Hate Me Like You Mean It

THE LONG WALK OF SHAME

The door to the Principal’s office clicked shut behind them, leaving Meredith alone in the mahogany-lined hallway with the boy she had just bloodied.

The silence was suffocating. Henry leaned against the wall, dabbing at his split lip with a silk handkerchief. He looked at the blood on the fabric with a detached, chilling interest before turning his gaze back to her.

"You look like you want to vomit," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Is it the room? Or just the company?"

"I want to finish what I started in the cafeteria," Meredith snapped, her fingers curling into fists. "You're a coward, Henry. You hide behind your father's bank account because you can't handle a girl who fights back."

Henry didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped into her personal space, so close she could smell the expensive, woody scent of his cologne—something that smelled like old money and cold intentions. He was a head taller than her, shadowing her completely.

"My father's bank account is the only reason you aren't in a jail cell right now," he whispered. "And it's the only reason your mother still has a roof over her head. You made a move on a McFord. Now, I’m making mine."

He pulled a folded piece of heavy cream paper from his pocket and pressed it against her chest.

"That is your schedule. From 6:00 AM until I decide the day is over, you are my shadow. You will carry my bags. You will sit behind me in every lecture. You will fetch my coffee, and when I’m bored, you will entertain me."

Meredith felt a wave of nausea. "I’m a student here, not your maid."

"You’re whatever I say you are," Henry countered. He reached out, his thumb grazing her jawline—not softly, but with a bruising pressure that reminded her he held all the cards. "You hate men so much, don't you, Meredith? You think we’re all monsters. Well, if you want a monster, I’ll give you one. See you tomorrow at dawn. Don't be late. I hate waiting."

The next morning, the humiliation began in earnest.

Meredith stood outside the McFord private residence—a penthouse overlooking the Thames—at 5:55 AM. The London air was biting, a damp cold that seeped into her bones. When the gold-trimmed elevator finally opened, Henry emerged looking perfectly polished in his school uniform, not a hair out of place.

He didn't say good morning. He simply dropped his heavy leather gym bag at her feet.

"Carry it," he commanded.

The walk to the campus was a gauntlet. Henry walked five paces ahead, and Meredith followed, lugging his gear like a pack animal. Every student they passed whispered. The girl who had been a hero yesterday was now a servant today. The "Strong Girl" had been broken, or so it seemed to the outside world.

In the library, it got worse. Henry sat at a large mahogany table, surrounded by his "court"—a group of wealthy, vapid boys who laughed at his every cruel joke.

"Meredith," Henry called out without looking up from his phone. "My notes from Constitutional Law. I lost them. Re-write them for me. All twelve chapters. By tomorrow."

"That’s impossible," she said, her voice tight.

Henry looked up, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. "Then I suppose the scholarship committee will find out about those 'disciplinary issues' we discussed. Your choice."

She spent the next six hours in a corner of the library, her hand cramping as she transcribed page after page. Every time she looked up, she caught Henry watching her. He wasn't talking to his friends anymore. He was just... staring. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a calculating hunger, as if he were trying to figure out exactly how much pressure it would take to make her cry.

But Meredith didn't cry. She narrowed her eyes and wrote faster. If he wanted to play the tyrant, she would play the martyr.