An hour ago, Arlene had stood in front of the cracked mirror in her dorm room. She dabbed cheap concealer over the purple bruise on her neck. Sterling Prescott IV had left it there three days ago.

Her phone vibrated on the desk. A text from Sterling. Just an address and a smiling devil emoji.

Her hand hovered over the screen. Her fingers shook. She typed a quick confirmation and hit send.

Clara Finch leaned over the edge of the top bunk. Her face was pale with worry. "Are you seriously going? That's Prescott territory."

Arlene put the concealer down. Her voice was terrifyingly flat. "If I don't go, my scholarship is gone. I'll lose my campus job, too."

Clara jumped down from the bed. She grabbed Arlene's arm. "But Sterling is a psycho! Last time he almost..."

Arlene gently pulled her arm away. She couldn't look at Clara's eyes. "I just need to apologize. I'll keep my head down. Everything will go back to normal."

She pulled a black sweater from her closet. It was the only piece of clothing she owned that didn't have a hole in it. She pulled it over her head.

Clara leaned against the metal bedframe. "Arlene, doesn't the Boone family care? What about Dr. Hardie..."

Arlene's eyes turned to ice at the name. "The Boones only want to watch me die. They will never pull me up."

She grabbed her worn jacket from the hook by the door. She shoved a small can of pepper spray into its pocket.

Clara opened her mouth to argue again. Arlene shot her a look that silenced the room.

"Don't tell anyone where I went," Arlene said. She pulled the door open. The cold draft from the hallway rushed in.

She shut the door in Clara's face.

Now, Arlene stood outside the VIP room of the downtown club.

The bouncer looked her up and down. He let out a loud snort and shoved the heavy padded door open.

Hip-hop music blasted her in the face. The thick smell of marijuana and spilled liquor made her throat close up.

Sterling Prescott IV sat in the center of the room. Two girls in tiny skirts pressed against his sides. He held a glass of amber whiskey.

He saw Arlene. He shoved the girls away and smiled. It was a smile that promised pain.

"Look who it is," Sterling yelled over the music. "The Boone family bastard."

Arlene shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. She walked forward. She forced herself to look into his bloodshot eyes.

"I came to apologize, Sterling," she said. Her throat was dry, but she made sure every word was clear. "I shouldn't have talked back in seminar."

Sterling threw his head back and laughed. Kip Holloway and the rest of the fraternity brothers howled with him.

The laughter stopped abruptly. Sterling lunged forward. The smell of alcohol hit Arlene's face. "An apology? You think words are enough?"

He tilted his glass. The whiskey poured directly onto Arlene's chest. The cold liquid soaked through her worn jacket and the black sweater beneath, sticking to her skin.

Arlene's whole body went rigid. Her nails cut into her palms. She did not take a step back.

"Since you're here, we play by my rules." Sterling pointed to the glass table.

Two rows of shot glasses sat perfectly aligned. They were filled to the brim with clear liquor.

Arlene looked at the alcohol. A wave of pure despair washed over her, quickly replaced by a numb resolve.

If she didn't do this, she wouldn't walk out of this room.

"Fine," she heard her own voice say. It sounded dead.

Sterling pointed at the twenty shot glasses.

"The rules are simple," he drawled, leaning back into the leather sofa. "Either you take off your clothes and crawl to the door..."

His eyes dragged over her soaked sweater.

Kip Holloway laughed loudly. He pulled out his phone and hit record. The other guys followed suit.

Arlene's stomach twisted. Bile rose in her throat.

"Or," Sterling continued, "you drink us under the table. If you can still stand and walk out that door, your scholarship is safe."

Arlene didn't hesitate. Stripping meant social death. Drinking meant physical pain. She walked straight to the table.

Sterling looked surprised for a second. Then his eyes turned vicious. "Let's make it interesting."

He grabbed a small glass bottle from the ice bucket. It was a specialty hot sauce. Pure capsaicin extract.

Arlene watched in horror as he walked down the line. He poured a thick, red drop of the oil into every single shot glass. The red liquid bled into the clear alcohol.

"Now it's fit for a Boone," Sterling sneered.

Arlene stared at the toxic mixture. Her throat already felt like it was burning just looking at it.

She picked up the first glass. Her hand was completely steady. She threw her head back and swallowed it.

The liquor sliced down her throat. The capsaicin exploded like a grenade in her esophagus. Tears instantly streamed down her face.

Her stomach cramped so violently she bent forward. She bit her lip until she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound.

"Hell yeah!" Kip whistled. "Keep going. Nineteen left."

Arlene's hand shook as she picked up the second glass. Then the third.

By the fifth shot, her vision blurred. The neon lights in the room smeared into red streaks.

Sterling watched her, looking bored. He hadn't expected her to actually do it.

She reached for the eighth glass. Her fingers gave out. The glass slipped and shattered against the table edge. A sharp piece of glass sliced across her palm.

Blood mixed with the spilled alcohol. The sharp sting of the cut gave her a second of clarity.

She reached for the ninth glass with her bloody hand. Her knees buckled.

"Looks like you're done," Sterling said. He stood up and walked over to her. He looked down at her sweating, tear-streaked face.

He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw.

"Let's go with option one. Take off the shirt..." His hand moved down to grab the collar of her sweater.

The last thread of Arlene's sanity snapped. She shoved Sterling hard in the chest. She grabbed the bottle of pure capsaicin from the table.

Before anyone could move, she brought the bottle to her lips and tipped it back.

The raw spice hit her stomach lining. She gagged violently, spitting up a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the floor. But she didn't stop. She fumbled for another shot glass still standing on the table and downed it.

Sterling stumbled back. His face went pale.

Arlene's vision went completely black. Her body folded in half. She hit the liquor-soaked carpet with a sickening thud.

Hardie sat behind the mahogany desk in his private clinic. His long fingers turned the page of a patient file. His eyes were cold and focused.

His phone vibrated against the wood. A text from Julian Thorne lit up the screen.

Prescott's party is getting completely out of hand. A buddy of mine just forwarded this to the group chat from the Black Rabbit. Your family's little stray is there and it looks bad.

Hardie frowned. He tapped the video attachment.

The screen played. Arlene stood in a dark room. Blood dripped from her mouth. She chugged a bottle of red liquid, gagged, and collapsed like a broken doll onto the floor.

Hardie's pupils dilated. The expensive fountain pen in his hand snapped in two. Black ink splattered across the pristine medical records.

His breathing turned ragged. The thick sheet of ice he usually used to suppress his volatile emotions shattered instantly. A terrifying, violent fire erupted from the deepest depths of his chest, a raging inferno that he himself feared.

That was his girl. The girl he watched from the shadows. The girl no one was allowed to touch.

He stood up so fast his leather chair crashed backward onto the floor. The sound echoed in the quiet office.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Julian. His voice was absolute zero. "Which room?"

Julian stammered, caught off guard. "Man, it's just a joke. She's in the back VIP room. Prescott's got his whole crew in there..."

Hardie ended the call. He walked out of the office.

A nurse in the hallway opened her mouth to speak. She took one look at Hardie's eyes and stepped back against the wall, terrified.

He stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the parking garage. His knuckles were bone white.

He sprinted to the Aston Martin. The engine roared to life.

The tires screamed against the concrete as he sped out of the garage.

He dialed his head of security while weaving through traffic. "Get me the floor plan for the VIP rooms at the Black Rabbit. Now."

The image of Arlene hitting the floor played on a loop in his brain. It felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

He remembered her face in the alley. She lied to him. She went to a slaughterhouse instead of asking him for help.

The self-hatred burned his throat. He had let her walk in there.

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel at a red light. The horn blared.

His phone rang. "Sir, Mitch Kozlowski runs security for Prescott there."

"Tell Mitch he has three minutes to get her out of that room, or I will burn his club to the ground with him inside."

Hardie threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

The light turned green. He floored the accelerator.

She tore up his card. She would rather die than owe him.

The thought made his blood boil. He looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a murderer.

The Black Rabbit's neon sign glowed ahead. He had sat in the alley across the street and watched her walk through those doors. Now he wasn't waiting anymore.

Hardie didn't slow down. He drove the Aston Martin straight up onto the sidewalk, slamming the brakes right in front of the main doors.