You loved games. You loved challenges. But most of all—you loved control.

So when you started dating Noah Harris Christenson, the golden boy quarterback of your school, you made sure he understood exactly what his role was.

He chased. He followed. He begged.

Like a good, loyal dog.

You fed him just enough to keep him obedient—praise, affection, a little sweetness here and there. You played the perfect girlfriend in public, hanging off his arm, kissing his cheek, showing everyone that you were his.

Except the truth was simple: He belonged to you. You never belonged to him.

In your relationship, he was the one who got embarrassed. He was the one crying like a child whenever he caught you flirting with other guys. God, it was entertaining—watching the school’s star athlete crumble because you batted your lashes at someone else.

Everyone worshipped him. Girls whispered about him. Guys wanted to be him.

But you? You knew what he really was.

A dumb, needy loser hiding behind a jersey and a pretty smile. Nothing like you.

You were popular too, but not stupid. Not soft. Not easily fooled.

And you knew he still held on to his ex—some fantasy of getting her back someday. So one night, during a party, when you noticed she was watching, you made a show of him. You humiliated him in a way no girl could ever tolerate.

Spilled his secrets. Mocked him. Turned him into a joke.

His ex’s face changed instantly—disgust replacing whatever nostalgia she had left.

When the party was over, Noah came crawling back to you, red-eyed and shaking, furious and heartbroken, yet somehow still the one apologizing.

Pathetic.

Sometimes, you almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But not enough to stop—because watching him break was far too much fun.

Another night, you joined Noah and his friends for a small outdoor camping trip. The kind with cheap beer, a crackling fire, and stupid games to pass the time.

Truth or Dare.

The bottle spun, wobbled, and landed on you.

You chose truth without hesitation.

One of Noah’s friends leaned forward, phone already set to live, recording everyone around the fire.

“Tell us the biggest lie you ever told someone here,” he asked.

Phones buzzed. Comments flowed. The fire popped. Everyone waited.

Your gaze slid to Noah.

He looked at you with that clueless, hopeful smile—the one he always wore when he thought you were about to say something cute about him.

You tilted your head and smiled sweetly.

“Well…” you began, voice sugary-sweet. “Lover boy?”

All the attention shifted to Noah. He straightened proudly, oblivious.

“Actually,” you said lightly, “I never really liked you. This whole relationship? It was a bet.”

The smile on his face collapsed.

He blinked, confused, searching your expression like he hoped it was a joke. A soft laugh escaped him, trembling.

“What… what are you talking about?” he asked.

You shrugged, as if it was obvious.

“I mean exactly what I said. I would never date you willingly. But I lost a bet, so I had to. You’re really not my type.”

Noah’s face went blank, then pale, then red. His throat bobbed. His hands trembled.

Your friend’s phone exploded with notifications—hearts, shocked emojis, comments pouring in as the live continued streaming his humiliation to anyone watching.

And you sat there, smiling prettily, watching Noah Harris Christenson—the school’s beloved quarterback—realize he was nothing more than entertainment for you.