Rumor Has it

(“She didn’t need fire to burn them all. Just the truth—and the right audience.”)

It started with the silence.

Not the usual hush of tired students on a Monday morning, or the bored lull of teachers handing out quiz packets. No. This silence was electric. Curious. The kind that coiled like smoke before the crackle of a wildfire.

Dominique felt it the moment she stepped out of the town car.

The driver, Marcus, gave her a confused glance in the mirror. “You want me to wait, Miss?”

She adjusted her blazer, cool and composed. “No need.”

She stepped onto the pavement, heels clicking in rhythm with her breath. Each step through the school’s front doors echoed louder than it should have. Students turned—some subtle, some not.

Eyes followed her.

Conversations halted when she passed.

Finally, she thought.

By the lockers, whispers hissed through the crowd like steam escaping a pipe:

“Did you see the email?”

“It was him. I swear, that’s her dad.”

“She’s done.”

“But who sent it…?”

Dominique didn’t have to look for Priscilla.

She was already there—standing rigid near the water fountain, flanked by her usual handpicked army of imitation Barbies. Only now? They hovered like flight risks.

Her skin was pale. Foundation cracked at the edges. Lips tight. Eyes locked on Dominique like she wanted to tear her apart.

Dominique offered her a single blink. Nothing more.

She passed her slowly, the edges of her skirt swaying like wind in a field of knives.

By second period, the rumor had a pulse.

By third, it had teeth.

By lunch, it was a bloodbath.

Someone had leaked a video—high-resolution, timestamped, and oh-so-verifiable.

A man, groveling.

Begging.

Clad in humiliation and little else.

The kicker?

His whispered confession on tape: his full name and the words “Priscilla is my daughter.”

Nobody dared say Dominique’s name aloud, but they didn’t have to.

Every glance, every side-eye, every shift in tone—they were all coded messages, and Dominique read them fluently.

She sat alone at lunch. By choice.

Unbothered.

She nibbled on an apple slice, biting down like it was vengeance incarnate.

Later that night…

The silence at home was worse.

Her mother hadn’t spoken much since Sunday. Only a few pointed glares about the state of Dominique’s “posture,” and a suggestion to “clean up her attitude.”

Her father was on a business trip—“thankfully,” as her mother put it, still clueless to the fact that the family name was circling the school gossip drain.

Dominique locked her bedroom door, exhaled, and sat cross-legged on her bed.

She turned on her laptop.

Not to stream. Not yet.

Just to check her inbox.

And there it was.

A new message.

No subject line.

No sender name.

Just… a fox emoji.

She clicked.

The message was two sentences:

"That was bold, Princess. He begged beautifully."

"But you’re not the only one who watches."

Her blood ran cold.

Her lips twitched.

And somewhere—beneath the unease—was the slightest curl of a smile.

Dominique stared at the screen.

Not blinking.

Not breathing.

Just watching the words repeat in her mind like a mantra she didn’t write.

"That was bold, Princess. He begged beautifully."

"But you’re not the only one who watches."

There were a dozen ways to read it.

Admiration. Threat. Flirtation. Warning.

She ran a finger along her bottom lip, cold and trembling before she caught herself. No. She didn’t tremble. She calculated. She controlled.

And someone else had just poked a hole in that control.

She clicked on the sender’s profile.

Nothing.

A dead-end email address, masked through three layers of encryption, possibly more.

She opened a separate browser and tried tracking the metadata.

Nothing again.

Whoever this was, they weren’t a beginner. They were playing.

Her.

And she didn’t like being the pawn.

The rest of the house was silent.

Down the hallway, she could hear her mother on a late-night call—probably coordinating some gala or fund drive with women who wore too much perfume and hated their own daughters.

Dominique muted her laptop.

The email stayed open.

She re-read it again. And again.

The use of “Princess” made her skin twitch.

No one dared to call her that—except the man who once tried and got a heel to the chest for it.

But this… this was different.

This person wasn’t guessing.

They knew what she’d done.

What she was.

She sat back and opened a fresh doc.

Not to respond.

Not yet.

To write.

To think.

To remember.

The first time she ever played the role of Domica wasn’t online.

It was in her head.

She was twelve, maybe thirteen. Her grandmother—her late grandmother—had taken her to an old bookstore tucked in a forgotten part of the city. And there, between the Victorian horror section and a dusty cabinet of scandalous memoirs, she found a book.

The Lady’s Guide to Proper Servitude.

It wasn’t quite erotic. But it was old. Real. Dominant in tone.

Her grandmother saw her reading it and instead of yanking it away, she’d smiled. A secret smile.

“You know,” she whispered, “when I was young, they called me the Grand Madam.”

Dominique blinked. “Like… a queen?”

Her grandmother winked. “Something like that. Just promise me this: if you ever take power… don’t be afraid to use it.”

Back then, it had felt like a game.

Now?

It felt like a prophecy.

Dominique turned off her screen and paced her room, the floor cold beneath her feet. Her satin robe swished around her thighs like smoke.

What bothered her most wasn’t that someone saw.

It was that someone enjoyed it.

And didn’t cower.

She opened her window slightly. Let the cold air slap her in the face.

A fox emoji.

No name.

No trace.

Just one sentence she couldn’t shake:

“You’re not the only one who watches.”

Her fingers itched.

Not with fear.

With curiosity.

With challenge.

She closed the window. Turned back toward the desk.

And whispered to herself,

“Then let’s see who blinks first.”

Dominique didn’t sleep.

She didn’t need to.

Sleep was for innocence, and that was long dead.

She spent the early hours of morning creating a new encrypted alias. Not Domica—too obvious. She needed a second mask. Something quieter. Watchful.

She chose: Queen_Zero.

No avatar. No colors. Just a red dot status and a blank profile.

She returned to the inbox where the fox had first appeared and composed a message. Short. Sharp. A line in the sand.

Queen_Zero:

Then come out of the dark, little fox. Let’s see if your teeth are real.

She hit send.

And waited.

The response came an hour later.

A new thread. Same sender.

The subject line:

The leash suits you.

🦊:

I was wondering when you’d write back.

Tell me, does it scare you? Being watched? Or does it excite you—knowing someone else understands exactly what you are… beneath the polish.

Dominique’s lips curled upward.

This wasn’t a threat.

It was… flirtation, encrypted in dominance and barbed suggestion.

She replied.

Queen_Zero:

Excitement is for children. I prefer precision.

Now tell me, what do you want?

The fox didn’t answer right away.

Instead, a file appeared.

One photo.

A still image of her, taken from across the street… at her bedroom window. Curtain half open. Head tilted down. Reading.

Timestamped.

Last night.

Her heart skipped.

Not from fear.

From thrill.

This wasn’t just a fan.

This was a player.

She stood from the desk, pacing. Each movement sharper than the last.

Who are you?

No response.

Tell me what you want or I’ll hunt you down myself.

The fox replied six minutes later.

🦊:

You already are.

Later that day at school, Dominique sat through classes like a ghost in heels.

Whispers of the scandal still buzzed, but she tuned it out.

Her mind was elsewhere.

At lunch, she received a second message.

New player. New rules. First one to beg, loses.

She didn’t reply.

Not yet.

Because across the cafeteria, Damien sat slouched at his usual table.

His fingers were scrolling absently through his phone.

But his eyes?

They were locked on her.

He raised one brow.

Then… smirked.

Like he knew.