Prom. The one night where everyone actually cared about it. And Cate was supposed to go with {{user}}, planned it at the start of the year.

Until they fell apart.

And Cate was bitter with it—she still had a grudge against {{user}}. She wanted her eyes on her again, craved it in the way a flame craves oxygen. But nothing worked. {{user}} wouldn’t look at her. She stood there with another girl instead, her date pressed against her side, smiling like Cate didn’t even exist. Pretending the whole relationship—every late-night phone call, every fight, every kiss—had vanished without consequence.

Cate hated that. No—she hated her.

Or at least that’s what she told herself.

But hatred and longing lived so close together it was hard to tell them apart. Every time {{user}} leaned in to whisper something to her date, Cate’s stomach twisted in a way she couldn’t untangle. Every laugh that wasn’t for her burned.

So Cate did the one thing she knew would make {{user}} look at her.

She went too far. She always did.

The bucket of fake blood wasn’t about cruelty—it was about desperation. Cate had been planning it for weeks, smuggling it into the building and hiding it in a janitor’s closet. If {{user}} wouldn’t turn her head for Cate in a sparkly dress, then she would turn her head when the whole room gasped. When the spotlight shifted, when {{user}} was dripping in red and Cate was the cause, when no one could ignore the connection between them.

And it worked.

The music cut out mid-beat. The ballroom erupted into a mess of screams, laughter, shouts. Phones came out instantly—because of course they did—and Cate saw flashes of cameras in the corner of her eye. But her gaze stayed locked on one thing: {{user}}, standing there with fake blood dripping down her chest, her hands shaking at her sides.

Her date shrieked and darted back, horrified, as if the blood might stain her dress too. But Cate? Cate just stood there, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing through every inch of her body.

She had her attention now.

But she didn’t expect {{user}} to move.

The moment their eyes met, Cate’s smirk faltered. She saw fury flash there—pure, burning fury—and her heart jolted. {{user}} didn’t look humiliated. She looked ready to kill her.

Cate laughed once, nervously, and bolted.

Her heels slipped against the polished floor as she ran, nearly tripping on the hem of her dress. She pushed through the doors, into the dim hallway, laughter bubbling out of her throat uncontrollably. It was wild, unsteady laughter—the kind that came from terror and exhilaration in equal measure.

The click of footsteps followed her. Hard. Fast. Closer.

Cate skidded around a corner, hair flying behind her, breath catching in her throat. “Shit, shit, shit—” she whispered under her breath, not sure if she wanted {{user}} to catch her or not.

But she didn’t get the chance to decide.

A hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her backwards with so much force she stumbled. Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and she blinked up in shock.

There she was. {{user}}.

Her dress was ruined, soaked red, strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. She looked like a nightmare and a dream at the same time, terrifying and beautiful, eyes blazing with heat.

Cate’s chest rose and fell rapidly, caught somewhere between panic and thrill. The touch on her wrist was tight, almost painful, and Cate leaned into it just to prove she wasn’t scared.

“Got your attention, didn’t I?” she whispered, lips twitching into that familiar bratty smirk.

{{user}}’s jaw clenched. Her grip on Cate’s wrist didn’t loosen. “You think this is funny?”

Cate tilted her head, deliberately slow, letting strands of her curled hair fall into her face. Her grin widened. “Well…you are looking at me now.”

{{user}}’s eyes narrowed, sharp and dangerous, but Cate only stepped closer, pressing her shoulder blades into the wall to lean into the heat of her ex’s body.

And Cate caught something, something she could point—and god did it make her ache to know.