CHAPTER 152: EMMA’S NIGHTMARE

Emma Carter was laughing with Jess Martinez near their lockers, the sound bright and infectious, bouncing off the metal like someone had managed to bottle summer and pop the cap just for them. For a second—just one perfect second—she looked like her old self. The girl who used to treat life like a dare you could only win by saying yes to everything.

"Oh my God, did you see what Connor posted about the vampire house?" Jess was half-giggling, half-trying not to choke, shoving her phone into Emma’s personal space. On-screen, Connor Hayes was in full method-acting meltdown, reenacting Tommy’s vampire theories like he was auditioning for a low-budget Shakespeare remake. "He’s so weird. But like... endearingly weird."

Emma was mid-snort when her phone buzzed.

Vice Principal Holloway:Office. Now. Don’t keep me waiting.

Her laugh didn’t fade—it dropped dead. Like someone had cut the audio feed. Her smile cracked in the middle and just... fell away, shattering into pieces she knew she’d never find again. Cold swept through her chest like she’d swallowed a block of ice, and then, just as fast, heat followed—thick, sour, curling in her gut like bad cafeteria chili. She gripped the phone so tight the cheap plastic case made a faint cracking sound.

"Em? You okay?" Jess’s voice was suddenly quiet, careful.

Emma’s throat refused to work. Her pulse was loud in her ears, too loud, like it was trying to warn her about something she already knew but didn’t want to remember. A shiver ran up her arms—the kind that wasn’t from the air conditioning but from that kind of memory. The buried kind. The kind you wish would stay buried.

"I... I have to go," she said, her voice sounding like it had been sanded down to splinters.

"Emma, you look—"

But she was already moving.

She walked fast. The kind of fast that says don’t you dare stop me or I’ll break apart right here in front of everyone

.

Lincoln High’s hallway was still its usual zoo—lockers slamming, backpacks dropping like sandbags, people laughing too loud at things that weren’t that funny.

Except none of it touched her.

It was like someone had turned the saturation down on reality. The sounds came through muffled, wrapped in cotton. The air felt thicker, like it didn’t want to let her breathe too deeply. Laughter warped, bouncing back to her in weird, empty echoes. Footsteps around her sounded far away, like they belonged to people in a different building entirely.

The hallway ahead seemed to stretch, the floor tilting just enough to mess with her balance—like she’d stepped into a house built by a drunk architect who hated straight lines. Every step felt heavier than the last, her muscles pushing through something that wasn’t quite air anymore.

She didn’t need to check the clock to know she was walking straight toward the part of the school where light always seemed a little dimmer.

And she really didn’t need to ask herself why Vice Principal Holloway had called her.

She already knew.

People passed her—friends, classmates, kids she’d done group projects with—but they were ghosts now. Not the cool, romantic, haunt-your-ex kind of ghosts. The faded, washed-out ones from a brighter world she didn’t live in anymore.

That was the world where the worst thing that could happen was bombing a quiz or spilling milk on your jeans in front of your crush.

She wasn’t in that place anymore.

She was walking into his.

Into the reach of a man who smiled like a mentor but moved like a predator—slow, circling, teeth tucked away until you were close enough for them to matter.

Memories hit her like someone flipping through a slideshow on fast-forward, each slide worse than the last:

The first "behavioral consultation" that had nothing to do with behavior.

His eyes scanning her like the dress code was an X-ray machine.

Standing between her and the door, smile all polite helpfulness while the air between them got too thick to breathe.

Yesterday—his hand "accidentally" brushing across her chest, the slow curve of his mouth when she froze. The knowing in his eyes.

Every day, worse. Every visit, more confident. Every summons, like being handed an eviction notice from the version of herself that felt safe.

And who was going to believe her?

Trent Holloway—golden boy of the district. Son of the school director. Vice principal at twenty-seven. The walking embodiment of "promoted before his time" with the LinkedIn profile to match. Teachers liked him. Students liked him.

He was young enough to be relatable, old enough to make the rules.

Emma knew the truth. She’d seen the rot under the smile. She’d felt his eyes on her when no one else was looking. She’d learned what it meant to be cornered by someone who could rewrite the game while you were still trying to figure out the rules.

The administrative wing swallowed her whole. Carpet that muffled every step. Motivational posters with toothy smiles that felt less inspirational and more complicit. Even the air smelled different here—lemon cleaner, printer toner, and something faintly sour. Like fear that had been left out too long.

Her heartbeat was a drum in her skull by the time she stopped at his door.

The nameplate gleamed back at her:

Trent Holloway, Vice Principal

She stared at it too long, and her brain—unhelpful little gremlin—whispered, Should probably add "Creep Extraordinaire" in Comic Sans.

It was sour and sharp and petty, but it was the only thing holding her spine up right now.

Her hand hovered over the handle. She didn’t knock—never knock. That was Lesson One. Knocking made him angry.

And angry meant worse.

The door swung open on an office that was almost perfect—professionally decorated, meticulously arranged—but with the exact same energy as a mousetrap polished to a mirror shine.

Diplomas lined the walls in smug little rows, each one practically screaming look how respectable I am. The oversized desk squatted dead center like it owned the place, because, well... it did. Two upholstered chairs waited in front of it—soft curves, warm fabric, the kind of comfort that whispered relax in the same tone kidnappers probably used in crime shows.

Everything about it was designed to make a student feel safe—while never letting them forget who held the leash.

Trent Holloway looked up from his computer with a smile that could’ve sold cars, life insurance, or maybe even salvation—if you didn’t know what lived behind it.

He was the exact type of handsome magazines marketed as "non-threatening": tall, gym-toned, hair so obedient it clearly feared his hair gel, and clothes cut to suggest authority without outright screaming cop. On someone else, it might have been attractive.

On him, it was camouflage—hunter’s colors in human form.

"Emma," he said warmly, and her stomach executed a perfect Olympic dive into acid. "Right on time. Close the door behind you."

Her hand shook as she obeyed. The click of the latch was too loud—loud enough to register as more than a door closing.

It sounded like a lock on a cell. She didn’t step forward. She stayed with her back against the wood, bracing herself like she was holding a barricade in place. Not that it would stop him.

His eyes tracked the hesitation, and his smile deepened—just enough to show teeth. She saw it: the quiet thrill he got from watching her freeze. He savored it the way people savored dessert—slow, deliberate, letting the taste linger.

"Come closer, Emma." He stood with unhurried grace, rounding the desk to lean against its front edge. Legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting lightly on polished wood—not fully blocking the way, but angled just enough so she’d have to pass close enough to feel his breath if she wanted by.

A subtle reminder: This is my territory.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her muscles had locked somewhere between fight and flight, except both options had been repossessed. She felt like a pinned butterfly under glass, and he was the guy holding the tweezers.

"Emma," he said again, warmth still coating the syllables, but now with a thin wire of warning coiled underneath. "Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. You know what happens when you don’t cooperate."

Her pulse thundered in her ears. And somewhere, deep in the bitter corners of her mind, she thought: Great. Another lesson in "compliance." Wonder if they’ll put that on my transcript.

The threat didn’t just hang in the air—it curled there, oily and slow, like cigarette smoke in a sealed room.

Emma knew exactly what he meant. It wasn’t an empty bluff. Trent Holloway could salt the earth of her life so nothing good ever grew again—fabricated "disciplinary incidents," carefully scripted phone calls to her mother about "ongoing concerns," a neat little pile of black marks that would make any college toss her file into the hell no pile without a second glance.

He could dismantle her world in slow motion, and they both knew it.

His gaze started its crawl—deliberate, unhurried—up the length of her body. Not the quick, guilty glance of someone caught in a moment of weakness. No, this was the steady, assessing look of a man cataloguing his property.