If I Perish, I perish

Aria's POV

The car screeched to a stop a few feet away, tires squealing against the stone path.

And then it hit me.

That laugh.

High. Shrill. Mocking.

The driver’s door opened, and out stepped Bianca, her platinum-blonde hair tied in a tight ponytail that swayed with every step she took. Celeste emerged from the passenger side, all fake smiles and thinly veiled cruelty behind baby-pink glossed lips.

“Well, well,” Bianca drawled, folding her arms as she leaned against the car. “If it isn’t our favorite little stray. Aria, darling, you look… filthy.”

Celeste gave a soft, fake gasp. “Oops. Was that us?”

I clenched my jaw, fingers curling into the fabric of my soaked hoodie. I tasted dirt in the corner of my mouth.

Of course it was them.

I should’ve known I wouldn’t get through one day without running into the poison in

human skin that was my stepfamily.

Bianca’s gaze raked over me, from the mud on my clothes to the cheap sneakers on my feet. “Didn’t realize they were letting in charity cases this year.”

“Must be hard,” Celeste added sweetly. “Living like the Omega you really are. I mean… no daddy to pull strings anymore, right?”

They laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

I stood there, teeth clenched, hoodie dripping mud, hands trembling at my sides—but not from humiliation.

From restraint.

Because if they knew who I really was—what I really was—they’d be the ones shaking.

But not yet.

Not now.

I took a breath, straightened my spine, and locked eyes with Bianca.

“You should get your brakes checked,” I said coolly. “Might save your life someday.”

Her smile faltered just slightly. Barely.

Celeste scoffed. “Still got that little mouth on you, huh? Cute. You won’t last a day after we are done with you.”

I tilted my head slightly, the corners of my lips curling into a smirk. “You really think that’s going to work on me, Celeste?” I asked, my voice soft but laced with a dangerous edge. “You think you can intimidate me with petty threats and insults? I’ve dealt with worse.”

Bianca’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. “You’re nothing but a weak Omega,” she spat, as if it were the worst insult she could throw at me. “You’re nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You think I’m weak because you need to feel stronger. You need someone beneath you to validate your pathetic existence. But I’m not that person. Not anymore.”

Celeste scoffed, but there was tension in her posture now—just enough for me to know I’d hit a nerve.

“You won’t have a peaceful day in this school as long as we’re alive,” she said with a saccharine smile. “That’s a promise.”

“I’ve survived worse than the two of you,” I replied coolly, brushing a splatter of mud from my sleeve. “Do your worst.”

They stared at me for a beat longer, as if expecting me to back down.

I didn’t.

Bianca’s lips curled into a sneer. “Trash belongs in the dirt.”

Then they turned and got back into their overpriced, overcompensating sports car. The tires screeched as they peeled away, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and petty insecurity.

I exhaled, my hands still shaking slightly—not from fear, but from restraint.

Mud clung to my hoodie and jeans, cold and wet, sliding down my skin like humiliation. But I refused to let it stick to my pride.

I turned on my heel and headed back to the dorm. There was no victory in looking like this. I needed to clean up.

---

Freshly showered, dressed in the only decent outfit I owned—black jeans, a fitted gray long-sleeve, and boots that had seen better days—I found myself standing outside one of the most expensive-looking restaurants on campus.

“The Ember lounge.”  Gold-trimmed windows, white marble pillars, and an entry that screamed you probably can’t afford this, peasant.

Technically, it wasn’t off-limits to Omegas. But the price tag on the menu probably thought otherwise.

I wasn’t rich. Not like the other kids with their private towers and fancy cars. Everything I had came from scraping, hiding, enduring.

But the truth was, I hadn’t eaten anything proper all day.

My stomach grumbled loudly, and I instinctively crossed my arms over it.

I glanced through the tall glass windows. . To my surprise, it was nearly empty inside.

It was the weekend, after all. Most students were probably off-campus or recovering from Friday night’s chaos. The usual highborn suspects were probably sipping imported wine on some rooftop instead.

Still… the scent that drifted through the glass? Heavenly.

Butter. Garlic. Something slow-roasted and drowning in flavor.

My stomach growled again—louder this time—and no amount of arm-crossing could hide it now.

Screw it.

I pulled the door open and walked in like I belonged.

The hostess looked up from her tablet, lips parted in polite surprise. Her gaze flicked from my boots to my jeans to the slightly wrinkled shirt I’d smoothed down twice on the way over. I saw the judgment flash in her eyes before she buried it behind a fake smile.

“Welcome to The Ember Lounge. Table for one?”

I nodded. “Actually… can I see a menu first?”

She handed me a sleek digital tablet without a word. I tapped the screen.

Then nearly choked on air.

60 dollars for pan-seared steak.

45 for honey-glazed salmon.

Even the damn bread basket was listed at 20.

I had the money. Technically.

But that money was supposed to last me. For clothes. Textbooks. Emergencies. Two full years.

This? This was a reckless choice. A stupid one.

But maybe I was tired of being smart.

I’d spent so long making the “right” choices. Hiding. Surviving. Keeping quiet. Blending in. Being smaller than I really was so I didn’t draw attention or make noise.

And for what? So I could scrape through life, while the same people who laughed at me dined like royalty?

I lifted my chin.

“I’ll have the garlic-butter steak,” I said, handing the tablet back before I could change my mind. “Medium rare. And a lemon iced tea.”

The hostess blinked. “Of course. Right this way.”

She led me to a table by the window. I sat down, trying not to flinch at the softness of the velvet seat or the way the silverware looked like it cost more than my shoes.

I folded my hands in my lap.

If I perish, I perish.

A few minutes later, the plate was set in front of me—and my goodness, it was a work of art. Sizzling garlic butter oozed down the perfectly seared steak, pooling beside a mountain of mashed potatoes whipped to silk. Everything was plated with edible flowers and pretentious confidence.

It smelled like heaven. Like sin. Like everything I hadn’t let myself have in a long, long time.

Before I touched anything, I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture.

Because honestly? I didn’t know when I’d eat something this beautiful again.

And maybe that was okay.

But right now?

I was going to enjoy every single bite.

I picked up the silver fork, sliced off a tender piece of steak, and brought it halfway to my mouth.

Then—

My instincts screamed.

Not a whisper. A full-body jolt, like lightning crawling beneath my skin.

Something was wrong. Terribly, violently wrong.

The kind of wrong that doesn’t come from paranoia—but from a predator’s sixth sense.

I didn’t hesitate.

I dropped the fork, shoved away from the table, and dove to the side just as—

CRASH!