if it came down to a physical fight. I just wanted to grab a couple of new books, catch up with Nina over some drinks, and then head home, cozy up, and get lost in a good read. Now, my car is parked—I don't even know where.

My head is pounding, my throat is burning. It almost feels like I'm erupting, like I'm turning into molten lava.

Inhale... exhale... Inhale.. exhale...

Usually, when Rhys drove me around, the car would be filled with laughter and easy conversation. But tonight, an uncomfortable silence lingers, tension thickening the air between us. I know I need to apologize. From the passenger seat, I watch his posture—back straight, shoulders tense, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly.

"Hey," I start softly, trying to break the ice. "Are you mad at me? I'm really sorry for the tex—"

"I know you didn't write those messages." He glances over, stealing a quick look at me before his gaze returns to the road. His dark honey eyes are shadowed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he speaks, his voice almost too quiet.

"You have to stop being friends with Nina. She's not good for you."

Ouch. As much as I don't want to agree with Rhys, I can't deny it. Nina left me drunk and unattended in a car with a guy. It's not about Rhys; he'd never hurt me. But she embarrassed me. I was too drunk to care, too willing to let her handle things. And she did—by sexting him and walking away.

Silence sits in the car like a third wheel. I feel more betrayed than I did an hour ago. Nina and I have been like sisters, but this isn't the first time she's left me to fend for myself. Last year, at that music festival where Muse was headlining, she ditched me in the crowd to go make out with some guy. I was nineteen. Sure, a ninteen-year-old should be able to take care of herself, but isn't this just basic girl code? Or my momma raised me right? You don't abandon the person you came with—it's the bare minimum of respect and care for the person you're supposed to be looking out for and vice versa. It's not just about getting hurt; it's about trust.

"I hope I'm the only guy she texted," he says, a sharp edge to his voice.

My stomach plummets. Oh no. I hadn't even thought of that. My hands plunge into my bag, rifling through it as panic seizes me. Fingers trembling, I finally clutch my phone, it's cold case grounding me for a second before I turn it on. The bright screen pierces my eyes, but I barely notice—I can feel my self-respect teetering on a cliff.

Please, let it just be him.

But there it is, a line of messages—dozens of them. My eyes widen, scrolling through text after text. The entire ice hockey team. She texted the entire ice hockey team, asking if they wanted to pick up a "pretty drunk girl" from the bar.

Oh no. Oh no.

My face burns; my throat tightens. This cannot be happening. Tears well up quickly in my eyes.

My heart pounds as I stare at the messages, each one a punch to my gut. All names I recognize—and each text, a humiliating invitation to pick me up. My dignity crumbles. Oh my god, Nina. She made me look like... I can't even finish the thought.

I shove my phone back in my bag, trying to swallow the lump in my throat, but my hand is still trembling when I glance sideways. Rhys's jaw is tight, his knuckles pale as they grip the steering wheel.