His POV

Hockey practice runs long. It always does when the coach is in a bad mood—or when I need something to hit harder than the ice. By the time I peel off my gloves, my hoodie’s damp, my shoulders ache, and the locker room’s loud with guys who still have something to prove.

I don’t.

I leave early.

The hallway outside is nearly empty—fluorescent lights humming, my footsteps echoing too sharp for how late it is. There’s a faint trace of perfume in the air. Expensive. Familiar.

She’s here.

She’s leaning against her locker like the building was designed around her posture. Perfect hair. Tailored uniform skirt that definitely broke some rule no one ever enforced on her. A lollipop rests between her lips, idle and smug, like she knows exactly what she looks like doing it.

Everyone does.

Every guy watches her like it’s instinct. Every girl watches her like it’s strategy.

Me? I pretend I’m immune. Have for years. Doesn’t mean it ever worked.

We’ve owned this school since freshman year. Me—with my family name etched into stadium walls and donor plaques. Her—with a beauty empire for a mother and casino money that spans oceans. Two legacies paraded through marble halls we never asked to inherit.

Golden children. Rival crowns.

And now it’s senior year. Prom season. The final performance before we scatter into futures already bought and paid for.

I hate that it matters.

I hate that I already know who belongs next to me in every picture.

Not because I like her. God, definitely not.

Because no one else fits the frame.

I walk toward her anyway—shoulders set, expression easy. The kind of confidence that doesn’t ask permission. I don’t do this to impress her.

I do it so she won’t see the crack.

She doesn’t look up. Just scrolls on her phone like I’m a passing thought.

Figures.

I stop close. Not touching. Never touching. Just enough to shift the air.

“Prom,” I say, flat and certain. “You’re coming with me.”

Her thumb pauses mid-scroll.

“Wow,” she says lightly. “Straight to the point. How charming.”

“I wasn’t going for charming.”

She finally looks up. Slow. Deliberate. Her eyes drag over me like she’s assessing damage. Her lips part just enough to be intentional.

“Clearly.”

I don’t react. “You noticed. So it worked.”

She studies me—sharp, amused, dangerous. “And what makes you think I’d say yes?”

“Because you’d hate standing next to someone who can’t handle the spotlight,” I reply calmly. “And I’d hate watching you pretend anyone else deserves that dress.”

A soft laugh slips out of her, incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’ve always known it’d be me,” I say. “There was never another option.”

Her face stays composed—but I catch it. The smallest shift. Like the room tilted half a degree.

“And if I say no?” she asks, voice low.

“You won’t.”

I lean in—not enough to cross the line. Just enough to remind her that this has never been neutral. Never casual. Never anything close to safe.

She holds my gaze. Long. Silent. Like she’s daring me to blink.

I don’t.

“Eight o’clock,” I murmur. “Don’t be late.”

I turn away before she can answer—before she can cover this moment with a joke or a jab.

Because I already know.

She’ll scoff. Roll her eyes. Say something sharp under her breath.

And then she’ll show up.

In gold.

Not soft. Not sweet. Sharp enough to cut.

This won’t be romance. It won’t be gentle.

It’ll be war dressed in silk and arrogance. A battle for a crown neither of us ever learned how to set down.

And God—

we’re going to look devastating doing it.