Mr. Charter introduces the candidates one by one. Angela and her campaign captain, Miranda, go first, so there's a moment before we slip through the curtain where Chase lowers his head, dropping his voice so only I can hear.

"You asked why I'm doing this," he says. "The truth is, I got bored of you, Rose, and my parents wanted my sister to run. That's why I let Adam have you."

My eyes flick to Blake, who turns just as Chase pulls away. There isn't time to say anything else, no time to process the words Chase had whispered in my ear because Mr. Charter is calling our name. I walk through the curtain toward the blinding light and try not to stumble.

Let Adam have you. Is Chase saying he knew what Adam intended when he found me in the woods? That my own boyfriend was willing to pass me along to his friend like I was some toy he'd finished playing with? The optimist in me refuses to believe anyone could be so cruel – that he's lying to unravel me before the debate – but now I feel sick to my stomach.

I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The room spins, and the murmurs from the unsettled crowd roar in my ears. When beads of sweat start to pool on my forehead, I know I'm in trouble.

Blake must notice something is wrong and guides me to my seat. Through the corner of his mouth, he says, "Are you all right?"

I somehow nod as the six of us take our seats on the panel: Angela, Miranda, me, Blake, Chase, and Libby. It scares me to death to have Blake and Chase sit beside each other. What awful things might Chase start whispering mid-debate?

God, how could I have been so blind? Not just to Chase's true nature, but all of it. I used to think teachers liked me, and students smiled at me because I was hard-working, but I was wrong. My good reputation didn't come from hard work but from having the Mayor as my mother and Chase as my boyfriend. I didn't earn it – I was given it – and just like that, Chase took it back.

As Mr. Charter introduces this part of the campaign, I sip at the glass of water in front of me and readjust the microphone. I want to cry – not just a movie-style, single tear kind of cry, but outright sob. Until now, I've clung to the idea that maybe after this is over – if I win – I'll go back to being Rose Matthews. But now I realize there is no Rose Matthews to go back to.

Determined to focus on anything else, I take a moment to look around the auditorium. Now that we're closer to the final leg, the place is kitted out in red, white, and blue streamers. Pictures of our faces hang on the far wall, laid bare for the students at Archbury High. It's only now that I notice somebody has defaced my picture with a black mustache.

Now I really want to cry. I stare into the crowd of faces, unable to pick out a single familiar one. The blinding lights make the bodies below the stage appear like faceless white lights. I squint and squint, hoping to find Liv, Freddie, or even Kenny somewhere in the crowd, but there's nothing.

The familiar burn of tears press my eyes. I blink them back, folding my hands on my lap beneath the table. It's one of those hardwood tables with a long blue cloth that drapes to the floor, so when Blake reaches over and grabs my hand, no one can see.

I don't glance over, but as Mr. Charter calls Libby to speak her introduction, I squeeze his hand as if my life depends on it. My eyes fall to the notes in front of me, trying to make sense of them, but I'm so hot and flustered that the words seem to shift and pulsate off the page, rearranging into nothingness.

I let Adam have you. Even though I know I shouldn't, I feel dirty and worthless, and for what? So that his sister could impress their overbearing parents? That's what my life was ruined for?

"Good morning, everyone," Libby says brightly. "I'm Libby Ridgerton, running for senior class president." Her voice is like crystallized honey, silky and warm but not overbearing – approachable. "As a student council member for the last few years, I'm here to reassure you that I have the experience, confidence, and determination to help you achieve the future you deserve. We take how much trust we put into our future class presidents for granted. We assume the people you see sitting here are upstanding candidates, the kind you can trust to lead you through your most challenging year of high school. Unfortunately, this year, candidates on this panel have shown poor judgment and a lack of morals in their personal life, qualities unbecoming of your future class president." She stops to briefly search the crowd as my heart drops through my stomach. "Some of you may be aware of who I'm talking about, and some of you won't, but in the interest of transparency, I believe you all deserve to know what kind of candidate you're voting for."

My heart pounds.

Blake grabs my mic and pulls it toward him. "Objection, speculation."

Mr. Charter, who sits in the corner of the stage at his own little booth, says into his microphone, "Mr. O'Hare, this is not a courtroom, and you're not permitted to speak. Please refrain from doing so again. Miss Ridgerton, as outlined in your presidency packet, I'd advise you to avoid personal topics and focus on your rivals' campaigns." He says rivals like there's more than one, but Angela Reynolds might as well not be here. Libby's attack is for me alone.

Libby looks over, all innocent, and nods. My skin prickles under the heat of the fluorescent lights. If there were ever a time I wanted the ground to swallow me whole, it is now. Blake's hand grabs mine harder, his palm warm and solid in mine. Under any other circumstance, this gesture would be enough to calm me instantly, but not this time.

"You might not know this," Libby says, "but up until now, I've been working tirelessly behind the scenes to pave a better future for us here at Archbury High, and now I'm ready to step out of the shadows and make this school great. Not just this school, but your future. In years to come, what you did today in this school will seem like a lifetime ago, but your decisions right now matter. They're what lay the groundwork for a bright future ahead, and I promise to be there every step of the way to help you navigate those steps. If that's what you're looking for in your future class president, vote for me. If you want someone so disingenuous that they had to pay their campaign captain to help them, vote for Rose Matthews."

The auditorium is so silent you could hear a pin drop. After a moment or two, once Libby's revelation sinks in, her introduction meets applause that thunders through the auditorium. She smiles brightly, lapping it up, and it takes all I have not to leap across this table and tackle her. There it is, the thing Chase had hidden up his sleeve. Somehow, he'd found out about my arrangement with Blake, and now everyone knows how pathetic I am.

I shake my head as if the action will stop this from happening. How could Chase have known? The only people who knew about the arrangement were Blake and his friends, but Chase somehow uncovered yet more information to sabotage my campaign.

My throat burns as I turn to Blake, but nothing about his cool expression gives anything anyway. I want to believe that he's incapable of doing this, but once is a coincidence: twice is suspicious.

Mr. Charter clears his throat until the hall falls quiet. "Thank you, Miss Ridgerton. Our next candidate is Angela Reynolds."

Angela, who looks a little bewildered by everything going on, forces a smile and readjusts her microphone. "My name is Angela Reynolds," she starts, "and I'm here to fight for our rights to a healthy, well-being-focused curriculum."

The rest of her introduction pales to the sound of my heartbeat. That's it; game over. Even with Blake's help to make me more approachable, I can't deny or minimize the fact that I did have to pay him, and what kind of student will vote for someone who uses their money to get to the top? Everything I've worked for, everything I've wanted, is over. Done.

I've failed.

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