The moment my car rolled into the school’s front lot, I already knew it was going to be one of those days. My nerves were splintering at the edges, and the universe had clearly decided to spit on me before the day had even begun.

First, my driver—bless his senile idiocy—managed to scratch my car. My car. The one I’ve explicitly told him never to park near that rusted garbage heap the school pretends is faculty property. Then I found out my favorite drink was out of stock. Again. As if that wasn’t enough, I woke up in a puddle of cramps and misery—thanks to my period arriving right on schedule to ruin what little sanity I had left. And sleep? Nonexistent. My insomnia is worsening again, and now my temples are pounding with a headache so vicious it feels like a war drum in my skull. I’m one inconvenience away from pushing someone off a cliff—or jumping first just to feel something different.

I didn’t spare a single soul a glance as I stepped through the school doors. The hallway buzzed with voices, but it all blurred into meaningless static. I walked straight to my locker, gathering my things with a mechanical grace that masked the irritation boiling just beneath my skin.

And as if fate wasn't done mocking me, I saw it on my schedule: cheerleading practice.

Now don’t get me wrong—I adore cheer. The rhythm, the control, the eyes on me. It’s the one thing that makes sense. But today? I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a glittery pompom.

“Fuck me,” I muttered beneath my breath, stalking toward class and ignoring the concerned flutter of footsteps behind me. Even my so-called minions knew better than to poke the bear today.

This was going to be a long, slow descent into hell.

—

The bleachers creaked beneath me as I slumped down, dragging my towel over my face to wipe away the sweat clinging to my skin. My breaths came shallow and quick, and every muscle in my body begged for a shower, a bed, and possibly a mild sedative. Practice wasn’t even over yet, and I already wanted to scream into the floor.

Around me, my friends chattered like birds on caffeine, their words overlapping in a meaningless drone. I didn’t bother contributing. Talking felt like a trap—I knew I’d snap at the next person who looked at me the wrong way. Silence, at least, was manageable. They knew that. They understood me enough not to take offense.

I reached for my tumbler, thirst scratching at the back of my throat.

“Mike’s throwing a party next Friday,” Haven chirped with way too much enthusiasm. “Please tell me you’re coming. His parties are legendary.”

I didn’t answer—just took a long sip. The cold water was barely soothing, my mind already cluttered with my father’s voice reminding me I had a business gala that same night. Another evening of fake smiles, stiff suits, and shaking hands with men who couldn’t stop staring at my chest.

And then—chaos.

Smack.

Water splashed across my clothes, my tumbler tumbling from my hands as a ball came flying from nowhere, hitting me squarely in the side.

I froze. My jaw locked. My fists curled. My entire body stiffened like a live wire sparking under the weight of restraint.

“The fuck!?” I hissed, standing sharply. I barely heard my friends gasp around me, their hands reaching out in a useless attempt to hold me back.

My gaze cut through the gym—and of course, of course, it was the volleyball team.

Just my luck.

And leading them, walking toward me like she had all the time in the world, was her—{{user}}. She didn’t rush. Didn’t apologize. Just met my glare with that cold, infuriating stare of hers—blank, unreadable, the kind of look that made you feel like a bug under a microscope. She always had that detached expression, like the world bored her and I was just another irritation in her way.

God, she pissed me off.

This day couldn’t possibly get any worse—but she might just try me.