Chapter 2Rewrite My Death Night

Madison’s talent wasn't just being pretty; it was her ability to package her own greed as a communal struggle for "freedom."

She posted a long paragraph in the group chat after I left. One of my few friends, a girl named Sophie, sent me the screenshot.

"I know some people think this party is 'shady,'" Madison wrote. "But we’ve graduated. We’re adults. Are we really going to live our lives based on what other people think? This isn't for me. It’s for all of us. I want us to remember this summer forever."

She had successfully cast herself as the revolutionary, and me as the oppressive regime.

"Ignore her, Madi," someone replied. "She’s been a control freak since freshman year."

"Audrey, if you’re not coming, fine. Just don't ruin it for the rest of us."

Then, Jackson called. I hit speaker and started a voice recording on my laptop.

"Audrey, what the hell is wrong with you?" his voice boomed. "You used to be cool."

"What was I, exactly?" I asked calmly.

"You cared about the class! You looked out for people."

"I am looking out for someone," I said. "Myself."

Jackson went quiet for a moment, caught off guard. Then he lowered his voice, trying a different tactic. "Madison is under a lot of pressure, okay? Her parents are strict, and she just wanted one night to go wild before college. Why do you have to target her?"

"How am I targeting her?" I asked. "By saying no?"

"By making her look bad! It’s disrespectful."

"Her ego isn't my responsibility, Jackson."

He let out a frustrated growl. "Audrey, stop being so stuck-up. Everyone is going. You’re going to be the only one left out. Do you really want that?"

"Did you know there are two seventeen-year-olds on that list?" I asked.

Silence. Then, dismissively: "So? It’s a few months. It's not like we're doing anything illegal."

"Then why is it called an 'Adults-Only' party? Why are there mystery boxes? Why is there a private livestream link?"

Jackson’s voice turned sharp. "Stop making it sound so dirty. It’s just a game. Madison said there’s a 'hype crew' and some big donors who want to support the stream. It’s just a party."

Because I wasn't fighting him, he kept talking. He was digging his own grave and Madison’s right along with it.

"Why would 'big donors' give money to a bunch of high school grads?" I asked softly.

"They like the energy! People with money spend it on weirder things. It’s just a way to fund the booze and the venue."

"And after they spend the money? What do they get?"

"Why do you care so much?" he snapped.

I looked at the sound waves on my laptop. "Jackson, are you sure tonight is safe?"

"I’m sure," he said. "If anything happens, I’ll take the heat. I promise."

"Good," I whispered. "I’ll remember that."

I hung up and backed up the recording. Madison posted a final update in the chat:

8:00 PM. The Apex Lounge, Penthouse A. $100 per person. Covers drinks, 'party favors,' and the stream access code. Bring your IDs. We have to verify everyone is 'adult' at the door.

I stared at the word verify.

Someone asked: What if I’m not eighteen yet?

Madison’s reply was instant: Don’t ask that here. I’ll handle it at the door. She added a wink emoji.

I screenshotted it. Seconds later, she deleted the message.

Too late.

I sent her a DM: Remove my name from the list. And tell the underage kids to stay home.

She replied within seconds: Audrey, did you screen-record the chat?

Why are you nervous, Madison?

The 'typing' bubble appeared and disappeared for a full minute. Finally: I just want everyone to be happy.

I didn't bother responding. People who want others to be happy don't sell their classmates to a livestream of 'big donors.' They don't use a girl’s graduation photo to promote a "Quiet Class President" reveal.

I checked her Instagram. She’d posted a story: Entering the adult world with the whole class.

In the corner of the collage was my school ID photo. Below it, the text: The Ice Queen is coming out to play tonight.

The comments were already turning toxic.

"I always knew the quiet ones were the wildest."

"Can't wait for the stream."

"How much for the private room access?"

My hands shook, but not with fear. With rage. In my last life, I died thinking I was the problem. Now I saw the truth. They didn't want me there as a friend. They wanted me as a commodity.

I saved everything—the story, the comments, the QR code for the stream. Then, I sent the final email to the precinct and the school board’s ethics committee.

"I am reporting an organized event involving minors, non-consensual use of likeness for adult entertainment purposes, and illegal gambling/livestreaming. I have attached all records."

I hit send.