Chapter Two – The Wrong Suspect

Aria's POV

My phone felt like a live grenade in my pocket, thrumming against my thigh with every nervous beat of my heart. I hadn’t slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the grainy footage, heard the phantom echo of voices from a life I’d tried so hard to outrun. Walking into school, the fluorescent lights hummed, threatening to short-circuit my already frayed nerves. I kept my head down, a nervous tickle crawling up my spine, half-expecting to hear whispers, to see accusing glances. Each locker I passed felt like a potential ambush, every laughing group a jury deliberating my fate.

My thumb hovered over the message icon, praying no new notifications would pop up, yet morbidly desperate to know if they had. Just the thought of another video, another cryptic threat, sent a chill through me. Who *knew*? Who remembered? The circle narrowed fast. Only one person had been that deeply ingrained in my past, that intimately aware of its ugliest corners. One person who would actively want to destabilize everything I’d painstakingly rebuilt.

Damien.

The name tasted like ash in my mouth. He was the king of subtle manipulation, of making you doubt your own sanity. This felt like his signature move, an insidious way to get under my skin without ever showing his face. He wouldn't get a reaction from me by begging or charming; I’d shut that down. But this? This was the kind of twisted game he played when he felt rejected, scorned.

I waited until after tenth-grade English, my stomach churning throughout Mr. Harrison’s lecture on Shakespearean tragedy. The irony wasn't lost on me. When the bell screeched, I packed my bag with frantic precision, then watched Damien from across the room. He was leaning against a desk, laughing with Mark, his usual effortless charm on full display. My resolve hardened.

"Damien," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, cutting through his conversation.

He turned, a practiced smile already forming. "Aria. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His eyes, usually so expressive, were carefully neutral.

I didn’t bother with pleasantries. "You need to stop."

His eyebrows rose, a hint of genuine confusion, or maybe just feigned innocence. "Stop what, exactly?"

"The messages. The videos. Whatever game you’re playing, it’s over." My voice was a low growl, laced with all the sleepless hours and simmering fear.

He pushed off the desk, walking slowly towards me, hands in his pockets. The amusement in his eyes flickered, then solidified. He almost looked… amused. "Messages? Videos? Aria, what are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me," I snapped, taking a step closer. The faint scent of his cologne, a scent I once loved, now felt suffocating. "I know it’s you. Who else would have that kind of information? Who else would go to such lengths just because I won’t get back together with them?"

He stopped in front of me, his height suddenly more imposing. But there was no anger in his gaze, just that irritating, almost patronizing calm. "You really think I would send you a mysterious message?" His lips curved into a smirk. "Aria, if I wanted to ruin your day, you would know it was me. I’d walk up to you, look you in the eye, and say exactly what I felt you deserved to hear."

His arrogance was a punch to the gut, but it also held a chilling grain of truth. Damien never hid his attacks. He reveled in confrontations. He loved making a spectacle. And that made it impossible to read him. Was this genuine denial, or a new level of psychological warfare?

"You're not that subtle, are you?" I countered, trying to keep my voice even, despite the confusion swirling in my gut.

He chuckled, a short, humorless sound. "Subtle isn't really my brand, no. And honestly, a text message? That's just pathetic. I don't beg for attention, Aria. Not from you, not from anyone." He paused, his gaze hardening slightly. "I'm hurt, yeah. Of course I am. We had something. But I'm not desperate enough to resort to some anonymous blackmail bullshit. That's not me."

The conviction in his voice, and that infuriating confidence, chipped away at my certainty. Could it really not be him? But then, who? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through me. If not Damien, then someone else entirely, someone unknown.

"So you’re saying you have no idea what I’m talking about?" I demanded, my frustration boiling over.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes unwavering. "None whatsoever. And frankly, it's pretty insulting that you immediately jump to me. You really think so little of me?"

Before I could answer, he turned, shrugging. "Whatever this is, Aria, it's not from me. Find better enemies." With that, he walked away, leaving me standing alone, my mind a tangled mess of doubt and renewed fear.

I walked the halls in a daze, the conversation replaying, Damien's calm, almost amused denial grating on me. He hadn't been defensive; he'd been dismissive. It was a kind of power play I hadn't anticipated. I pushed open the heavy double doors leading to the sports fields, craving the open air. The afternoon sun was bright, reflecting off the freshly re-iced surface of the outdoor hockey rink.

And there he was.

Kael Volkov.

He was in full gear, helmet off, skates on, leaning against the boards, talking to a couple of other players. His dark hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, and his eyes, a startling blue, scanned the scene with an almost predatory focus. An immediate tension settled over the area. It was palpable, thick enough to taste. Other students, walking nearby, either stopped or veered wide, giving the rink a conspicuously large berth.

Kael and Damien. Their names used to be synonymous with each other, rising stars on the hockey team, best friends since elementary school. Then, last year, everything changed. A fight, nobody really knew what about, but it ended with Kael publicly challenging Damien for the captaincy. He’d won, too, in a brutal, unforgettable skate-off. Damien had never recovered. That loss had eaten at him, festered into a deep, ugly resentment.

And now, here they were, a few dozen yards apart. Damien had followed me out, I realized, lingering near the exit, talking quietly on his phone. His gaze flickered past me, landing on Kael. The casual indifference he’d shown me moments ago vanished, replaced by a raw, unadulterated hatred that twisted his features. His jaw was clenched, his knuckles white against his phone.

Kael. The one person who could truly get under Damien's skin. The one person who had successfully dethroned him.

As if sensing the intense stare, Kael looked up, his blue eyes locking onto Damien’s across the expanse of ice and asphalt. Damien, for once, was the one looking away first, breaking eye contact with a sharp jerk of his head.

I felt a strange, unsettling shift. If not Damien, then who? The question echoed, more terrifying now. I walked away from the rink, the image of their silent animosity burning in my mind.

That night, alone in my room, the fear returned, sharper, colder. I had just turned off my lamp, trying to force myself to sleep, when my phone vibrated on the bedside table. My heart leaped into my throat. The screen glowed, a new message notification.

My hand trembled as I picked it up.

"You should have listened the first time."