Chapter Three – Public Property
1776 Words
Chapter Three – Public Property
I decide to stop hiding.
The thought comes to me while I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the closed door like it’s something that can bite. I’ve been in here for hours—long enough for the world outside my room to keep moving without me. Long enough for my phone to heat up with notifications I don’t open. Long enough for fear to settle into my bones and start pretending it belongs there.
If I stay here, I’ll rot.
That’s the truth of it.
Hiding doesn’t make things quieter. It only gives the noise time to sharpen.
So I stand.
My legs feel weak under my weight, like they’re surprised I’m asking them to work again. I grab a towel and head for the bathroom before I can change my mind.
The shower water hits my skin too hot, then too cold, then somewhere in between. I stand there longer than necessary, letting it run over my face, my hair, my shoulders—like it might wash something off me that soap can’t touch. I scrub harder than usual, especially at my neck, my arms, anywhere someone might imagine hands that were never there.
When I’m done, I brush my teeth slowly, methodically, staring at my reflection as mint burns my tongue. My eyes look tired. Older. Like they already know things I haven’t said out loud yet.
I dress without ceremony.
Dark jeans. A long-sleeved gray top that doesn’t cling. My worn black jacket. Flat shoes—practical, quiet. Clothes meant to disappear into a crowd, not draw attention. Not invite interpretation.
I smooth everything down out of habit even though it doesn’t matter—nothing about me looks respectable anymore.
The mirror catches my reflection as I pass, and I pause despite myself.
I look… the same.
And that’s somehow the worst part.
Same face. Same eyes. Same body. But now all of it means something else to the world. Something dirty. Something owned.
I reach for the door before I can think better of it and pull it open.
The apartment is quiet in that strained way that never lasts. The television murmurs softly from the sitting room. A familiar news anchor’s voice cuts through the air, polished and calm.
“…the scandal continues to unfold as more footage emerges from last night’s exclusive Crane Initiative gala…”
My stomach drops.
I step forward anyway.
The sitting room is small but comfortable—worn sofa, neatly folded throw blanket, framed family photos arranged carefully on the wall like proof that we’re normal. That we belong. My stepmother sits on the couch, legs crossed, tablet in her hand. She doesn’t look up at first.
I know she’s already seen it.
I know by the way her shoulders are stiff. By the way the room feels charged, waiting.
“So,” Helena says finally, lifting her eyes to me.
The word lands like a slap.
“So,” she repeats, slower this time, her gaze dragging over me with open disapproval. “You’ve finally decided to come out.”
I swallow. “I have a meeting at school.”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “School,” she says, like the word itself is offensive. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”
I feel something tight wrap around my chest. “I didn’t do anything,” I say. My voice stays level, but it costs me effort. “You know that.”
She sets the tablet down carefully, deliberately. On the screen, I catch a glimpse of my own face before it goes dark.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Helena says coolly. “Do you have any idea how this makes us look?”
Us.
That word again. Always us. Never me.
“This family already has enough problems,” she continues. “And now this? Headlines? Rumors? You standing next to a billionaire like you belong there?”
“I was invited,” I say. “For academic reasons.”
“Academic,” she repeats flatly. “Of course.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Do you think people care about the truth, Zahra? Do you think your explanations matter once your name is attached to words like mistress?”
I flinch despite myself.
She notices.
Good.
“You humiliated us,” she says. “You humiliated your father.”
My throat tightens. “He doesn’t even know yet.”
Her lips curl slightly. “He will.”
The promise in her voice is unmistakable.
“I’ll tell him,” she says calmly. “Tonight. And maybe then he’ll finally see reason. Maybe he’ll understand that keeping you here only invites more shame.”
The room tilts.
“You want me gone,” I say quietly.
“I want peace,” she replies. “And stability. And if sending you away achieves that, then yes. I’ll advocate for it.”
I stare at her, at this woman who has lived with me for years and still speaks to me like I’m an inconvenience she tolerated out of obligation.
“I didn’t choose this,” I say. “None of it.”
“No,” she agrees. “You never do.”
That hurts more than I expect it to.
I don’t say anything else. If I open my mouth, something ugly might come out—and I refuse to give her that satisfaction.
I turn and walk toward the door, my hands shaking as I grab my bag.
“Zahra,” she calls after me.
I pause.
“Fix this,” she says. “Or don’t bother coming back.”
I step outside before she can say anything else.
The hallway smells like cleaning solution and someone else’s cooking. Normal things. The kind that make your life feel like it should still be intact.
Outside, the sun is too bright. The world feels offensively normal.
My phone buzzes the moment I step onto the sidewalk.
I ignore it.
At least, I try to.
By the time I reach campus, ignoring it feels impossible. Students cluster in groups, their energy buzzing low and sharp. I feel it before I hear it—the shift when I enter a space. Conversations dip. Laughter cuts short.
Someone snorts behind me.
I keep walking.
My phone vibrates again.
This time, I look.
A video link. Sent by an unknown number.
I hesitate for half a second before tapping it.
I shouldn’t.
I do anyway.
The clip is worse than the pictures.
It’s me, standing still at the gala, caught mid-breath. Someone slowed it down, zoomed in just enough to make my expression look intentional. Calculated. The comments scroll faster than I can read them.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Gold digger.
Public property.
That one has thousands of likes.
My vision blurs.
I lower the phone and keep walking, my body moving on instinct alone. A girl I recognize from my department stares openly as I pass. A boy I once worked on a group project with shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me personally.
I sit through class while phones glow under desks. I hear my name whispered like it’s a verdict. I become a thing to observe, not a person to speak to.
When the lecture ends, I don’t pack up slowly like usual.
I already know where I’m supposed to go.
The administrative office smells like polish and paper and quiet authority. I sit across from three people who won’t quite meet my eyes at the same time.
They speak gently.
That’s what makes it worse.
They talk about optics. About institutional values. About how unfortunate the timing is. About how my role as an archive assistant requires discretion and credibility.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say again.
They nod.
They say they understand.
Then they tell me I’m being let go.
Effective immediately.
I blink once. “My job?”
“Yes,” one of them says softly. “Given the circumstances, it’s in the school’s best interest.”
Another clears their throat. “You should also understand that this could have gone much further.”
“Further?” I repeat.
“Rustication was discussed,” he says. “You’re fortunate it didn’t proceed.”
Fortunate.
The word echoes hollowly.
I nod because that’s what people do when they’re being dismissed politely.
When I leave the office, my hands are shaking so badly I have to stop in the hallway and steady myself against the wall.
By the time the day ends, I’m exhausted in a way that sleep won’t touch.
Outside, the campus is thinning out. The sky has started to dim, streaked with orange and gray.
I’m halfway across the quad when the feeling hits me.
That prickle at the back of my neck.
That awareness that doesn’t belong to logic.
I slow.
The air feels heavier.
I turn slightly, scanning the crowd.
Someone is watching me.
I don’t know how I know—I just do.
The sensation crawls under my skin, sharp and unmistakable. My pulse spikes as my gaze sweeps over benches, pathways, the line of trees near the gate.
Nothing obvious.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
It deepens.
—
Malcolm
Malcolm Crane watches the screen with idle interest, one finger tapping lightly against the arm of his chair.
The footage loops.
Her face. Her stillness. The way the world has already decided who she is.
He smiles.
Not broadly. Not openly.
Just enough.
The scandal has spread beautifully. Faster than he expected, honestly. There’s something elegant about how easily people turn cruelty into entertainment. All it takes is the right spark.
Behind him, the city stretches in steel and glass, indifferent and powerful. His office is quiet, controlled. The kind of place where decisions are made without raising voices.
A knock sounds.
“Come in,” Malcolm says.
His assistant steps inside, efficient, composed. “Sir,” he says. “Should I begin?”
Malcolm doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Yes,” he says softly.
The assistant nods and leaves.
Malcolm leans back, satisfaction curling in his chest.
Reid Ashcroft will learn.
Everything he holds dear will burn.
—
The feeling follows me all the way to the bus stop.
When I finally turn my head, my heart in my throat, my eyes lock onto a figure standing just far enough away to blend into the crowd.
Watching.
And for the first time since this began, real fear settles into my bones.
Not because of what they’re saying.
But because of who is paying attention.
- Writer
