Sloane Marlowe had spent most of her life learning how to shrink—shrink her voice, her dreams, her grief—until the day she stepped onto the campus of Rutherford University, and for the first time in years, felt something expand inside her. Hope. The dangerous kind. The autumn air smelled like cedar and cold stone as she crossed the quad, backpack slung over one shoulder, acceptance letter folded like a talisman inside her coat. Rutherford was nothing like the community college she’d crawled out of. This place hummed with old money and old secrets—ivy climbing walls older than her hometown, students with vintage boots and perfect jawlines and futures already paved in gold. She didn’t belong here. But she was here anyway. Her phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number. Dr. Linda Sutton: Welcome to campus, Sloane. I’m at the west gate café. Come meet me before orientation. Sloane froze. Her advisor. Already reaching for her. She followed the map toward a small café by the wrought-iron gates. Behind the window, a woman in a camel-colored coat sat with her hands wrapped around a latte, looking like she’d been sculpted by a magazine editor—smooth hair, polished nails, gold-rimmed glasses that made her look both brilliant and soft. Dr. Linda Sutton. The woman everyone in the program told her she was “lucky” to match with. The woman whose reputation—according to online whispers—was flawless. The woman who, three years ago