Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 94

Serena’s POV

The truth doesn't set you free — it sets you on fire, and then you find out who shows up with water and who shows up with gasoline.

Mia posts the statement at nine in the morning on a Tuesday, because she says Tuesdays have the highest social media engagement and she didn't spend three years in communications theory to waste a good algorithm.

I watch her thumb hover over the button from across the kitchen table, my coffee growing cold between my hands.

"Last chance to back out," she says, eyes steady on mine. "Once this goes live, we can't undo it."

"I know."

"And you're sure about keeping the stepsibling stuff out of it? Because if it leaks later, people will say we were hiding things."

"We're not hiding anything." I set down my mug with deliberate care. "We're staying focused. This isn't about my family. This is about what Lucas did, what the university ignored, and the women who deserve to be heard."

Mia nods once, sharp and decisive, and presses publish.

For approximately ninety seconds, the world stays the same.

Then my phone lights up like a circuit board shorting out.

The statement is meticulous — Mia spent weeks crafting it with the precision of a surgeon mapping incision lines.

Lucas Bennett is named. His pattern of assault is outlined. The institutional failures are cataloged with dates and documentation numbers.

The five women who have already come forward are referenced anonymously, their stories woven into a timeline that makes "isolated incident" impossible for anyone honest to use.

My name appears once, as one of the survivors. My choice. My words.

And the internet divides.

The first wave is support. Advocacy organizations share the statement within the hour.

A national survivors' network reposts it with the caption ‘We see you. We believe you.’ Students from three different universities tag their own Title IX offices, demanding accountability.

My inbox fills with messages from strangers who use words like ‘brave’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘me too,’ and each one lands in my chest with a warmth that feels dangerous to trust.

"Look at this." Mia turns her laptop toward me, scrolling through a thread of responses from a women's legal fund offering pro bono representation to any of the named victims. "They're already mobilizing."

"That's incredible."

"That's power." Mia's smile carries the ferocity of someone who has been waiting for this moment since I broke down in that study room and told her the truth. "This is what happens when the silence breaks."

But the second wave comes just as fast.

The Bennett loyalists arrive with the fury of people whose comfortable worldview has been personally attacked.

They flood the comments with accusations — gold digger, attention seeker, why did she wait so long.

Anonymous accounts with no profile pictures post detailed threads questioning my credibility, my motives, my sexual history.

One account posts a photo of me at a campus event, smiling beside Lucas from months ago, with the caption: Does this look like a victim to you?

My stomach turns. I reach for my phone to scroll further, but Mia's hand closes over mine.

"No." Her voice is firm. "Give me that."

"Mia, I can handle—"

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