I wake to find Chelsea already gone. A white pushup bra is draped over one of her unpacked bags.

I pull back the sheer curtain to allow the sun’s glow to enter. On my way to the bathroom, I eye the letters. Some are still scattered on the couch the way we left them last night. Goosebumps scatter across my skin as I remember the erotic words shared between the two lovers.

I complete my morning routine of brushing my teeth, taking a cold shower to wake me up, and detangling my hair, then get dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. All the while I force myself not to think about the letters.

After unpacking the rest of my stuff and putting everything in its place, a mix of ’80s hits blaring in the background, I gather up the letters to tie them with their ribbon. Big mistake. The desire to read one more is stronger than my guilt over invading someone else’s privacy any further. I pull out one of the letters, but then my phone rings.

I know it’s my mother again, so I don’t pick up. I’ve even stopped reading her texts. After the way we left things when I moved away from Boston, there’s nothing left to say to each other. We always had a strained relationship, but the fight we had before we parted set a new record.

The moment I stepped out the door with my packed suitcases, she shouted at me, “You’re making a huge mistake! Your looks won’t last forever, you know. If you let them fade, you’ll be left with nothing.”

“See, Mom,” I’d retorted as I walked toward the waiting taxi. “That’s exactly why I’m choosing to do something else with my life. I don’t want to bank on my looks forever.” I left without saying anything more—without a goodbye. It hurts that it had to come to this, but some relationships are so damaged they don’t stand a chance at repair.

The biggest mistake would be changing my mind and modeling again. Dad died last year, but he would have been proud of me for choosing another path. When he was lying in bed, the cancer eating away at him, he asked me for a promise. With tears in his periwinkle eyes—the same shade of blue as mine—he begged me to get out from under my mother’s control and go live my own dreams.

My mother had once dreamed of growing up to become an international top model, but that dream died when she became a mom. She never said it outright, but I always felt she wanted me to repay her for what she had lost by having me. She wanted me to live her dreams.

Those last few words with my father prompted my application to design schools all over the country. Oaklow University offered me a full scholarship, and a way out. I didn’t hesitate to accept. The last thing I want is to end up like my mother, grieving for her youth. With her bottle-blonde hair, over-stretched face from too much plastic surgery, fake boobs, and a wardrobe more suited to a twenty-year-old, she’s definitely not my kind of role model. And I’m not her personal cash cow.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say to the now silent phone. “There’s no way in hell I’m going back to being just a pretty face.”

After almost two hours in an interior design studio lecture, I grab a mango smoothie from the cafeteria and take it with me to one of the study halls. My plan is to complete some sketches for a group project.

I choose an isolated corner at the far end of the hall, separated from the rest of the room by two royal blue plush chairs and a white bean-shaped acrylic table. I want to be as far as possible from the door. It’s not that I’m afraid the other students will disturb me; I just don’t want people staring at me every time they step into the hall.

Word about me and my modeling career has already spread through campus like wildfire, with students wondering, sometimes out loud, if I’m the girl who ran away from the limelight. Even worse, I don’t have many friends; most guys want to date me, and the girls feel intimidated. I can’t wait for the day everyone sees me as one of them. I ache for a normal life.

I groan when someone calls my name. Not Milton, please. But of course it is.

“Hey, Ivy.” He drops, uninvited, into an empty chair at my table. He reeks of hair gel and too much aftershave.

“I hope you don’t mind a little company.” His perpetual smirk rubs me the wrong way.

I pick up my smoothie. “Actually, I do. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Milton Weiss is nineteen, and one of the first people I saw when I arrived on campus. He gawked at me for ages before removing his faded navy cap and shoving it into his pocket. He proceeded to wrestle my luggage from me, insisting on carrying it to my room; he never gave me a chance to say no. Since then, he’s made it clear he’s interested. But I feel nothing for him, not even a flutter.

To be fair, although he’s a bit too skinny for my liking, and his skate punk style and spiky medium-brown hair aren’t my cup of tea, he doesn’t look half bad. He has the deepest gray eyes I’ve ever seen, and perfect teeth. Unfortunately you can’t force your heart to like someone. And younger guys are not my thing.

He studies me for a moment while I try not to squirm under his gaze. I continue sipping my smoothie, watching him watching me.

“You look nice,” he says finally. “I like what you did with your hair.”

My hand instinctively goes to my head and I run a hand down my side braid. My mother used to say my waist-length hair was my best feature, my money maker. It was one of the reasons she made sure to get me into as many hair product commercials as she could. They were a nightmare. Flinging my hair from side to side for long stretches of time left my neck aching and my heart shriveled.

My mother used to throw a fit each time I chose not to wear my hair down. “You never know who you might bump into,” she said. “Always walk out of the house with perfect hair and makeup. Treat the street like your personal catwalk, Ivy.”

“Thanks, Milton.” I say now, picking up a pencil.

Now please get the message and leave me alone.

“Of course, you’d look even hotter with a splash of color.” He eyes my black t-shirt and purses his lips. “You wear way too much black.”

“Black is also a color, Milton.” I can’t help smiling. “As an interior design student, you should know that.”

“I agree.” He smirks. “Got me. But tell me, did the other colors offend you in some way?”

“I wear what I feel comfortable in.” I push my smoothie aside and start drawing parallel lines on my paper.

“Have dinner with me.” His voice is lower. “I want to give you a little time to get to know me.”

“Really? How about getting to know me?” God, he’s so full of himself.

“I’ve known you for years, baby.” That smirk again.

My stomach clenches. “The person you saw in magazines is not me.”

“Well then, give me a chance to meet the real you. How about dinner at eight?”

“I already have plans with my roommate.”

“I’m sure Chelsea wouldn’t stand in the way of love.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I laugh, because what else can I do? “Milton, I’m honored that you want to spend time with me, but I’m busy right now.”

“Are you on the youth center design team?”

“Yep. We’re meeting in an hour. That’s why you have to leave. So I can get to work.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” He stands, but plants his hands on the table. His face is almost level with mine, his eyes holding me in place. “I won’t give up, you know. I like you. I know you think I’m only interested in… Anyway, I’m not that type of guy. Trust me. You’ll never know how good we’d be together unless you give it a chance.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yes, baby. I’m crazy for you.” He flings his backpack over his shoulder, winks at me, and swaggers off.

I don’t want a guy like Milton. I want real love—like the love I experienced secondhand through the letters under my mattress. I want a guy to write those words for me, someone who can touch me without even being there. Someone I can’t stop thinking about.

As soon as my group meeting is over, I rush back to my room. It’s 5:15 p.m. and Chelsea still isn’t back. After a moment of trying to resist, I read one more letter. I’m helpless: the words draw me like a magnet.

Baby,

There are so many reasons why I love you. But mostly I love how your eyes change shades when you come for me, the way your muscles clench around my dick, so tight I fear you’ll break me. How you wrap your silky legs around my waist when I dive into you.

I jump when the door opens. Chelsea is standing there, her face unusually pale.

My heart is still racing, the warmth between my legs impossible to ignore. Holding myself together, I try to calm my breath, to stop it from bursting in and out of my mouth. Maybe she won’t notice how disheveled I am.

“Ivy, you have to stop reading those.” There’s a hardness in her voice I’ve never heard before. Her eyes are a darker shade of brown, filled with something I can’t decipher.

“Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Chelsea flings her leather tote bag onto her unmade bed and sinks into the chair at her desk. “Remember when I said the letters are public property? Well, I’ve changed my mind. I think we should get rid of them.”

“What changed? Did you find something out?” My heart sinks. A part of me wants to keep them, as though they’re mine now. I’m well aware of how sick that is.

“You won’t believe this.” She tucks her hands between her knees. “The guy who wrote those letters is a man by the name of Judson Devereux… Professor Judson Devereux, as a matter of fact. He used to be an art history professor here at Oaklow. Guess who one of his students was.”

“Jennifer? You’re kidding.” I’ve been turned on by words written by a professor?

I swallow hard, praying Chelsea doesn’t see the shock on my face. “Okay?” There has to be more—she looks like she’s seen a ghost. “So we return them to the professor. Or Jennifer. No big deal.”

“No. I think we should get rid of them. We can’t contact Professor Devereux or Jennifer.” She gulps in a huge breath of air. “Ivy, Professor Devereux is a murderer.”