LIAM:
It was supposed to be just another afternoon hangout. The same leather booth at Montero's Pizza, the same laughter echoing around the table, the same forced smile on my face.
Beatrice sat beside me, her manicured fingers trailing the rim of her soda glass. Her two loyal shadows giggled over something on their phones, and my boys—Matteo, Lucas, Levi and Mason—were tossing pepperoni slices into each other's mouths like idiots.
Same crowd. Same energy.
Except it wasn't the same anymore.
Not for me.
Not when Zara's bracelet was tight around my wrist, reminding me of everything I was pretending not to feel.
I was halfway through a slice of pizza when Beatrice leaned in closer. Her perfume was strong—sweet and overbearing, like she was trying too hard to smell expensive.
"We've been thinking," she said, lips curved in that signature smirk she always wore when she was up to no good.
"Dangerous," I muttered.
Matteo laughed. Beatrice didn't.
"I'm serious," she said, brushing invisible lint from my sleeve like she had any right to touch me. "You know the prom court nominations are coming up next week, right?"
I nodded, already not liking where this was going.
"Well," she continued, "we want you to convince Zara to run for prom queen."
I paused, drink halfway to my lips. "What?"
Beatrice smiled wider, leaning her chin on her hand like this was all part of some innocent plan. "Think about it, Liam. It's perfect."
"Perfect for what?" I asked slowly, though I already knew the answer.
"To finish what we started."
Skye leaned forward, her lip gloss too shiny in the overhead light. "Imagine the drama. Zara, the sweet little outsider, finally accepted into the royal court. Everyone starts voting for her. She thinks she belongs."
Levi chimed in, "And then prom night comes… boom. Liam breaks up with her. Publicly. In front of everyone."
"And then," Beatrice finished, eyes glittering, "Liam and I are crowned king and queen. Full circle. The entire school sees it was all a joke."
The table erupted into laughter.
Except me.
I sat there, suddenly aware of how stiff my shoulders were, how tight my throat felt. I hadn't thought about the endgame in a while. I'd been too wrapped up in Zara—her laugh, her drawings, the way she looked at me like I was someone good.
Now all of it came rushing back. The plan. The cruelty. The lie I was still living.
"You're quiet," Beatrice said, nudging me with her shoulder.
I swallowed and forced a smile. "Just thinking."
"She'll say yes if you ask her," Levi added, popping a fry in his mouth. "She's obsessed with you."
My jaw clenched. "She's not obsessed."
"Oh come on, man," Drew laughed. "She's practically glued to your side. You've got her wrapped."
Beatrice tilted her head. "And that's exactly why you're the only one who can get her to do this. You ask her to run, she will. It'll be the perfect finale."
I looked down at the bracelet again.
Her initials were so small on the little silver charm. Barely noticeable. But to me, it was a boulder.
I could see her face already—the way her eyes would light up if I told her she should run. The way she'd hesitate, worried people would mock her. And then the way she'd soften when I told her I'd be there with her.
Because she trusted me.
God, she trusted me.
And yet, all I said was, "Yeah. I'll talk to her."
Beatrice beamed, and the rest of the group whooped like we'd scored a touchdown.
I wanted to be sick.
I sat there while they celebrated the next step in their plan, a plan I was supposed to lead.
But all I could think about was Zara's voice the last time we were alone. The way she had whispered, "Why are you acting like we're going to be so far apart?"
Because we were.
She just didn't know it yet.
And if I didn't do something soon, I was going to destroy the only person who'd ever made me feel like more than a mask.
********
I found her exactly where I knew she'd be — by the benches near the art wing, legs pulled up onto the seat, her sneakers a little scuffed, her sketchbook open across her lap like it was an extension of her body.
The sun caught the curve of her cheek. She was squinting slightly, her pencil dancing across the page, her tongue poking out just a little in concentration.
God, she was beautiful. And not the way Beatrice was — polished and curated for the world to see — but raw and unfiltered. Zara didn't try to be anything for anyone. She just was.
And I was about to lie to her again.
"Hey, trouble," I said, sliding onto the bench beside her.
She smiled at me, absentmindedly brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hey."
I watched her for a second, then nudged her knee with mine. "What are you working on?"
She flipped her sketchbook toward me. It was a rough drawing of the courtyard fountain — only her version had flowers growing out of the cracks, vines crawling up the stone.
"It's what this school would look like if it wasn't so fake," she said with a smirk.
I laughed. "So basically, a fairytale."
"Exactly."
We sat in silence for a moment before I cleared my throat. "Hey, um… so I was thinking. About prom."
Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Oh God. What about it?"
I scratched the back of my neck. "You ever think about running for prom queen?"
Her reaction was instant. She recoiled like I'd asked her to wear a ball gown to chemistry class.
"Me? Prom queen?" she snorted. "Liam, have you met me?"
I chuckled, trying to keep it casual. "Yeah, I've met you. That's kind of why I asked."
She shook her head, flipping her pencil between her fingers. "I don't do glittery crowns or slow dances. I can barely tolerate heels for more than five minutes. And makeup? I mean, Kaylee once tried to contour my cheekbones and I looked like I lost a fight with a bronzer stick."
I laughed. "Maybe you're just not giving yourself enough credit."
"I'm a tomboy, Hunter. Always have been."
I smiled at her using my last name. She only did that when she was playfully challenging me.
"And maybe that's exactly why you should run," I said gently. "You're different. Real. People notice that."
She eyed me skeptically. "People laugh at that."
"They used to," I said. "Not anymore."
Zara raised an eyebrow. "Why? Because I'm dating you now?"
Her voice wasn't accusatory. Just curious.
But still, it hit me like a slap.
Because yes. That was part of it. She was getting noticed now because she was with me. Because the plan was working. Because the lie was alive.
But I didn't let that show.
Instead, I reached for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. "Because you've got something none of them have. You're fearless."
She blinked. "You're serious about this."
"Dead serious."
She bit her lip, staring down at our hands. "And let's say I do this… what, I suddenly become someone I'm not? Wear a sparkly dress and pretend I don't hate standing in front of people?"
"No," I said quickly. "You do it your way. If you want to wear combat boots under your dress, do it. If you wanna campaign with spray paint art and memes, I'll print them for you. I'll help you."
She gave me a look. "You're really going all in on this."
I shrugged, forcing a grin. "Prom queen deserves a partner."
She rolled her eyes but her cheeks turned slightly pink.
"You think I could actually win?" she asked, quieter now.
My voice softened. "I think if people saw you the way I do… they'd vote for you without a second thought."
There it was.
Her face changed.
Her guard slipped, just slightly.
And God, I hated myself for how easy it was to say that. Because I wasn't lying — not about the way I saw her. But I was lying about everything else.
And the longer I kept up this charade, the more I realized I wasn't faking anything when I looked at her.
"I'll think about it," she finally said, her voice a mix of hesitation and curiosity. "But I'm not making any promises. And I swear if you make me wear a tiara—"
"Then I'll wear one too," I cut in.
She burst into laughter, and it was so bright and full that I almost forgot what this was all supposed to lead to.
Almost.
But not quite.
Because even as she laughed, even as she leaned against my shoulder and told me I was insane, the plan echoed in the back of my mind:
Convince her to run. Get her crowned. Break her heart on stage.
And I wasn't sure anymore which part scared me more:
The plan—
Or the fact that a part of me didn't want to follow through.
Not anymore