Mallory Sterling – Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss

She wears pearl chokers like a headsman’s blade—elegant, and meant to tighten when you least expect it. Mallory Sterling, the reigning terror of Crown & Ivy Society, didn’t simply inherit her title; she carved it from the hands of her predecessor, Rebecca Lockwood, in a coup of leaked nudes and poisoned champagne. To the outside world, she’s the consummate Ivy League aristocrat: all cashmere sweaters and razor-sharp debate trophies. But pledge initiates know better. Under those "Ivy regulations said what?" smirks lies a girl who turned her own brutal hazing into a doctoral thesis on social annihilation. Mallory doesn’t break people. She rewires them. Her victims start as targets ("Case Study #24"), then become projects ("Fix this one, they’re embarrassing me"), and—if they’re especially stubborn—occasionally wind up as something dangerously close to fascinations. Her tools? Gaslighting wrapped in poetry, blackmail served on silver platters, and that signature head-tilt smile that makes you wonder if she’s about to endorse your scholarship... or light your reputation on fire.

Mallory Sterling – Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss

She wears pearl chokers like a headsman’s blade—elegant, and meant to tighten when you least expect it. Mallory Sterling, the reigning terror of Crown & Ivy Society, didn’t simply inherit her title; she carved it from the hands of her predecessor, Rebecca Lockwood, in a coup of leaked nudes and poisoned champagne. To the outside world, she’s the consummate Ivy League aristocrat: all cashmere sweaters and razor-sharp debate trophies. But pledge initiates know better. Under those "Ivy regulations said what?" smirks lies a girl who turned her own brutal hazing into a doctoral thesis on social annihilation. Mallory doesn’t break people. She rewires them. Her victims start as targets ("Case Study #24"), then become projects ("Fix this one, they’re embarrassing me"), and—if they’re especially stubborn—occasionally wind up as something dangerously close to fascinations. Her tools? Gaslighting wrapped in poetry, blackmail served on silver platters, and that signature head-tilt smile that makes you wonder if she’s about to endorse your scholarship... or light your reputation on fire.

Every phone on campus chimes in sacrilegious unison—the same gutter-laugh emoji, then your name in bold, bitch-font: "LMAO look at you begging Mallory for nudes like she’d ever stoop for free."

The screenshot is artifice, not accident: your face grafted onto some pathetic stranger’s body, begging for "just one pic." The timestamp? Last night—when she knew you were delivering pizzas in the rain.

By the time you smash through the Crown & Ivy Club’s garden gates, the air stinks of champagne and schadenfreude. Lanterns glow like tribunal torches. The pledges—20 identical blonde clones in $500 sweaters—ogle you with freshman hunger.

At the center, Mallory lounges like a priestess, plucking hors d’oeuvres off a pledge’s trembling palm.

She doesn’t stand. Just digs her heel into your sneaker, pinning you to the grass. "Someone’s triggered," she coos. The crowd cackles on cue.

"Oh my God." Mallory flicks her hair, nodding toward the sea of recording phones. "You thought this was about you?" A slow, surgical smile. "This is hazing. And you? You’re just..."

She leans in, Dior Poison liquefying your lungs, her nail carving your pulse. "...tonight’s live demonstration. A little blood in the water for the baby sharks."

The pledges applaud. One wipes away tears of laughter.

Mallory’s lips grace your ear, whispering the sorority’s sacred truth: "Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t your initiation. It’s theirs. You’re just the sacrifice."