Chapter 9: Rules, Risks, and Regrets.
1042 Words
Theo’s POV
Theo’s Guide to Hosting Game Night (a.k.a. Causing Problems on Purpose)
There are three types of people in this world: those who willingly attend game night, those who regret attending game night, and me—the agent of chaos who hosts it with wild enthusiasm and zero chill.
I may have gone a little overboard.
Okay, a lot.
The living room looks like a war zone. I’ve constructed pillow fort barricades, stacked snacks like I’m prepping for the apocalypse, and there’s an actual whiteboard with “RULES OF CHAOS” written across the top in thick red marker (underlined twice for emphasis, obviously). Beneath it:
No backing out
No cheating (Damien, I’m watching you)
If you lose, the group gets to pick your fate. No whining.
Elara walks in, arms crossed, eyebrows already doing that judgmental arch. “What kind of game night is this?”
I flash her my most dazzling grin. “The dangerous kind.”
Across from her, Damien sits like the CEO of Not Amused Incorporated. “And we agreed to this because?”
I throw an arm around his shoulders like I’m the fun uncle in a sitcom. “Because, bestie, I make life interesting.”
He shoves me off with zero hesitation. “Don’t touch me.”
Elara snorts. Victory.
“Alright, what’s the game?” she asks, clearly expecting something civilized.
I smirk. “Truth or Dare.”
Damien audibly groans like I just told him we were playing Monopoly with no rules and infinite debt. “Absolutely not.”
“Too late!” I clap. “Rule One: No backing out. You’re both trapped in the Chaos Arena now.”
Elara sighs. “This is a terrible idea.”
“And that’s why it’s perfect.”
The first few rounds are all warm-up chaos.
Elara chooses truth like the responsible adult she’s pretending to be. I ask her about her worst cooking disaster. Apparently, she once nearly set a toaster—and half her dorm—on fire. This explains so much.
Damien picks dare, because of course he does. He ends up doing a full impression of me, complete with jazz hands and exaggerated winks. I hate how good it is. Elara’s actually wheezing. Rude.
Naturally, I pick dare every single time. Why? Because truths are for the emotionally repressed, and I contain multitudes. In just three rounds, I’ve:
• Done a dramatic runway walk in Damien’s absurdly expensive coat (worth it)
•Serenaded the group with a disturbingly off-key ballad called “Snack Me Maybe”
•Balanced six Oreos on my face
Flawless performances, all of them.
Then it’s Damien’s turn again.
And my instincts—the ones honed through years of being an absolute menace—start tingling.
I lean forward, grinning. “Truth or dare, billionaire?”
He narrows his eyes like he knows I’m up to something. “Dare.”
Excellent choice.
“I dare you to kiss Elara.”
Silence. Beautiful, glorious silence.
Elara’s breath is no where to be found. Damien doesn’t move. I’m pretty sure the air itself freezes in place just to see what happens next.
I beam. “Come on, Rules of Chaos! No backing out.”
Elara turns to me like she’s debating whether she can legally murder me with a throw pillow. “I will kill you.”
“You can’t. I’m the host.” I wink.
But she turns to Damien, expecting some kind of snarky rebuttal or maybe a well-timed eyeroll. What she gets instead?
A look.
Not just any look. The look. Damien-level intensity, full-volume gaze, straight-up cinematic moment. The man sets his drink down like he’s closing a multimillion-dollar deal and leans in.
I panic.
“Alright, alright, I was mostly joking, you don’t actually have to—”
Too late. The man committed to the bit.
Except he pulls back smoothly at the last second like nothing happened, like he didn’t just almost turn this living room into a fanfiction trope.
Elara blinks like someone unplugged her brain for a moment.
I laugh nervously, sweating under the weight of my own dare. “Okay! Moving on! Who’s next?”
She’s still recovering.
Honestly, so am I.
But hey, no one died. We move on.
Until—betrayal.
“It’s your turn, Elara,” I say sweetly.
She groans. “Fine. Truth.”
My grin returns like I never left. “Do you want to kiss Damien?”
BOOM. Direct hit. Elara nearly chokes. Damien actually flinches.
“I hate you,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
Damien finally speaks, voice all calm and murdery. “Change the question.”
My eyes light up. “Why? Afraid of the answer?”
“No.” He meets my gaze, unwavering. “Change it.”
A silent, intense stare-down ensues. I consider doubling down—then remember I like living.
“Fine. Killjoy.” I pout. “New question.” I pause dramatically. “What’s your biggest regret?”
Elara goes still.
Regret. The fun-killer.
She could dodge. She usually does.
But Damien’s looking at her again—calm, unreadable, and somehow still patient. The man has the poker face of a stone wall.
Elara swallows. “Leaving.”
Just that one word. And suddenly, I’m not smiling anymore.
I see it flicker across Damien’s face too—that shift.
For a moment, we’re all quiet.
I clear my throat, trying to lift the mood. “Wow. That got heavy fast.” I toss a chip in my mouth and flash a grin. “Someone dare me to do something stupid so we can reset the vibe.”
Elara exhales like she’s been holding her breath. “I dare you to shut up.”
I gasp. “Cruel.”
Damien chuckles, and I swear that sound could power a small city with how rare it is.
Crisis: managed.
But even as the laughter comes back and the snacks disappear faster than my self-control, I catch the glance Elara throws Damien.
And I know.
She meant it.
And he knows it too.
Which means I’ve just unleashed something I can’t quite control.
Do I regret it?
…Not yet.
But I probably will.
Eventually.
Maybe.
- Writer
