If I was going to step into Marcus Archibald’s world, I needed to look the part.
I wasn’t delusional—I knew that tonight wasn’t just about showing up at Tristan’s party.
It was about damage control. It was about rewriting the narrative of who I was in the eyes of his social circle—the basketball players, the cheerleaders, the people who had made my life a living hell.
Like it or not, I had to play the game. So I spent a few evenings searching for the perfect outfit. Something that said: I belong here. I’m not the loser you think I am.
After all, I have found it—a simple but elegant mint summer dress. The soft fabric hugged my chest, cinched at my waist, and draped over my hips in a way that was flattering without trying too hard.
I bought it in a moment of defiance – or maybe desperation – trying to prove something to myself as much as to them. The mirror had shown me curves instead of flaws, for once making me feel beautiful instead of broken.
The moment I stepped inside Tristan’s apartment, I could feel the eyes on me. Some were curious. Others were judgmental. But mostly, people just looked… surprised.
Like they weren’t expecting me to actually show up.
I pushed past the initial wave of discomfort, holding my head high as I navigated through the crowd.
"Betty, hey!" I turned, and there he was. Tristan.
Marcus’s friend. The guy who tried to kiss me. And one of the guys who had laughed the loudest when my diary was read aloud to the entire school.
Every instinct in my body screamed to walk away, but I stayed rooted to the spot as he approached, flashing a lazy, confident smile.
"Glad you came," he said smoothly. "Water under the bridge, right?" Tristan's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he hands me a drink.
His casual dismissal of everything they put me through sits like poison in my gut. "Look, the bet was a dumb idea, true. We were drunk. It was all just fun, you know?"
Fun.
My humiliation. My private thoughts being torn apart for everyone to mock.
Fun.
I kept my expression neutral, despite the storm brewing inside me.
Tristan didn’t look remorseful. He wasn’t apologizing because he felt guilty—he was doing it because it was convenient.
But because I was here now, and it was better to be civil. So I buried my dislike, forced a polite smile, and nodded.
"Right," I said. "Let’s just… move on." The word tastes like ash in my mouth, but I force a smile anyway.
Politics makes strange bedfellows, and in this world of competitive cheerleading and social hierarchies, sometimes you have to dance with the devil you know.
He grinned. "That’s the spirit."
Then—his eyes swept over me, lingering just a second too long.
"You look incredible in that dress, by the way," he adds, his gaze lingering too long on places it shouldn't.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. But still, I gave him a tight, insincere smile before slipping past him into the crowd.
The party buzzed with energy—laughter, music, the faint scent of alcohol and smoke in the air.
Surprisingly, a few of Stacey’s cheerleaders were actually friendly when they spoke to me, asking about my new team, making small talk that didn’t feel forced or cruel.
"You're Betty, right?" Roy materializes beside me, all practiced charm and predatory interest. "Marcus's project partner?"
His questions feel like hooks trying to catch flesh, each word carefully chosen to draw blood.
I scan the room desperately for escape and find Marcus's eyes instead. I wasn’t looking for him. But somehow I found him anyway.
Across the room, sitting back on a worn-out couch, a drink in his hand, Stacey in his lap. Her arms were draped around his shoulders, her lips close to his ear, whispering something I didn’t care to know.
But his eyes? His eyes were on me.
Our gazes locked, and everything around us disappeared.
His expression was unreadable, but his stare was intense, burning into me with something that made my stomach twist with heat.
I should’ve looked away first. I should’ve been the one to break the moment. But I didn’t have to.
Because suddenly, Marcus lifted Stacey off his lap like she weighed nothing and then—he placed her onto Tristan’s instead. She let out a sharp gasp, but before she could protest, Marcus was already moving.
Toward me and Roy.
Marcus cuts through the crowd like a shark through water, his presence alone enough to make Roy step back.
"Beer run," Marcus says to his friend, his voice deceptively calm. "Now."
Roy hesitated, glancing between us. "Seriously?"
"Yeah.” Marcus’s eyes didn’t waver. “Seriously."
A silent challenge passed between them. And then, with a huff, Roy muttered, "Fine," before disappearing into the crowd.
The air between Marcus and me shifted. Tense. Heavy. Unspoken.
I hated how close he was. Hated how my body betrayed me, reacting to his presence. His scent—whiskey, cologne, something entirely Marcus—wrapped around me, pulling me in when I should have been pushing away.
"Thanks," I mutter, meeting his eyes. But before he could respond, a loud voice cut through the air.
"Truth or Dare!" Stacey's voice slices through the moment like a blade. "No, better yet – Spin the Bottle!"
Her eyes find me across the room, glittering with malicious intent. "Betty, honey, you have to play. You’re not scared, are you?"
The trap springs shut around me. Refuse, and I'm the scared little girl they already think I am. Accept, and I'm walking straight into whatever cruel game Stacey's planning.
I sit. The bottle spins, again and again, missing me each time. Relief floods my system – until Stacey opens her mouth.
"Looks like Betty’s getting impatient," Stacey mused, smirking. "It’s obvious just by looking at her face that she’s dying to know what Marcus Archibald’s lips taste like."
Laughter erupted. I felt my face heat, my fingers curling into my dress. But before I could snap back, Marcus’s voice cut through the noise.
"Drop it, Stacey. That’s not true," he said, his tone sharp, final. "And there’s no real proof the diary was even hers."
A tense silence settled over the room. For one second, I thought that was the end of it. But then—Stacey smirked wider. And dropped the bombshell.
"Oh, but they weren’t just words," she purred. The room stilled. "One night, I actually heard her," Stacey continued, her voice light, casual, deadly.
I felt my pulse pound in my ears. "Heard her moaning in her sleep," she drawled. "Whispering your name, Marcus."
The room explodes with laughter and whispers, but all I hear is white noise. The dream floods back – hands, lips, desire – mixing poisonously with present humiliation.
My legs move before my brain can catch up, carrying me toward the door, toward escape, toward anywhere but here.
"Betty, wait—"
But I keep running, because some humiliations cut too deep to face.
Some truths are too raw to acknowledge.
And some desires are better left buried in the dark where they belong.