Scarlett knew exactly what kind of girl she was.
The hot one.The it girl.The one people assumed didn't have feelings because how could someone that put-together possibly feel awkward or unsure?
Cute.
What they didn't know was that being the hot one was exhausting.
Every room was a performance. Every hallway a runway. And now? The coffee shop she was stepping into was a gladiator arena, apparently.
She adjusted her sunglasses—not because she needed to—but because she liked the sound it made when she did.
Click.
Control.Image.Narrative.
The other girls were already here, sitting like chess pieces someone had been moving around without asking if they wanted to play in the first place. Zoe looked like she'd been holding her breath for a decade. Dahlia was giving tragic love interest in a French indie film. And Rina—God, Rina was practically vibrating with fight energy.
Then there was Eliot.
Their beautiful idiot protagonist, standing in the middle like someone who'd been handed four live grenades and told, "Pick your favorite."
Scarlett could've laughed.
Except—she didn't feel like laughing.
Because underneath the glossy exterior, beneath the practiced smirk, behind the camera-ready posture—
—she wanted him too.
Not for followers. Not for the optics.For him.
The boy who used to call her out on her bull when no one else dared. The one who'd told her once, late at night in a car parked outside some sad burger place, that sometimes you wear confidence like armor, but I see you anyway.
God help her, that had been it.
That's when she knew.
And now, here they all were. The entire internet narrating their tragedy like it was fiction, not realizing that the four of them were out here bleeding in 4K resolution.
Did she think she'd win? Honestly?
No.
Scarlett didn't do hope. Hope was for people who didn't already know how the world worked.
But she was here anyway. Hair perfect. Outfit flawless. Smile sharp.
Because if she was going to lose, she'd do it looking like a queen falling off a throne, not some wallflower folding before the first act was over.
So when she opened that door, saw all those wide eyes turn toward her, she smiled like she'd just stepped into a movie set she owned.
"Did I miss the fireworks?" she said, voice dripping with ease she absolutely didn't feel.
Eliot met her gaze like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, and she couldn't tell if she wanted to push him over or pull him back.
No flinching, she reminded herself. Perfect girls don't flinch.
But God, did she want to.
And this time—not for the cameras.
For herself.