The Muse

I stare at the mirror, my reflection mocking me as I adjust the spare cheerleading top and the skirt Anna shoves into my hands. They're a little too tight and way too revealing for my liking, but at this point, beggars can't be choosers.

The damp cardigan hangs limply over the bathroom stall door. I will never wear that again. No matter how much I adored that.

Anna, meanwhile, is busy raving about Massimo like she hasn't just dragged me into a battlefield. Like I wasn't just publicly ridiculed by the very man she crushes over.

"I swear, Krystina, the way he fights? It's... so fine. Like, he's just so..." Her voice trails off, and she sighs dreamily.

"Annoying? A menace to society? A walking red flag?" I grumble, wringing my hair under the hand dryer. Almost tripping and hitting my nose on the sink.

Anna rolls her light eyes. "Hot. The word is hot. Honestly, you're so dramatic."

I look at her incredulously, towel-drying my bangs. "You do realize he humiliated me in front of the entire campus, right? That wasn't hot, Anna. That was sociopathic."

"Oh, please." She waves me off. "It's just water. You'll live."

I sigh, giving the neckline of the top another uncomfortable tug. The bright cheerleading colours screams for attention, which is ironic, considering I've spent my entire life perfecting the art of invisibility. My brother mocks me every moment he gets.

Sometimes it's annoying how despite seeing the cruelty of the said man, she ignores it. Because it's easier to romanticise someone than to admit they're a monster.

But I don't say that.

I don't say anything.

Because if I do, if I ruin the mood, if I complain, if I remind her that I'm the victim here, she might leave. And I can't... can't... be alone again.

I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing down the panic bubbling in my chest as my skin prickles with the phantom of his lingering eyes. I can still feel him, hear the mocking laugh.

It's fine.

It's over.

I just have to get through the rest of the day. Keep my head down. Breathe through the nausea curling in my stomach. Pretend like I don't care. Pretend like my heart isn't hammering at the thought of stepping out of this bathroom and walking through the halls with this tiny, clinging top, with the remnants of my humiliation all over my skin.

I don't want to go out there. I don't want them to look at me.

But worse than that-I don't want to be left behind.

Giving one last tug at the raging red top, I walked to the door. Pushing open the bathroom door, I freeze mid-step; my heart immediately drops to the soles of my borrowed sneakers.

Leaning casually against the wall like he owns the place is none other than him. Massimo Bianchi.

And because the universe clearly enjoyed tormenting me, he has a lollipop in his mouth, its white stick jutting out like some twisted accessory to his smirk.

Behind him, his entourage loiters like a pack of well-dressed slayers. Slayers of my sanity.

To his left is Nico DeLuca, his best friend and second-in-command of their little empire of chaos. He has dark, brooding eyes and a permanent scowl that could probably make grown men cry. On his right is Sienna Marquez, Massimo's alleged on-again, off-again...whatever she was. Let's just say she isn't the kind of person you want to cross.

Sienna wears a mini skirt so short it might as well have been a belt and a tube top that defied the laws of physics. Her perfectly styled dark waves frames her smug expression as she whispered something to Nico, her sharp gaze flicking to me with the kind of disdain that make me want to crawl back into the bathroom stall.

I tried to sidestep, praying he will not notice me, but of course, that is a wishful thinking.

"Piccolo," Massimo drawled, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist.

"What are you doing?" I panic yanking my arm back, but his grip is ironclad.

"What does it look like?" he replies and that infuriating smirk never falters. Dread washes over me. I stop breathing. My vision blurs. This is not good.

Gathering all my courage, I yanked my wrist back. Knowing damn well, he has some kind of superiority over me. I won't say financially but both physically and socially. "Let go of me."

"Why?" He tilts his head, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. "You should be glad I'm touching you. Don't you have a crush on me?"

I stare at him, mouth slightly agape. He will never let me live without mentioning that letter, won't he? I avert my eyes to stare at my feet. "That was before I knew what you were."

By the growing second, he's making me want to dig a hole and reside there as long as he exists. It's not the first time he's stopped me like this, and not the first time he's humiliated me in front of his friends. But this time, I am aware of his intense stare on my skin. I feel pathetically exposed in this top.

"And what am I?"

A jerk.

I bite my tongue.

"Leave her alone, Massimo."

Sienna steps as she scowls glaring at his hand on my wrist. Her designer heels click against the floor, her gaze sweeping over me with crude detachment and derision. She's always detested me, for reasons only known to her. Not like I like her either. Not someone with narcissistic tendencies.

"Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes must be getting late for class," she sneers folding her arms across her chest. And is it weird I can practically see her breasts?

But for once, I agree with her. I do need to get to class—far, far away from this train wreck of a situation.

Massimo ignores her, his attention still fix on me like I am some kind of exotic animal he is seeing in the zoo for the first time.

I glare at Anna, hoping my death stare will somehow waver her from whatever trance she is in. Are you serious right now? But no, she's too busy staring at Massimo like he's descended from Mount Olympus with a side of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

I want to hiss.

But my words freeze as his piercing blue eyes lock onto mine. And just like that, the universe decides I haven't suffered enough.

Massimo tilts his head, an infuriating smirk spreading across his face as if he's won some invisible battle. I can practically hear the victory bells ringing in his oversized ego.

"What do you want now?" I mutter lowering my head, clutching my bag tighter as if it's an actual weapon. Not that I could do anything with it, but a girl can dream.

He twirls the lollipop in his fingers before popping it back into his mouth. "You're still mad, piccolo?" His tone is lazy, like he can't be bothered to put effort into tormenting me but will do it anyway because, apparently, that's his calling in life. And maybe it is. Cause there's no way, he truly cares if I'm mad. He's an obnoxious man with those dark deep soulless eyes. He'd enjoy inflicting pain, only because he's a sadist.

Don't want to bring more humiliation to myself, I sigh and speak again. "Let me go."

He chuckles, low and deep, and I hate that it's kind of... nice. Like dark chocolate. Bitter but addictive.

Stop it, Krystina. Get it together.

"Come on, it was just water. Don't tell me you're holding a grudge over something so small," he says, leaning down casually as if it isn't unravelling me. It does. Everything he does affects me. Some part of me wants to smash my fist against his godly-prefect face and ruin the upcoming matches or photo shoots he is going to have.

But my body betrays me. Every time. I hate this. I hate him. Hate the way he knows the power he has on me. He wants me to react. To see me make a fool of myself again. So that his minions can laugh and have a source of entertainment as if name-calling, fat-shamming and publicly humiliating me isn't enough.

"I don't hold grudges," I reply through gritted teeth, hating how timid my voice is.

I hold memories. And this one's going in the vault.

Anna finally pipes up as I see her stepping toward him and placing her hand on his over the one on mine. "Massimo, don't tease her. She's had a rough day."

Oh, now you defend me?

Massimo barely glances at Anna, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before he turns his attention to her hand on his and I see the muscle beneath his jaw ticking. He doesn't need to speak, his eyes do the communication. Anna quickly retreats her hand as if touching him burns her and to be honest it does.

One thing about Massimo Bianchi, he doesn't like to be touched.

His fingers loosen. Just enough. Then, a push.

It's not rough, not enough to hurt—but enough to make me stumble. My breath catches as my feet slide back, struggling for balance.

He tilts his head. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's observing something interesting, something fragile.

He leans, his breath fans my ear lobes and I am momentarily frozen. "Keep crossing my way, little nerd, and I'll make sure they see more of you than just your legs."

Then, his hand disappears into his pocket. But his eyes—they burn. Cold fire licking through the ice.

They drop. To my top. A flicker of something dark, and unreadable crosses his features before they meet mine again.

I can't breathe.

His smirk is gone. That alone terrifies me more than anything.

I don't wait.

I turn.

And I run.

Because that's what I do.

What I have mastered myself to do.