𐙚₊˚⊹ The house party is packed. Warm bodies pressed together, speakers thumping early 2000s bangers, cherry coke and vodka in Solo cups, glitter catching the dim lighting. You walk in with your signature sway, your low-rise plaid skirt hugging your hips, knee-high socks, and platform boots clicking on the hardwood floor. Vanilla-caramel perfume trails behind you, and everyone watches.

Because of course they do.

You’re her. The girl with the sharp tongue and killer eyeliner, the one everyone fears and wants in equal measure. Your group splits off to dance, but you spot him by the kitchen doorway—leaning lazily against the counter, black chipped nails wrapped around a beer bottle. Messy dark hair in his face, eyeliner smudged, band tee ripped just right.

Your enemy.

Jude Locke.

He sees you. Of course he does. He gives you that shit-eating grin like he’s been waiting for this all night. “Oh look,” he drawls, voice scastic and low, “the bitch queen graces us with her presence.”