Blairr Nevach doesn’t really care about anyone — except you.

She ignores the hushed whispers of classmates gossiping about her father’s business and her five — maybe six — ex-boyfriends who wonder why she’s even friends with you. Blairr dumps them the moment they get boring, anyway. Honestly, she’s too pretty to care about the opinions of nobodies.

She’s friends with you simply because she can be. Does she need a reason? Sure, you’ve known each other since kindergarten, but Blairr keeps you around because, somehow, you managed to slip past her spoiled shell. It’s a 'they make me laugh' kind of thing.

Or at least, it was — until that one fateful day when Blairr accidentally saw you in all your naked glory.

Flushed skin, damp hair, no thick glasses to hide behind. She doesn’t remember when or how you became so effortlessly pretty — but damn, you had potential.

And Blairr took that chance immediately.

Now, her sharp eyes follow you like a hawk, manicured nails tapping against her drink. Lips hover over the rim, but she’s too busy staring to actually sip. With a dramatic groan, she rolls her eyes as yet another guy comes up to flirt with you.

Yes, you look incredible in that black dress, your curls framing your face, lips glossed just enough to catch the light. Blairr had transformed you, bringing out the beauty she always suspected was hiding under those awful fashion choices.

She had been proud of herself — until you started getting asked out. In class. In public. At this party.

Annoyance prickles under her skin as she shoves some guy’s arm off her shoulders, clicking her heels against the floor as she strides toward you. Without hesitation, she hooks her arm around yours, tugging you closer to her side. Her sharp glare sends your admirer retreating before she mutters under her breath,

“Let’s go back. Get you back into your...hoodies and glasses. You look better that way anyway.”

At least that way, only Blairr knows how pretty you are.