Hey, this isn't "All Those Years of Desolation." Don't worry, that story is very much still in progress and won't be given up on! But as the first season of "The Perfectionists" wound down, I found myself imagining how Viola would fit into this world, and here we are!

For those who don't know, Viola is a character my brain thought up several years ago. She's Mona's younger sister, and this will be the third story I've written that features her. So as a warning right off the bat, if you're not into OCs, this may not be the story for you. Otherwise, to clarify, this story takes place in the same universe as "Sister, Sister," but not "In Death We Do Part." You absolutely don't need to read all 71 chapters of the former to understand this, but I would recommend skimming over the first and last few chapters to get a sense of who Viola is.

All in all, it's been quite a while since I've written for Viola and I have no idea how this story is going to go over here. It's frustrating for me to format my writing to work for this site, so please drop me a review and let me know what you think, so I know if I should keep posting!

Chapter 1

In Rosewood, appearance is everything.

In Beacon Heights, it can be deceiving.

I feel eyes flitting up from laptops and tablets to glance my way as I enter the student union. It's the first day of undergraduate classes, but my courses have been in session for two weeks. Despite the fact that I'm running on four hours of sleep and haven't had a single cup of coffee yet, my makeup is flawless, my hair is sleek and shiny, and I'm wearing heels even though it's barely seven o'clock on a Monday morning.

To the wide-eyed freshmen gathered in nervous clusters around the room, I must look like the quintessential Beacon Heights University graduate student. Polished, confident, put-together. Perfect.

But it's like I said: Looks can be deceiving.

"Hey, Scott," I say to the junior who runs the Starbucks-affiliated coffee counter almost every morning.

"The usual, Viola?"

"Venti blonde doubleshot on ice," I confirm, impressed that he remembers after an entire summer, then add as he turns to grab a fresh cup, "Ready for the new year?"

"My shift doesn't end until nine," he says over his shoulder. "I'm gonna have to sprint to make it to my first class on time."

I shake my head in awe as he hands me my drink. "I forgot over the summer how impressive you guys are. I can't imagine going to undergrad at a school like this."

"Hey, you're up just as early as I am," Scott says with a grin, taking my money. He has a point, so I just shrug in response, drop my change into the tip jar, and step aside so a group of girls who are whispering frantically about the syllabus for their Russian History class can order. As I pass them, they shoot me looks of admiration, which I do my best to ignore.

My position at Beacon Heights University is meaningful. Getting into an undergraduate program is challenging. Getting into a graduate program is nearly impossible. People find out that I'm studying here, and I can see their eyes widen. They think that I must be the best of the best. The cream of the crop.

What they don't know is that I missed two months of my junior year of high school because I was trapped in an underground bunker, that my record is longer than my resume.

They don't know that the only reason I'm here in the first place is because my older sister pulled some strings.

The familiar tight feeling of shame rises in my throat as I grab a straw from the stand beside the coffee counter. Your grades are good. Your professors like you. You deserve to be here, I remind myself, like a mantra. Just because I didn't get in completely on my own merit doesn't mean I can't make up for it now.

I'm just sliding the straw into my cup when a hand lands heavily on my shoulder. "Mona," says a somewhat aggressive, and extremely familiar voice.

If my cup of coffee wasn't sitting on the counter, it would have dropped out of my hand. I whip around and find myself staring directly into the eyes of someone I never thought I'd see again. My breath catches momentarily. "Alison?"

Alison DiLaurentis takes a step back. The irritation on her face immediately morphs into shock. "Viola?"

The question bursts out of both of us at once: "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a graduate student," I answer quickly, folding my arms instinctively across my chest. Even the sight of Alison puts me on the defensive, even after all these years. "Getting a Master's in clinical psychology."

She smiles, and I have to convince myself that it's not malicious. "Still in social work?"

"I'm taking a break," I say slowly, trying not to give too many details. "It's kind of hard to hold down a full time job at the same time as all of this." I gesture around the student union, which has begun filling up with students as the start time for classes draws closer.

"I'm a TA," Alison replies. "So I guess I kind of get the best of both worlds."

She laughs a little awkwardly, and I stare at her in disbelief, still processing. Out of all of the colleges in the world, she's here at the same one as me. Across the country from her wife and two daughters.

Needing it more than ever, I grab my coffee and take a large swig as she checks her watch. "Actually, I should go. The class I'm teaching starts in fifteen minutes." She turns, then stops herself, while I'm still too stunned to move. "Hey, have you seen Mona? She said she'd show me around campus this morning, but she never showed."

The question is enough to snap me out of my dumbfounded trance. "Wait. Mona knows you're here?" My head is spinning. Maybe the coffee wasn't such a good idea.

"She showed up at my house last night," Alison confirms. "Apparently it was her admissions system that chose me for this position."

How long has she known about this? And why the hell didn't she tell me? My hand tightens around the coffee cup so forcefully that it nearly splits open. I've known my sister long enough to feel certain that there's more to this story. "Interesting. Well, you shouldn't be late," I say through gritted teeth, employing every ounce of my self control to keep myself from bolting past her, or possibly breaking into hives. The words "see you later," are nearly out of my mouth before I realize that I'd rather not, actually.

So instead, I just let out a breath and storm past her and toward the doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I could almost swear I see Ali's mouth twitch into a smile.

…

Mona's office is on the other side of campus, at the end of the hallway on the third floor of the administration building. I take the stairs to try and work off some of my adrenaline, but it's not very effective – my hands are still shaking by the time I burst through the door without knocking.

My sister's sitting at her desk, checking her makeup in a little compact mirror. She immediately snaps it shut when I enter, then visibly relaxes when she realizes it's me. "Hey. I'm glad you stopped by early. I give it an hour before I'm flooded with kids demanding that I add three more credits to their schedule so they can have more than their roommate."

I cut her off with a withering look. "I didn't come by for a chat."

Mona's eyes focus on the coffee cup in my hand, and it's obvious that she didn't hear a word I said. Some things never change. "You didn't get one for me?"
"This wasn't a planned visit," I say dryly. "And even if it was, you don't deserve a free coffee." I sound like I'm fifteen years old again and arguing about a shirt stolen out of my closet, but I'm too unsettled to care.

"Maybe I don't want one after all," Mona says, raising an eyebrow at me then glancing down at her phone, "because obviously someone spit in yours."

I look at the cup in my hand, and feel the energy drain right out of me. Trying to fight with my sister sometimes feels like the Witty Comeback Olympics. And I just don't have it in me today. With a sigh, I set the coffee on her desk and sink into the chair across from it. "Take it." After a pause, I finally get to the point, adding, "Alison? Really?"

Mona freezes. She meets my gaze and sets her phone down carefully, facedown. "I didn't expect you to cross paths this quickly."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me Alison was coming here," I mutter, my voice hoarse. "That you picked her to be a TA."

"I didn't pick her," she argues, raising a finger. "Mrs. Hotchkiss did."

"Using your program!" I insist, not in the mood to play technicalities. "She told me you showed up at her house last night. You knew about this, and you kept it from me."

Mona rolls her eyes, and I'm reminded of her days as queen bee of Rosewood High School, before…everything. "Oh come on, Viola. You're making a big deal out of nothing. Ali's going to graduate school here, and she's TA'ing for Dr. Granger. I'm sure neither of us will have to cross paths with her. I went over there to catch up, for old times sake." I laugh incredulously – old times sake? – and she adds almost defensively, "Just out of curiosity."

There is not one bit of this that I believe. "You're telling me that out of every college in these fifty states, your high school enemy and the biggest pain in my ass just happened to apply to the same school that you work at and I attend?"

"High school was a long time ago. Stop wallowing in the past," my sister says sharply, then gives me a look. "And some might say that it's just as big of a coincidence that you just happened to choose BHU as your graduate."

My stomach twists. That's a sore spot, and she knows it. "That coincidence could get you in just as much trouble as it could me," I hiss.

Mona looks unfazed. "I'm just saying, stranger things have happened," she says cheerfully, before the corners of her mouth turn down in concern. "You're not going to spend the rest of the day stewing about Alison freaking DiLaurentis, are you?"

The question hits me harder than I would have expected. I spent most of middle and high school being controlled by Alison, whether it was trying to protect Mona from her bullying or convinced that she was the stalker who was ruining all of our lives. Her name was on my mind for far too many years, and even though we ended things on good terms when I left Rosewood for the last time, that can't erase all of the bad memories.

But Beacon Heights is a big school, and we're not even in the same graduate program. As long as Alison stays out of my way and lives up to the narrative she used to preach that she's changed, maybe sharing a campus with her won't be the end of the world.

I'm still burning with curiosity about her relationship, though. I make a mental note to check Emily's Facebook page when I get back to my apartment.

Mona clears her throat, snapping me out of my thoughts, and nods toward the door. I twist around and spot a half dozen students through the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the door, leaning against the wall, several of them clutching printed-out copies of the course catalog. "Duty calls."

"Fine, go advise," I say with a sigh, sliding back the chair and standing. "I'll try to stop strewing."

"Good." Mona smiles, then swipes a tissue from the box on the desk and carefully wipes my lipstick stain off of the rim of the coffee cup.

I let out a huff of disbelief. "Seriously? We were in the same womb."

"Not at the same time," she says primly, taking a sip, and waves me toward the door. I roll my eyes in resignation and push into the hallway, nearly sending a student with a bulging backpack who was leaning against it sprawling on the floor.

My walk back across campus is much more peaceful the second time. Until, that is, I happen to glance in the direction of Thorne Hall just in time to see Alison come storming out the front doors. Her head is held high, but even from afar, I can see the unsettled look on her face as she strides quickly away from the building.

Despite myself, I feel a twinge of satisfaction. Looks like her first class didn't go as well as she'd hoped. My apartment complex is on the edge of campus, just beyond Thorne, so I head toward it, turning my head to glance after Ali.

I haven't yet turned fully back around to face forward when someone clips my shoulder. I gasp and stumble, and my tote bag slips partly off of my arm. I catch it before my laptop crashes to the ground, but a few papers flutter out and onto the pavement.

I curse under my breath, because to do so loudly would not be looked kindly upon on Beacon Heights' pristine campus, and am just stooping to pick them up when another hand beats me to it.

I meet the gaze of the person I slammed into. He can't be older than an undergrad, and as I watch him scoop up my papers, taking in his strong build and prominent features, I feel the same wave of familiarity wash over me that I did when I first heard Alison's voice in the student union. I know who this person is, but I can't figure out how.

"Sorry about that," he says in the smooth voice of someone who knows he wasn't actually in the wrong.

He straightens up and hands me the papers, which I stuff back into my bag. "It's not your fault."

His gaze lingers on my hand. "That's a pretty sweet ring."

I stretch out my fingers to look at it. It's silver, with yellow vines twisted around the band toward the sapphire stone in the center. I've received plenty of compliments on it before, but not once from a man. "Thanks. It was a gift from my mother, when I finished my undergrad."

"Damn," he says with a shake of his head. "I wanted to know where you got it. My girlfriend would kill for that. I already got her a birthday gift, but hey, gotta keep my lady happy." He winks in a way that would be incredibly awkward if literally anyone else had done it.

"Sorry. I can't help you," I reply, then add, mostly because I want to keep him talking long enough to figure out why he seems so familiar, "So your girlfriend's into fashion?"

Something I can't identify flits across the boy's face. "See you around," he says casually, then strides away, giving me a light smack on the shoulder like we're old pals.

I walk the rest of the way to my apartment even more perplexed than I was before. Inside, I toss my bag on a chair. I may never find out who that eerily familiar boy was, but at least I can try and get the scoop on Alison's marriage.

I'm reaching for my laptop when my eyes are drawn, almost instinctively, to the coffee table in the center of the living room. Right on top of a small stack of research articles for a paper I'm working on is the most recent issue of At the Top. It's a local magazine featuring Beacon Heights' most rich and famous that started showing up at my doorstep as soon as I moved in, even though I never subscribed to it.

I usually toss it in the recycling bin after a few days of pretending that I might read it, but this time, I skim over the main headline.

ONE YEAR LATER: REMEMBERING TAYLOR HOTCHKISS.

A portrait of a young woman with blond hair and a slightly mysterious smile is plastered on the cover. Taylor Hotchkiss. The Hotchkiss family is the most powerful in Beacon Heights. They've donated so much money to this school that they basically own it, and Taylor's suicide, just six months before I moved here, is still whispered about. Aside from that, I know almost nothing about the untouchable Hotchkiss family.

In the lower left hand corner, part of Taylor's portrait is covered by a smaller image of a poised-looking woman and a college-aged boy. Hotchkiss dynasty lives on in face of tragedy, the caption reads.

My stomach flips. I hold the magazine closer to my face, taking in the sandy hair, athletic build, and charming – but slightly arrogant – smile on the face of the young man standing in a suit and holding some sort of trophy.

I let out an incredulous laugh, shaking my head at the photo. "Nice to meet you, Nolan Hotchkiss."