Chapter 3

I wake up to the sound of my alarm vibrating aggressively against my nightstand, like it’s personally offended I’m still asleep. I slap it off without opening my eyes, stretching beneath my blanket as a heavy groan pulls out of me. My whole body feels like it spent the entire night replaying my ridiculous but brilliant plan, which… okay, it did. I barely slept.

The ceiling above me is the same pale cream it’s always been, the same tiny crack in the left corner, the same faint shadow thrown by the curtain. Everything is exactly where I left it, but somehow the whole room feels different. Like I’ve crossed some kind of internal line and can’t go back.

I’m really doing this.

I’m really going after Owen-Kyle-freaking-Knox, and that starts today.

The thought sends a weird combination of confidence and nausea rolling through me. Great. Love that for me.

I toss off the blanket and push myself up, feeling my hair fall around my face in messy waves. The house is quiet, dead quiet, and that’s how I know something happened between my parents. When this place is peaceful in the morning, it’s never actual peace. It’s the residue of a storm.

Classic King household.

I slip on my slippers and walk to the bathroom, not bothering to knock. No one else is up this early anyway. The tile is cold under my feet, the mirror foggy from the hot shower my dad must’ve taken earlier, meaning he woke up before dawn again just to avoid my mom.

Cute.

I flip on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, watching droplets run down my cheeks and drip off my chin. My eyes look puffy from staying awake, but there’s a spark there. Something defiant. Something stubborn.

Something a little unhinged.

I brush my teeth slowly, letting the minty burn distract me from everything else. When I rinse my mouth, I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time.

“You’re not crazy,” I whisper. “You’re strategic.”

The mirror doesn’t argue, so that’s good enough for me.

Back in my room, I pull open my closet and stare at my clothes like one of them is going to raise its hand and volunteer as tribute. I need something that looks “I don’t care” but also “notice me anyway.” Not obvious. Just… enough.

I settle on black jeans and a fitted white top, simple but sharp, and a soft, oversized hoodie to throw over it because it’s cold and also because I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, leaving a few strands to frame my face, and swipe on lipgloss.

Breakfast is going to be a whole situation I’m not mentally prepared for, but I head downstairs anyway. The house smells like coffee and toast, my father’s doing, not my mom’s, and I find him at the dining table, reading something on his iPad with that tight look around his eyes he gets after a fight.

My mom is at the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone, a cup of coffee in her hand. They’re both pretending the other doesn’t exist.

As usual.

“Morning,” I say, just to see what happens.

Nothing happens.

My mom doesn’t look up. My dad barely blinks. The silence is so loud it feels like it’s pressing into my skull.

And honestly? I don’t care. I stopped caring a long time ago. When you grow up in a house where two adults treat ignoring each other like an Olympic sport, your expectations adjust. Mine have adjusted all the way down to zero.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit across from my dad. He lowers his iPad just enough to acknowledge my existence. Barely.

“School today?” he asks, like it’s a real question.

“No, I’m running away to join the circus,” I say, deadpan.

He sighs. “Chloe.”

“What? You asked.”

He lifts the iPad again, ending the conversation before it even starts. My mom doesn’t look over, but I can practically feel her annoyance from across the room.

This is my life. This has always been my life.

Parents who share a house, share a kid, share a marriage certificate, but not a single ounce of warmth.

And people wonder why I don’t “believe in love.”

I eat silently, the cereal soggy halfway through, but I keep spooning it into my mouth anyway because the alternative is listening to them breathe in the same space and pretend it’s normal.

My mom eventually stands, heels clicking lightly against the floor, and grabs her purse.

“I’ll be home late,” she says to no one in particular.

“Okay,” my dad replies, still not looking at her.

She leaves. The sound of the door closing rings sharp.

My dad closes his iPad.

“Your mother and I…”

“Nope,” I cut in. “Do not do that. Do not try the whole ‘we’re adults, we’ll work it out’ speech. You guys say that every Thursday and somehow end up fighting every Friday.”

His jaw tenses. “Chloe…”

“I’m just saying.” I shrug. “Don’t start pretending now.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. My dad always shuts down first. My mom attacks, he retreats. That’s their rhythm. A toxic two-step.

“You should get going,” he says instead.

Right. End scene.

I rinse my bowl, grab my backpack, and head toward the door. My dad stays in the dining room. No hug. No goodbye. Not even a “have a good day.”

But it doesn’t hurt anymore. Not really. I stopped expecting affection from them a long time ago.

At least with Owen… whatever the hell is coming, it’ll be honest. Messy, chaotic, maybe stupid as hell, but honest. Predictable in its unpredictability.

I step into the hallway and pull on my hoodie. My phone buzzes with a message from Pri:

Pri: Tell me you’re not chickening out today.

A smile tugs at my lips.

Me: Babe, please. I don’t chicken out. I cook.

Another message pops up instantly:

Milla: Don’t start drama without us.

Star: If he breathes wrong at you, we jump him.

Me: I thought y’all didn’t want me to do this.

Star: Since you insist, we’re all in with you.

Pri: Yep.

Milla: Word.

I shake my head, snorting softly. They’re ridiculous. They’re also the only people in the world who make this stupid plan feel less insane.

I step outside into the chilly morning air, locking the door behind me. The street is quiet, the sky a soft gray that feels like it’s holding its breath. I walk down the pathway, backpack bouncing lightly against my shoulder.

My parents are pretending they don’t exist to each other.

I’m outside planning to ruin, or be ruined by, the golden boy of Briarwood High.

Yeah. This day is going to be something.

The school bus pulls up at the curb, brakes squeaking, and I climb in, heading straight for my usual window seat near the back. A couple of kids are talking loudly about some stupid TikTok challenge. Someone is chewing gum like they’re trying to murder it.

And somewhere in this town, the golden boy is probably waking up in his perfect house with his perfect parents and his perfect life, not knowing that today is the day I start chipping away at all of it.

A little thrill snakes through me at the thought.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Just anticipation.

The kind that curls in your stomach and makes your fingertips buzz.

The kind that tells you you’re doing something reckless… but right.

I lean my head against the window, watching houses blur past, the vibration humming softly against my skull. My reflection stares back at me, calm, focused, a little dangerous.

Today is the first move.

Today, I step into his line of sight.

Today the game starts.

And once it does… neither of us is coming out the same.