Cass Winfield had learned to expect the worst. She had learned to walk into a room, feel every stare, every whispered joke, every smirk aimed at her, and somehow keep her chin high. She had mastered calm in the storm, but today was different. Today was personal.
She could feel it before she even entered the auditorium. The hallway smelled of tension and popcorn and something metallic, like nerves stretched too thin. Marvin Woods was here early, smirking like the world belonged to him, and his girlfriend was hovering nearby, draping herself over him like a trophy. He didn’t even need to speak for the heat to radiate off him, for the message to be clear: I own this, and I own you.
Cass’s stomach twisted, not from fear, but from fury. He wanted war, and fine, he would get it. But she wasn’t
