Chapter 6
Liam stepped forward, trying to sound like the class president instead of a teenager with alcohol on his breath.
“Relax,” he said, forcing a smile. “We’re not trying to cause trouble. How much is it?”
The man gestured toward the screen.
“Sixty-eight thousand, eight hundred.”
The number hit them like a slap.
“That’s insane!”
“That’s a scam!”
The man’s smile vanished.
“You think I’m scamming you?” he said calmly. “You’ve been ordering premium bottles all night. You’ve been loud. You’ve been acting like this place belongs to you.”
Khloe’s face was pale now. She clung to Liam’s arm like he could hold her upright.
“Call my driver,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Call someone. Anyone.”
But she didn’t have a driver.
And she didn’t have anyone.
Not really.
The moment the class realized that, the mood changed.
No more laughter.
No more chanting.
No more Khloe the Queen.
Just a room full of terrified teenagers realizing they had bet their futures on a lie.
Then someone shoved the wrong person.
Drunk, panicked, stupid.
The man’s head turned slightly.
And behind him, a couple of security guys moved.
It didn’t become a full riot.
Not like in the movies.
It was worse than that—fast, messy, confused. People yelling. People trying to leave. Doors that didn’t open the way they expected. Shoes slipping on spilled drinks.
And above it all, Khloe’s voice, sharp and trembling.
“Call Luna,” she snapped, desperation ripping through her. “Call her right now.”
Liam fumbled for his phone, still trying to keep his pride from cracking.
He called.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Khloe’s nails dug into his arm.
“She’s doing this,” Khloe hissed, eyes wild. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
Liam’s face darkened, anger turning fear into something he could recognize.
“Of course,” he muttered.
Because blaming me was easier than admitting he had been stupid enough to follow Khloe.
An hour later, in my house, I slid a new SIM into a cheap backup phone my dad had given me just in case and logged into the class group chat.
The moment I appeared online, messages poured in like a flood.
Where are you?
Answer the phone.
Luna, this is your fault.
Khloe, you’re doing this on purpose.
I deleted the last one without reading it twice.
Then a new video popped into the parents’ group chat.
A shaky clip.
Harsh lights.
A familiar face on a stretcher.
The background unmistakably hospital.
A mother’s voice sobbed over the recording.
“My child was supposed to be studying. Why is he in the ER? Why were they at a nightclub?”
The chat exploded.
Teachers started calling.
Parents started showing up at the hospital.
And like a domino chain, every lie collapsed into the next until the whole class was standing under fluorescent lights, bruised and shaking, while adults shouted questions no one could answer.
When my homeroom teacher called me, her voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
“Luna,” she said, “please come to the hospital with your parents. We need to ask you some questions.”
I glanced at my dad.
He already looked like he had decided we were going.
“Okay,” I said softly. “We’re on our way.”