A GIRL NAMED NOVA.

The music stopped.

Then came the sound—a sharp crack that sliced through the decorated hall like a lightning bolt.

Everyone froze.

Gasps. Murmurs. Hundreds of eyes turned toward us—the stage, the lights, the glittering sea of sequins and tuxedos—all focused on the two girls standing at the center of Hillsdale High’s senior prom.

Mandy Westwood—my half-sister—was holding her cheek, her painted lips parted in shock.

And me, Nova—her unwanted sister—my palm still burning from the force of the slap I’d just given her.

“You—you slapped me!?” Mandy’s voice trembled in disbelief, but her eyes blazed with fury.

“Yes,” I said, my tone flat, unshaken. “And if you don’t step back, I might do it again.”

A hush swept across the ballroom. The DJ stood still, his hand hovering over the turntable. Teachers were frozen at the edges of the hall confused. The entire senior class was watching.

Then, in a single, sickening moment, “Daniel Hayes”—the boy I thought I loved—stepped forward and slapped me back.

The crowd gasped again, louder this time. My head snapped to the side, my cheek stinging as tears gathered against my will. The silence afterward was unbearable.

“Don’t ever touch her again,” Daniel said coldly, standing protectively in front of Mandy.

I blinked, dazed, staring at him—at the same boy who had once traced my name on fogged glass, whispered he loved me, and promised never to hurt me.

He looked at me now like I was nothing.

And maybe, to him, I really was.

That night didn’t start with violence. It started with hope.

Hours earlier, I had stood before Grandma’s mirror in our small brownstone apartment in Brooklyn, nervously smoothing the lilac satin dress she had sewn by hand.

“Don’t slouch, sweetheart,” Grandma said, adjusting the ribbon on my waist. “You’ve got the posture of a queen, not a beggar.”

I smiled faintly. “It’s not like anyone’s going to notice me.”

Grandma’s sharp eyes softened. “You’d be surprised who’s watching. Your mother used to say that the world always watches those who stay quiet the longest.”

Her mention of Mom always left a small ache in my chest. My mother—gone the night I was born. Grandma said she had my eyes, soft but determined.

“Grandma,” I asked quietly, “do you think Mom would be proud of me?”

She smiled, her wrinkles deepening. “She’d be proud of how you’ve survived.”

I didn’t know then how much I’d need those words later that night.

At school, the prom hall glittered with fairy lights and chandeliers. Students swayed on the dance floor, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and the flash of cameras. I stood by the entrance, my heart fluttering, waiting for him.

“Daniel”.

He hadn’t replied to my text all day, but I believed and hoped that he was planning something special. Maybe he wanted to surprise me. He always said I overthought things.

The hours dragged. I stood alone, watching other girls receive flowers, invitations, surprises. Even Clara, my best friend, was whisked away by her date in a twirl of tulle and giggles.

“Maybe he’s stuck in traffic,” she’d said earlier, squeezing my hand. “Daniel wouldn’t ditch you.”

But he did.

At exactly 8:47 p.m., when I was about to step outside for air, the hall doors burst open—and in walked Daniel, hand in hand with Mandy.

My breath caught in my throat.

Mandy glowed in a golden dress that shimmered like liquid sunlight, her curls bouncing as she strutted in, smiling triumphantly. Daniel walked beside her in a sleek black tuxedo, the same one we’d picked together when he said we’d match for prom.

I froze, staring, the air thick in my lungs.

Whispers spread through the room like wildfire.

“Oh my God… is that Daniel with Mandy?”

“Didn’t he date Nova?”

“This is insane.”

Mandy spotted me, of course. She always did. Her smirk widened. She leaned toward Daniel and whispered something before laughing—loudly, deliberately.

Then she walked straight up to me.

“Well, look who finally made it,” she said sweetly, eyeing my dress. “Lilac, huh? Cute. Looks like something from a thrift store.”

“Leave me alone, Mandy,” I muttered, trying to walk past her.

But she blocked my way. “Aww, don’t be shy. Everyone here knows you were waiting for my boyfriend.”

Her words struck like a knife. I turned to Daniel. “Tell her she’s lying.”

He didn’t.

He just stared at me with an expression so unreadable it terrified me.

“Daniel?” I whispered.

He sighed. “Mandy’s right, Nova. We’re together now. You and I… we were just a phase.”

The world tilted. I heard laughter, faint and cruel, echoing around me.

“Why?” I managed to choke out.

Daniel’s voice was calm, almost detached. “Because I need someone who fits my world. You’re smart, Nova, but intelligence isn’t everything. You’re… wretched. You don’t belong in my class.”

The crowd gasped, and Mandy laughed—a sharp, ugly sound that cut through the air.

“Oh, poor Nova,” she cooed mockingly. “Did you really think Daniel wanted you? You? With your faded shoes and bus rides?”

That was when I snapped.

Before anyone could stop me, I raised my hand and slapped her. Hard.

The sound echoed through the hall—and that’s where this story began.

When Daniel hit me back, everything went quiet. My chest heaved. For a moment, I saw my reflection in the mirror wall behind him—tears streaking down my face, mascara running, a broken girl in a handmade dress.

Clara appeared out of nowhere, shoving through the crowd. “Nova!” She grabbed my hand, pulling me away from the stares, the whispers, the laughter. “Come on, let’s go.”

We rushed into the restroom, my breathing shaky, my palms trembling. Clara knelt beside me as I leaned against the counter, sobbing.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “He said he loved me.”

“People like Daniel love attention, not people,” Clara muttered. “You’re better than this. You hear me?”

But before I could reply, the restroom door swung open. A group of girls walked in, their faces dripping with mock pity.

“You might want to check the hall,” one said, smirking. “You’re on screen now.”

“What?” Clara frowned.

The girl pointed toward the hallway. “Just saying—you’re going viral, Nova.”

My stomach sank.

We sprinted back to the hall, pushing through the crowd. And there, on the massive screen above the dance floor, was me.

A video—recorded from Daniel’s car weeks ago—played in high definition.

It was the night I confessed my feelings to him. I’d been nervous, stammering, smiling shyly, saying things like “You make me feel safe” and “I don’t care what people think.”

Now, the crowd laughed.

Laughed at my vulnerability.

At my trust.

Daniel stood near the DJ booth, microphone in hand, smiling smugly. “Now you know, Nova,” he said into the mic, his voice dripping with cruelty. “I topped you this time.”

Then, as if to drive the knife deeper, he turned toward Mandy, knelt on one knee, and held out a bouquet of red roses.

“Mandy Westwood,” he said dramatically, “will you be my girlfriend?”

The crowd cheered.

I felt my knees weaken. The room spun, voices blurring into noise. I turned and ran—past the laughter, the music that had resumed, the flash of cameras capturing my humiliation.

Outside, under the cold night sky, I collapsed on the steps of the school. Clara followed, wrapping her arms around me as I shook.

“Let it out,” she whispered.

But I didn’t cry for long. The tears dried quickly, leaving behind something else something colder, stronger.

I looked up at the sky, the city lights reflecting in my wet eyes. “He wants to see me broken,” I murmured. “So does she.”

Clara looked at me, confused. “Nova…”

I stood, pulling away. My voice was quiet but steady. “I won’t give them that satisfaction.”

She blinked. “What are you going to do?”

I looked back at the school, my expression unreadable.

“Rise.”

That night marked the death of the girl who used to dream of love stories and happy endings.

And the birth of the girl who would rewrite her own.