“It’s just bullshit, Liv,” I’d said, impatience coloring my tone. I wanted to get to the party. I was a stupid kid who didn’t understand that the weapons had changed. “It’s just words on a screen. It’ll blow over. Just ignore them. They’ll get bored and move on.”
“You don’t get it,” she whispered. “It’s not just words. It’s my life.”
“We’ll go to the Dean tomorrow,” I promised, already reaching for my jacket. “We’ll figure it out. Just hang in there. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you in the morning.”
I hung up. I thought I’d fixed it. I went to the party.
The clatter of a glass being set down on the bar yanked me back to the present. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my hand trembling slightly as I lifted my beer.
“They found her the next morning,” I said, my voice hollow as I finally met Danny’s eyes. The pity there was almost unbearable. “She’d left a note. Said she couldn’t take the humiliation anymore.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “The last thing I ever said to her was ‘I’ve gotta go.’”
I could see the pieces clicking into place for Danny. The headlines about Beth. The social media frenzy. The way she was lashing out, pushing everyone away.
“When I see Beth doing that… shutting down, fighting everyone off… I see Olivia,” I said, the confession raw and agonizing. “I see that same pain, that same isolation. I know where that road leads. Those tabloid vultures, the online trolls… they’re using the same weapons on her that those frat boys used on Olivia. And I was fucking blind to it in Glasgow.”
“But Beth isn’t Olivia,” Danny said quietly, his voice firm but kind.
“No, she’s not,” I agreed, my grip tightening on my glass. “But I’ve learned to recognize when someone is drowning, even if they’re smiling while they do it. I didn’t push hard enough for my friend because I didn’t understand the real danger. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Danny was quiet for a long moment, the weight of my story settling between us. “Just… be careful, man,” he said finally. “You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”
“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But I have to try. I need to know I did everything I could this time. Because this time, I understand.”
The bar’s noise rushed back in as we sat in silence. At least now he understood.
“Alright, Romeo. You’ve got a crazy plan and a ticking clock. Let’s book some flights.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BETH
My first dayat the Hillsdale Foundation felt like stepping onto another planet. The office was a universe of polished chrome, hushed tones, and silent, focused energy. A stark contrast to the chaotic, heartfelt bustle of Bright Futures. Here, ambition was a perfume worn by everyone, and I felt like an imposter, my recent past a gaudy, scandalous outfit I couldn’t take off.
I was led to the director’s office, a corner suite with a view of the city that seemed to stretch into infinity. Ms. Henderson didn’t rise when I entered. She simply looked up from her sleek, minimalist desk, her gaze sharp and assessing. She was an impeccably dressed woman in her late fifties, with an air of authority so potent it seemed to suck the oxygen from the room.
“Ms. MacLeod,” she said, her voice cool and even. She gestured to the chair opposite her without a flicker of a smile. “Please, sit.”
I sat, my hands clasped in my lap to still their trembling.
“I’ve read your file,” she began, her fingers steepled on the desk. “It’s… extensive.” The single word hung in the air, encompassing every tabloid headline, every whispered rumor, every public misstep. “Our mutual friend who arranged this placement believes you have potential beyond your public reputation. A sentiment I hope you prove to be correct.”
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto mine. “Let’s be clear. Here, you are not Elisabeth MacLeod, the socialite, the heiress, or the subject of gossip columns. Here, you are Beth, an intern. At Hillsdale, we value results, not reputations. A reputation can be rebuilt, Ms. MacLeod, but character is proven through work. Are we understood?”
“Yes, Ms. Henderson,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“Good.” She nodded, a flicker of perhaps approval in her gaze. “Every new member of our team, from summer intern to senior director, starts with the basics. Our fundraising mailers are the lifeblood of this organization. You will learn how we speak to our donors, who they are, and the impact of every single dollar by handling the very letters that secure those funds. It’s the foundation of everything we do.”
She stood, signaling the end of our meeting. “Abigail in Development will get you settled. Consider this your foundation, Beth. Build on it.”
And with that, I was dismissed. Abigail led me to my new home: a small desk in a bustling open-plan office, upon which sat a literal mountain of envelopes.
Now, three days later, staring at that same mountain, Ms. Henderson’s words felt like a cleverly disguised insult.Build on it?My kingdom for a paper cut, I thought. At least then I’d feel something other than soul-crushing boredom. My grandNew York fresh start had devolved into this: envelope purgatory.
Ms. Henderson, with her talk of “building character,” had eyed me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe before banishing me to this desk. I thought of Maisie and the kids back at Bright Futures. At least there, I’d felt like a person, even when I was messing up. Here, I was just a pair of hands attached to an envelope-licking machine; a high-society charity case being taught a lesson in humility.
With a groan, I pushed back from my desk. Coffee. I needed coffee if I was going to survive another minute of this. I trudged towards the break room, the stodgy pencil skirt and blouse I’d chosen feeling like a costume for a person far more boring than I was.
Lost in thought, I nearly collided with a solid wall of human as I entered the break room. “Oh, sorry, I?—”
