The hum of the industrial fans in the Upperhill Academy gymnasium usually sounded like a heartbeat, but tonight, it sounded like a countdown.
Four hundred students sat in the tiered bleachers, their expensive blazers reflecting the neon magenta and electric blue strobe lights of the "Confess to Your Crush" gala. It was the one night of the year where the suffocating social hierarchy of the elite boarding school was supposed to melt away. The Student Council had transformed the hardwood basketball court into a den of velvet curtains and silver tinsel. At the center of it all sat the "Altar of Truth"—a raised mahogany platform where a single vintage microphone stood, waiting for a sacrificial lamb.
Dressel Gennie was currently that lamb.
She stood in the wings of the stage, her fingers digging so hard into the fabric of her pleated skirt that her knuckles were white. Her heart wasn't just beating; it was thrashed against her ribs, a wild animal desperate to escape.
"Next up," the Student Council President announced, his voice booming through the high-end speakers, "from Class 3-B... Dressel Gennie."
A confused murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Who?" someone whispered loudly from the front row.
"The shy girl? The one who always sits in the back and never speaks?"
"I thought she was a scholarship student. Does she even have a crush?"
Dressel took a step forward. Then another. The floorboards groaned under her weight as she emerged into the blinding white spotlight. The glare was so intense she couldn't see the faces of her peers—only the dark, judgmental silhouettes of the Upperhill elite.
She reached the microphone. The feedback shrieked, a piercing metallic wail that made several students wince. Dressel flinched, her shoulders hunching up to her ears. She looked small. She looked breakable. She looked exactly like the girl who had spent the last three years being the school's favorite ghost.
"I..." she started, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, her eyes darting toward the back of the hall. "I have a crush on..."
The silence that followed was heavy, expectant, and cruel.
"Spit it out, Gennie! We don't have all night!" a voice jeered from the soccer team's section.
Dressel closed her eyes. She thought of every time her books had been swiped off her desk. She thought of the cold water of the fountain when she was pushed in last spring. She thought of the predatory shadow that had haunted her every move since freshman year. If she was going to go down, she would go down in flames.
"Collman Henry," she whispered.
Then, louder, fueled by a sudden, manic burst of adrenaline: "I choose Collman Henry."
The gymnasium didn't just go quiet; it became a tomb. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room. For five seconds, ten seconds, no one even breathed.
"The one who always bullies you?" a girl screamed from the junior bleachers, breaking the spell. "The guy who literally made you cry in the cafeteria yesterday? That Collman Henry?"
"She's lost it," someone laughed nervously. "She's finally snapped."
But Dressel wasn't looking at them. Her gaze was locked on the back of the hall, where the double oak doors stood. Leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over a chest built from years of grueling soccer drills, was the King of Upperhill.
Collman Henry. He was the son of a billionaire tycoon whose shadow loomed over the city's skyline. He was the star striker who moved across the pitch with the grace of a panther. And he was the boy who had spent three years making sure Dressel Gennie knew exactly how much he loathed her existence.
The spotlight shifted. It raced across the floor, abandoning the trembling girl on stage to find the golden boy in the back.
Collman didn't flinch. He didn't look shocked. He slowly uncrossed his arms, a dark, sneaky smile spreading across his face—a look that promised either a miracle or a massacre. He pushed off the doorframe and began to walk.
Every step he took was majestic. The crowd parted like he was royalty, students stumbling over their own feet to clear a path. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of his expensive leather boots against the floor echoed like a drumbeat.
He didn't take the stairs. When he reached the stage, he placed one hand on the edge and vaulted up in a single, athletic motion that made the girls in the front row gasp.
He stood over her. At six-foot-two, he towered over Dressel, casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. The scent of his cologne—expensive sandalwood and the crisp smell of a coming storm—invaded her senses.
"Dressel Gennie," he murmured. He didn't use the microphone, but his voice was a deep, resonant vibration that seemed to rumble in the very floorboards. "The girl who can't even look at me without trembling. You're standing here... claiming me?"
Dressel's breath hitched. She reached for the silver necklace sitting on the velvet cushion beside the microphone. The pendant was a heavy, polished heart, gleaming under the lights. Her hands shook so much the chain clinked against the wood.
"I... I meant it," she whispered, her voice trembling but her eyes suddenly finding his.
The students leaned forward, their phones out, recording. They were waiting for the punchline. They were waiting for him to take that necklace and throw it into the trash, or laugh until she ran off the stage in tears.
Instead, Collman reached out. His large, hand—the hand that had tripped her in the hallways and slammed her locker shut—slowly wrapped around her wrist. His skin was searingly hot.
He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Took you long enough," he hissed, the sneaky smile turning into something sharper, something more possessive. "Did you really think I'd let anyone else have you after I spent three years making sure you were too afraid to look at them?"
He took the necklace from her limp fingers. The crowd erupted into confused shouting as he stepped behind her. Dressel felt the cold weight of the silver chain slide against her skin.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, he fastened the clasp. The pendant sat right against her collarbone, cold and heavy—a silver shackle for all the world to see.
Collman stepped back around to face her, his eyes dark with a twisted sort of triumph. He didn't look like a boy in love. He looked like a hunter who had finally cornered his prize.
"You're mine now, Gennie," he said, loud enough for the microphone to catch. "And if you think my bullying was bad... just wait until you see how I treat what I actually own."
He grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers in a grip that was as much a crush as it was a caress, and led her off the stage while the entire school watched in horrified, envious silence.
The game hadn't ended. It had just moved to a much more dangerous level.