[Maddie’s POV]

The restaurant gleams like a threat dressed in crystal stemware. Every surface reflects wealth I’ve memorized but never possessed.

I sit between Jenna and Caroline, performing ease with the precision of someone defusing their own lies one smile at a time.

“Daddy’s taking us to Gstaad for spring break,” Jenna announces, examining her manicure. “Private chalet, invitation only. You should come, Maddie. Unless your father has other plans for the business expansion you mentioned last week?”

“We’re considering the Maldives actually.” The lie slides out smooth as butterscotch. “Father’s been looking at properties there. Investment opportunities in the hospitality sector. Very lucrative returns, very discrete operations. The kind of expansion that happens quietly before anyone notices you’ve cornered a market.”

Inside, I’m calculating survival math. Mom worked three double shifts last week. The overtime barely covered my skate sharpening. I ate cereal for dinner twice, telling myself it was intermittent fasting.

But Maddie Reyes doesn’t have those concerns. Maddie Reyes has options, opportunities, an empire being built.

“The Maldives are so overdone though,” Caroline interjects, twirling pasta. “Everyone goes there now. It’s practically commercial. Like Dubai but with better Instagram lighting.”

“Perhaps that’s the strategic point.” I cut my salmon with surgical precision. “Sometimes visibility is its own currency. Being seen in the right places matters more than exclusivity. Father understands that better than most. He calls it accessible luxury—the sweet spot between aspiration and attainability.”

The performance exhausts me in ways sleep never fixes. Every word carefully chosen, every reaction calculated. My cheeks ache from smiling at jokes that aren’t funny, at stories about wealth I’ll never possess.

Back at the dorm, relief floods through me as I close the door.

Finally, I can stop being Maddie Reyes for five fucking minutes.

Emily sits at her desk, textbook open, hair in that messy bun that makes my chest do inconvenient things. She looks up with an expression suggesting she’s been waiting. The knowing look that means she sees through everything.

“How was dinner with the trust fund brigade?” Her tone implies she already knows. “Very fancy? Very important people discussing their very important problems?”

“It was fine.” I set my bag down carefully, maintaining distance. “Team bonding. Essential for group dynamics and competitive cohesion.”

“Right. Group dynamics.” She stands, facing me fully. “That’s why you smell like guilt and expensive perfume you definitely didn’t buy. Very bonded. Very cohesive. Very fake.”

“Some of us maintain social connections beyond this room.” Defensiveness rises before I can stop it. “Some of us have obligations that matter.”

“Obligations?” Emily steps closer, and my treacherous body responds. “Like lying about your father’s business empire? Or pretending Derek is anything but a prop you barely tolerate touching you?”

“You don’t understand survival.” My voice sharpens into familiar armor. “Not everyone can afford to broadcast their authentic self like it’s some kind of achievement.”

“Survival?” Her eyes blaze between anger and pity. “Sitting there pretending daddy owns Manhattan while your mom works herself to death for your skating?”

“Don’t talk about my mother.” The words snap out like a whip. “That’s a boundary you don’t cross. Not ever.”

“Why? Because it’s true? Because underneath all this,” she gestures at my carefully curated thrifted outfit, “you’re just as scared and lost as everyone else?”

“I’m not scared.” The familiar lie tastes like poison I’ve been swallowing for years. “I’m practical. I understand how this world works.”

“You’re ashamed.” Her voice softens, which is worse than anger. “You’re ashamed of who you actually are. So you built this whole other person, and now you don’t know how to stop being her.”

The truth rises in my throat like bile. She’s right. The exhaustion of maintaining facades, the loneliness of never being seen, the weight of every accumulated lie.

I want to tell her everything.

‘You want the truth?’ The words gather behind my teeth. ‘You want to hear how completely pathetic—’

Instead, I cross the room in three strides. I need to get all that feeling out of my system. Preferably by her.

“Shut up already.” My hands find her face, cutting off her response. “We’re just blowing off steam, remember? So stop trying to make it something else and quit digging inside my head.”

I kiss her before she can respond, swallowing whatever truth she might extract. Her mouth opens immediately, like she expected this deflection. She knows me well enough to anticipate my cowardice.

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