Page 107 of The Jack*ss in Class

“Oh hells yeah. Finally,” Parker said. “LA love story. Brilliant.”

I leaned forward to look at her screens. “Do you think we’re safe for now?”

“For tonight, at least,” she said, her expression turning serious again. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow might be a different story.”

But as I crawled into bed that night, my phone clutched in my hand, I had to swallow down the worry that despite Parker’s confidence, we were just delaying the inevitable.

The stares started the moment I stepped onto campus the first day after spring break. At first, I thought I was being paranoid. But three separate people in my lit crit class turned to look at me, then quickly back to their phones, whispering to each other.

Why couldn’t this be the day I had Shakespeare and marketing with Flynn?

“Tempest,” a voice called as I left class. I turned to find Bettie hurrying toward me, her expression grim. She grabbed my arm, pulling me into an empty classroom. “What the hell, Tempest?”

“What?” My heart hammered against my ribs.

She thrust her phone at me. The screen displayed The Dracarys, our campus news blog. The headline made my blood freeze:

STUDENT AUTHOR UNMASKED:

IS KAT SISTER TEMPEST NAVARRO ACTUALLY BEST-SELLING ROMANCE NOVELIST MIRANDA MILAN?

The article laid out the evidence with damning precision. They knew I’d gone to LA for spring break, which coincided with Miranda Milan’s known trip to LA. It talked about how I was a lit major, and that my father was the long time DSU Shakespeare professor, which drew parallels to Shakespeare’s influence on Milan’s books. But most damning, they said they had an insider source who’d seen me in meetings at the FlixNChill offices.

“Is it true?” Bettie asked, her eyes wide.

“I—” The denial died on my lips. I couldn’t lie to her face.

Bettie’s gasp confirmed what I already knew, my non-denial was confirmation enough. “Oh my god, it is true. Tempest, why didn’t you tell us? We’re your sisters, your friends, your donkey sitters, and boyfriend sneaker-inners.”

“I couldn’t tell anyone,” I said, my voice barely audible. “My family?—”

The classroom door burst open. Two students I barely recognized entered, phones already raised.

“OMG. You’re Tempest Navarro?” one called out. “Are you seriously Miranda Milan?”

Bettie stepped between us, pulling up the full force of her sorority president gravitas. “Not now,” she snapped. “Back off.”

But the damage was done. I could practically see the confirmation spreading across campus as I stood there, frozen in place. My secret, the one I’d guarded so carefully for years, was unraveling in real time.

“I have to go,” I whispered to Bettie. “I need to?—”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Then again. Andagain. A glance at the screen showed a barrage of notifications, texts, calls, social media alerts. But the ones that made my stomach drop were from my family group chat.

Catalina: Tempest, why is there a reporter outside my boutique asking about my romance novelist sister?

Ophelia: Wait, what?

Freddie: OMG IS THIS REAL??

And then the one that sent ice through my veins:

Mamá: We need to discuss this. I’ll be calling tonight. Nonnegotiable.

I stumbled out of the classroom, barely registering Bettie calling after me. My carefully constructed world was collapsing around me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

By the time I reached the sorority house, Parker was waiting at the front door, her expression a mixture of panic and excitement.

“The house phone has been ringing nonstop,” she said, pulling me inside. “Three different local news outlets, the campus paper, and I think someone from a publishing news website. Shit is going down.”

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