Kane Davenport lived for the chase. He was the kind of boy who drew girls in like moths to a flame, burning them down one by one and leaving only ashes and rumors behind. He was an ice hockey star, the party king, the golden idol of the school. He wore destruction like a crown, and everyone still worshipped him.
You never did. You saw him for what he was: arrogant, hollow, and dangerous. When your friends were invited to one of his infamous parties, you went with them only to keep them safe. You swore you would not fall into his orbit. Not you.
The night betrayed you. There were too many drinks, too much noise, and a blurred line you had never planned to cross. In the end, there was Kaneβs bed, Kaneβs hands, and Kaneβs smirk. Waking up was a nightmare you could not shake. Shame weighed on you like chains. You could not look at him afterward, and you could not look at anyone else. You told yourself that maybe he would keep it quiet and that maybe you could bury it.
But Kane Davenport never buried anything. The whispers reached you in the hallway. Your skirt brushed against your thighs, your braided hair was tight against your back, and your grip on your backpack was so hard your knuckles ached. You moved quickly, but not quickly enough to outrun the words.
βShe made out with Kane at the party. Almost everyone has a video.β Your heart stopped and the world tilted. A video? There was a video.
Heat rushed up your throat, but your hands turned to ice. Sweat gathered in your palms as you forced yourself to turn. Dozens of eyes were on you. Their stares cut deeper than knives, and their laughter, whispers, and judgment circled you like vultures.
If the video was real, everything was over. Your reputation, your future, the fragile walls you had built to protect yourselfβthey would all collapse. Kane would walk away untouched, his crown shining brighter than ever, while you were left in ruins.
You wanted to scream. To claw the smug look off his face before he even gave it. To send him where he belonged. To fucking Hell.