Chapter 7 - Rule #1 — Don’t Flinch

Rule number one: don't flinch.

It's the first thing Noah taught me when he dragged me along to those debate practices, when he made me stand in front of the mirror and spit fire at my own reflection. Don't flinch when they laugh at you. Don't flinch when they call you wrong. Don't flinch when the truth cuts close enough to bleed.

And especially don't flinch when your enemy thinks they've won.

That mantra beats in my head the morning after the party.

Everyone's still buzzing about it. The kiss. The dare. The fact that the mysterious transfer girl got pulled into the spotlight and came out branded with Jace Langston's name. I hear it whispered in the halls, in the cafeteria, echoing off the lockers. Some people smirk when they look at me. Others look me up and down like I've been marked.

It should bother me more. Maybe it does. But underneath the humiliation, underneath the humiliation of being played like that, there's something sharper. Determination.

Because Jace thinks he's untouchable. He thinks he can kiss me in front of everyone, humiliate me, then walk away unscathed.

Rule number one: don't flinch.

Rule number two: hit back harder.

So I plan my first strike.

It starts small—an hour in the library with my laptop, hidden in the back corner where the sunlight slants across the dust motes and nobody bothers to wander. I scroll through every scrap of information I've collected, every digital breadcrumb I've found in the weeks leading up to Blackridge. Most of it is about the Langstons: Chief Langston's conveniently sealed records, Jace's carefully curated golden-boy reputation, the glossy photos that make their lives look like royalty instead of rot.

But then I find it.

Buried in a local blog that hasn't been updated in years, a single post. It's about a fight that broke out behind the gym two summers ago. Not unusual—Blackridge boys love their fists as much as they love their Ferraris. But this one had a twist. A name. Jace Langston's name.

The post claimed he nearly broke someone's nose in a fight he was never supposed to be in. Not on the record. No police report filed. No school punishment. Just whispers swept under a very expensive rug.

That's my crack in the armor.

It isn't the full truth about Noah. It won't take the Langstons down. But it's a start. A reminder that even the golden boy bleeds.

So I get to work.

An anonymous account, scrubbed of fingerprints. A perfectly timed drop on the Blackridge student forum, the one everyone pretends not to read but secretly stalks. I type the post carefully, crafting it like a blade:

Did you know your golden boy isn't so golden? Ask him about the fight behind the gym two summers ago. Ask him whose blood is still on his hands.

I attach the screenshot of the blog post. Enough to stir whispers. Not enough to trace back to me.

Then I hit post.

My heart races. It's reckless, dangerous, maybe even stupid. But it feels good. It feels like movement.

The ripple starts almost immediately. By lunch, the forum is blowing up. By last period, people are whispering in clusters, their voices low, eyes flicking toward Jace whenever he passes. And by the time school lets out, the rumor has spread like gasoline on dry grass.

I should feel victorious. But then I see him.

He's leaning against his car in the parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable. His storm-colored eyes track me as I approach, and for a split second I forget how to breathe.

He knows.

Not that it was me specifically. He can't. But he knows someone threw the first punch. And Jace Langston doesn't like being hit.

"Eva," he says when I'm close enough. His voice is low, calm, but it slides under my skin like a blade. "Funny how the past has a way of digging itself up."

I force a smile, even though my stomach twists. "Rumors spread fast in this place, don't they?"

His eyes narrow. "Rumors don't spread without help."

There it is—the suspicion. I can practically see the gears turning behind his gaze. He steps closer, too close, the heat of him pressing against me. "Tell me something. You come here out of nowhere, and suddenly my name's on everyone's lips for something that happened years ago. Coincidence?"

My pulse hammers, but I keep my face still. Rule number one: don't flinch. "I wouldn't know. Maybe people are just bored of hearing how perfect you are."

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—anger, maybe, or amusement. Then he smiles. Slow. Dangerous. "Careful, Eva. You're new here. You don't want to make enemies."

"Too late for that," I say before I can stop myself.

His gaze sharpens. Silence hums between us, heavy, charged. Then he laughs, soft and unexpected, like I've just told him a secret he wasn't ready to hear.

"You've got teeth," he murmurs. "Good. I hate cowards."

And then he turns, slipping into his car like nothing happened, engine purring as he pulls out of the lot.

But I stand frozen, breath shallow, heart racing. Because underneath the warning, underneath the suspicion, there was something else in his voice.

Interest.

He's watching me now. Not just the way he watches everyone, calculating their weakness, cataloging their flaws. No. He's watching me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve.

And that's dangerous.

Because puzzles don't stay unsolved forever.

That night, the whispers keep multiplying. Screenshots, reposts, theories. Some people are gleeful at the thought of Jace's golden image cracking. Others defend him like he's untouchable royalty. But one thing is certain: my message landed.

I should feel proud. Instead, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment in the parking lot. The way his eyes lingered on me. The way my own chest tightened, not with fear, but with something dangerously close to excitement.

I can't let that happen. Not with him.

The next day, the fallout hits harder. Jace walks into the cafeteria and the air shifts. Conversations stutter. Heads turn. His usual table of loyal followers waits, but his eyes flick across the room until they land on me.

And he doesn't look away.

It's infuriating. It's terrifying. It's electric.

I force myself to look down at my tray, to pretend the knot in my chest is nothing but nerves. But when I sneak a glance back up, he's still watching, still smiling that slow, dangerous smile.

The message is clear.

Game on.

I tell myself I've scored the first point, that I've proven he's not invincible. But deep down, under the armor, I know the truth.

I didn't just expose one of Jace's secrets.

I woke him up.

And now he's coming for me.