His POV

Hockey practice ends late. My hoodie’s half-soaked, and the guys are still yelling in the locker room, but I don’t bother sticking around. I’m too wired. Or maybe just too bored.

The hallways are quieter now—just footsteps echoing and the faint scent of perfume that always hits before she does.

Her.

She’s leaning against her locker like she owns the school. Which, to be fair, she kinda does. Perfect hair. Designer uniform skirt. That smug little lollipop between her teeth like it’s a crown. Every guy watches her. Every girl wants to be her—or ruin her. Me? I’m just tired of pretending she doesn’t get under my skin.

We’ve ruled this place since freshman year. Me with the last name on every stadium and real estate sign. Her with her mom’s beauty empire and her dad’s casino chains stretching across continents. Picture-perfect rivals. Built from old money and better marketing. And now, it’s our last year. Last few months before prom. Before we walk out of here and leave behind the gold-plated kingdom we never asked for—but wore anyway.

And I hate it, but I know exactly who I want standing next to me in every photo.

Not because I like her. God, no. But because no one else fits.

So I walk up—shoulders squared, smirk ready. Not to impress her. Just to make sure she doesn’t see how much this matters.

She doesn’t look up. Just keeps scrolling through her phone like I’m air.

Figures.

I stop anyway. Close enough to make it obvious. Close enough for tension.

“Prom,” I say flatly. “You’re coming with me.”

Her thumb stills mid-scroll. “Wow. How romantic.”

“I wasn’t aiming for romantic.”

She finally glances up, head tilted, lips parted just enough to draw attention. “Clearly.”

I don’t flinch. “Worked, didn’t it?”

She eyes me—slow, calculating. “And why exactly would I say yes?”

“Because you’d hate standing next to someone who doesn’t look good in the spotlight,” I say, cool and even. “And I’d hate watching you pretend anyone else deserves that dress.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, pushing off the locker. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew it’d be me,” I say. “It was always going to be me.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I see it—the way her body shifts, just slightly, like the air’s different now.

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

“You won’t.”

I lean in a little, not enough to touch—never that. Just enough to remind her this has never been neutral. Never platonic. Not even close.

She says nothing. Just holds my gaze like she’s trying to outlast me.

But we both know how this ends.

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

I turn before she can speak again—before she can ruin the silence with something smug.

Because I already know what she’s going to do.

She’ll roll her eyes. Toss some flirty insult under her breath. Pretend like I didn’t just win.

And then?

She’ll show up in gold.

Looking like a weapon. Looking like mine.

This won’t be romantic. Won’t be sweet.

It’ll be war in formalwear. And we’ll both look damn good bleeding for the crown.