Chapter Three – The Enemy's Bed

Aria's POV

The anonymous text made my stomach clench. *You should have listened the first time.* It vibrated in my hand, a silent threat that felt deafening. Who could have sent it? My mind raced, sifting through years of friendships and rivalries, trying to pinpoint anyone who knew enough to hurt me this deeply. Former best friends who had seen me at my worst? Girls I’d accidentally, or maybe not-so-accidentally, trampled on my way to the top of the social ladder? The list felt endless, yet too short, because whoever it was knew something truly damning. They knew about *that* night. Only a handful of people had ever known.

At school the next day, the search consumed me. I walked through the halls, scrutinizing every face, every whispered conversation. Was it Chloe, who I’d ditched for a 'cooler' crowd freshman year? Or Mark, whose heart I’d unwittingly broken with a casual dismissal? Every time someone met my gaze, I wondered if they were the one, their harmless smile a hidden dagger.

Damien continued to act sickeningly normal. He greeted everyone with that charming, easy smile, as if his world hadn't crumbled when I broke up with him, as if he hadn't been the prime suspect in my own internal investigation just yesterday. He even helped me when my economics textbook, heavy and worn, slipped from my grasp, its pages fanning out like a deck of cards.

"Here, let me get that," he said, his voice smooth, unaffected. He bent, our fingers brushing as he handed it back. "Rough morning?"

I just shook my head, my throat suddenly dry. Maybe I *had* misjudged him. He seemed genuinely concerned, his eyes holding no trace of malice. Yet, whenever Kael was mentioned, a flicker, a stiffening around his jaw, betrayed him. Later, when a couple of jocks were talking about the upcoming playoffs and Kael's recent performance, Damien’s casual posture tensed. His gaze drifted towards the conversation, sharp and unblinking, before he forced himself to smile and resume his own discussion.

Speaking of Kael, his name seemed to be everywhere. He was the reigning hockey captain, a force on the ice. Everyone knew Kael Volkov. Not in the way they knew Damien—Damien sought the spotlight, thrived in it. Kael was different. He was quiet, almost intimidating in his self-contained absorption. He didn't chase popularity; it just seemed to gravitate towards him because of his sheer talent and aloofness. I overheard whispers in the library, fragments of conversation from a couple of girls huddled over textbooks, "—grades are slipping, big time. Coach is furious."

“Yeah, I heard he’s barely passing trig,” the other added, flipping a page. “If he doesn’t pull them up, he’ll be off the team. Can you imagine? Kael Volkov, off the ice?”

A tiny seed of an idea planted itself in my mind. Kael, off the team. That was powerful. A bargaining chip, perhaps, if things ever got truly desperate with this blackmailer. I dismissed it quickly; I didn’t want to stoop to that level, but the thought lingered.

The week dragged on under the shadow of the anonymous texts. I felt trapped, paranoid, my carefully rebuilt life teetering on the edge of collapse. I couldn't keep living like this, waiting for the other shoe to drop. So, when Friday night rolled around, and news spread of a massive post-game party at Liam’s place, I decided to go. I needed to feel normal again, even for a few hours. I needed to escape the specter of my blackmailer.

My friends, Sarah and Maya, were already there when I arrived, the house thrumming with music and laughter. I grabbed a cup, filled it with punch—laced, I was sure, with cheap vodka—and tried to blend in. One cup became two, then three. The loud music, the crushing weight of strangers, the sweet, burning liquid dissolving my anxieties, all of it combined into a dizzying freedom. I wanted to forget. I *needed* to forget.

I spotted Kael in a corner, leaning against a wall, a half-empty cup in his hand. He was separated from the main throng, observing the chaos with that familiar, intense solitude. He didn't seem to be enjoying himself, not really, but he was here, a silent anchor in a sea of raucous teenagers. He wore a dark hoodie, his hair falling messily across his forehead, a contrast to Damien's perfectly styled coif.

The alcohol loosened my tongue, dulled my inhibitions. I found myself walking towards him, a strange curiosity overriding my usual caution. "Volkov," I said, my voice a little louder than intended over the bass.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes, dark and unreadable, locking onto mine. He didn't smile, didn't offer any conventional greeting. Just that intense stare that made me feel oddly exposed. "Bennett," he responded, his voice low, a surprising rumble that cut through the noise.

"Not exactly your usual scene, is it?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the gyrating bodies around us.

He took a slow sip from his cup. "I could say the same for you. I hear you've been working on your image." The edge in his voice was unmistakable, a subtle jab that sobered me slightly despite the alcohol coursing through my veins.

My laughter was brittle. "And you, Kael? Still the hockey god who deigns to grace us mortals with his presence?"

A faint smirk played on his lips. "Still the 'popular girl' who thinks everyone cares about her opinion, Aria?"

The words stung. He hadn't pulled any punches. "I'm not like that anymore," I snapped, defensively.

"Aren't you?" He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. His eyes bored into mine. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still playing a part. Just a different one."

"What would you know?" I shot back, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "You've barely said two words to me in all the years we've been in school."

"I see enough. I hear enough," he countered, his voice unwavering. "You were cruel, Aria. Don't pretend you weren't. You rode Damien's coattails, stepped on anyone who got in your way, and tossed people aside when they weren't useful anymore. Now you're doing good deeds, *publicly* tutoring, volunteering. Is it for them, or is it for you? To erase what you were?"

His bluntness was a punch to the gut. No one had ever spoken to me like that, not directly, not with such cutting honesty. Usually, people either feared me, worshipped me, or just ignored me. But Kael? He was challenging me, laying bare my hypocrisy with a precision that was unsettling. My chest ached, a mixture of anger and a strange, unfamiliar respect. He wasn’t pretending anything. He didn't care about my popularity, or my past mistakes, or my current attempts at redemption. He just saw through it all.

"You really think you know everything, don't you?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"I know enough to not pretend I like you just because you're Aria Bennett," he said, his gaze unwavering. "And I know enough to call out a fake."

Hurt, but strangely captivated, I downed the rest of my drink in one gulp. I needed more. I needed to drown out his words, his piercing truth. I spun on my heel, heading for the table where the drinks were.

I must have had too much. The night became a blur of flashing lights, booming music, and fragmented conversations. I remembered laughing wildly, dancing without caring who saw, an intoxicating freedom I hadn’t felt in months. Later, I remembered stumbling, someone’s arm around me, strong and steady. A low voice close to my ear, but the words were unintelligible.

The next morning, a dull ache throbbed behind my eyes. I blinked, disoriented, at an unfamiliar ceiling. The sheets were soft, dark gray. A faint smell of cedar and something else, something distinctly masculine, filled the air. My head pounded. I pushed myself up, my vision swimming, and looked around the room. Hockey equipment was piled in one corner. A framed photo of a hockey team stood on a nightstand.

Panic flared, cold and sharp. This wasn't my bedroom. This wasn't even familiar. My breath hitched as I looked down. I was wearing my clothes from last night, crumpled and askew. But I was in a bed. Alone.

And then I saw it. On the floor, near the foot of the bed, a dark green hoodie was carelessly tossed. His hoodie. Kael’s.

My stomach dropped. I was in Kael Volkov's bed.