Wrong Chat, Right Enemy

Zoe’s POV

I was twenty-one years old, and I had mastered the art of being a ghost.

I sat in the very back row of the lecture hall, swallowed whole by an oversized charcoal hoodie, baggy jeans, and a faded baseball cap pulled low over my eyes. If someone looked at me, they saw a blob of fabric. That was the point. Invisible was safe. Invisible meant nobody expected anything from me.

Beside me, Madison was practically blinding. My best friend was currently applying a coat of lip gloss that caught the fluorescent lighting, her golden waves tumbling over her designer leather jacket. Every guy within three rows was practically breaking his neck just to glance at her.

"Are you even listening?" Madison whispered, tapping away on her iPad. "The professor has said 'paradigm' eight times in ten minutes."

"I’m counting the minutes until I can bury myself in my room," I mumbled back, hiding my face further inside my hood.

"You spend your life hiding, Z," she sighed, giving me a sympathetic nudge. "You’re gorgeous under all those tents you wear, I swear. You just need to step into the light."

I just smiled faintly and looked down. Madison didn't get it. Standing next to her felt like being a flickering match next to a solar flare.

When class ended, I practically bolted. I skipped the campus coffee runs, dodged the crowd, and caught the first bus back to West Lake Hills.

The Blackwood residence was a massive, modern fortress of glass, black steel, and marble. My mom, Vanessa, had married Richard Blackwood two months ago. For her, it was a fairy-tale second chance. For me, it meant being dragged into a world of sickening wealth and forced family bonding.

And worst of all, it meant living under the exact same roof as Richard’s son.

Aiden Blackwood.

I kicked off my worn sneakers by the door and crept toward the kitchen to grab an iced coffee. The house was quiet, and I prayed it would stay that way. I padded across the polished concrete floor in my oversized sleep tee and grey sweatpants, grabbed the coffee carton from the fridge, and turned around—

Only to slam face-first into a six-foot-two wall of solid chest and absolute arrogance.

I choked, dropping the carton as coffee splashed onto my oversized sleeve. "Jesus Christ, Aiden! Do you have to materialize like a demonic jump scare?"

Aiden didn't even flinch. He leaned against the marble island, wearing a crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing ink-covered forearms. His dark hair was carelessly tossed, his jawline was razor-sharp, and his dark eyes swept over me with pure, unapologetic amusement.

"Nice outfit," he drawled, his deep voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you going camping in the hallway, or did you just get dragged out of a thrift store donation bin?"

I wiped my chin with my sleeve, my face burning. "My clothes are comfortable. Unlike your ego, which needs its own zip code."

He smirked, taking a slow step into my personal space. The scent of dark amber and expensive cologne hit me instantly. "You know, if you spent five minutes brushing your hair instead of dressing like a homeless ghost, people might actually notice you exist."

"I like being invisible," I snapped, clutching my arms across my chest. "It keeps me away from self-absorbed narcissists like you."

"Right. Invisible." Aiden let out a low, dark laugh, stepping past me and brushing his shoulder heavily against mine. "Try not to trip over your own trousers on the way out, step-sis."

He spat the title out like a dirty joke. I squeezed my eyes shut, muttered a string of curses under my breath, and ran upstairs to my room before I threw a ceramic plate at his stupidly handsome head.

I locked my bedroom door, collapsed onto my bed, and grabbed my phone. My chest was tight, my heart hammering from pure, unadulterated rage.

I opened the one app where I didn't have to hide.

On this anonymous messaging platform, I wasn't the shy, oversized-sweater girl getting insulted in her own kitchen.

Here, I was Princess.

I was sharp, flirtatious, daring, and unapologetically bold.

A notification was already waiting for me from my favorite chat partner—a guy who went by Ace. We’d been talking for 3 months. He was funny, ridiculously confident, dangerously flirtatious, and somehow, he actually listened to me.

Ace: Still hiding in your blanket fort, Princess? Or did your obnoxious stepbrother drive you out of the house again?

A slow grin spread across my face. I sat up, typing rapidly.

Princess: Please. My stepbrother is an overgrown toddler with a trust fund and a god complex. If I wanted to deal with a narcissist, I’d stare into a mirror for five hours.

His reply popped up three seconds later.

Ace: Ouch. Remind me never to cross you. Though I hear the guy is devastatingly handsome. Sure you aren't secretly obsessed with him?

Princess: I would rather swallow broken glass.

Ace: Bold words. Prove you're not just a twelve-year-old boy sitting in a basement. Send me a picture of your beautiful face, Princess. Let me see who I'm talking to.

My stomach did a nervous flip. He had been asking for a photo for days. I couldn't send my real face. What if he hated how I looked? What if he stopped talking to me?

My finger hovered over my gallery. I selected a stunning, sun-drenched selfie of Madison lounging by a pool that she had sent me last week. I took a deep breath and hit send.

Princess: Satisfied, Ace?

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Ace: ...Damn, Princess. Okay. I stand corrected. You are definitely not a twelve-year-old boy.

A rush of giddy heat flooded my chest, even as a tiny whisper of guilt clawed at my gut.

Before I could type back, a harsh knock rattled my bedroom door, followed by a loud ping on my phone.

I glanced at the screen. A text from an saved number.

From Aiden: Turn your loud music down before I break the door down.

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the door, and typed a quick, playful challenge back to Ace.

Princess: Your turn then, Ace. Send me a picture. Show me what you look like.

Downstairs, I heard heavy footsteps pacing back and forth right outside my room.

My phone buzzed instantly with Ace's reply.

Ace: Careful what you wish for, Princess. Here.

An image downloaded on my screen.

My breath caught in my throat. My blood ran completely cold.

The photo showed a shirtless guy standing in front of a familiar, tall bathroom mirror. He had a slate-grey towel hung low around his waist, dark messy hair, and a distinct, intricate dragon tattoo swirling down his right arm.

The exact same dragon tattoo I had just seen on the guy standing outside my door.

My bedroom handle twisted violently from the outside.

"Zoe, open the damn door," Aiden's voice growled through the wood—at the exact same second a new message flashed at the bottom of my screen from Ace:

Ace: Do you like what you see, Princess?