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1150 Words
Emma didn’t plan to find him.
She didn’t plan anything, really, she just wandered through campus like a storm waiting for something to hit. Her fists clenched inside her coat pockets. The cold didn’t bother her anymore.
But then she turned the corner by the south hall.
And there he was.
Jace.
Alone.
Back leaned against the concrete wall. One hand gripping a lighter, flicking the flame off and on. Like it gave him something to control.
He looked up. And their eyes locked.
She should have walked away.
She didn’t.
She stepped closer, boots crunching over gravel. Her chest was tight. Her palms burned.
He didn’t speak.
She raised her hand and slapped him. Hard.
The sound cracked between them.
Jace didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop her. Just stood there like he’d been expecting it.
“You knew,” she whispered.
His jaw clenched.
“You let it happen. You let them humiliate me. You watched me burn.”
He looked away. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”
Emma laughed. Bitter. “But you were fine letting it go just far enough, right?”
He didn’t respond.
“I trusted you,” she said, voice breaking. “You kissed me. You looked me in the eye, and I believed you.”
He finally looked at her. And there was no coldness this time. No smugness.
Only regret.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”
“But it did.”
“I tried to stop them.”
“When?” she snapped. “Before the photo leaked? Before the audio clip? Before they painted my body on a f*cking wall?”
He took a step forward.
She stepped back.
His voice softened. “You think I haven’t been watching all of this fall apart?”
“Oh, poor Jace. Must be so hard to be a passive bystander to your own destruction.”
He reached out. His fingers brushed her cheek. Gentle. Hesitant. Like she might shatter under his hand.
And she hated that her body still reacted.
Her breath caught.
Her skin warmed.
Her heart, traitorous and loud, remembered him. Remembered his mouth, his hands, the way he kissed like he needed forgiveness he’d never ask for.
His thumb lingered just beneath her jaw.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“You did more than that.”
“I know.”
He leaned in. Just slightly. Enough that she felt the heat of him. The tension snapped taut between them.
For a second, the world held its breath.
Then her mouth tilted upward, not in a smile, but in anger.
She pushed him away.
“I don’t want your guilt.”
He didn’t fight her.
She stepped back, eyes hard. “You don’t get to kiss me again. Not until I forget the first time.”
She turned to leave.
But someone else was waiting at the edge of the walkway.
Elias.
Leaning against the railing like he’d been there all along. A smirk just barely playing at his lips.
“Hell of a scene,” he said.
Emma’s pulse hadn’t slowed. “What do you want?”
He walked toward her. Not fast. Just sure. “To talk.”
“Now?”
“I figured you’d want to be seen doing something scandalous. Balance the press.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not,” he said, reaching into his coat. “I’m inviting you.”
He handed her a sleek envelope. Black cardstock. Gold trim.
She raised a brow. “What is this?”
“The Carter Foundation Gala.”
Emma’s breath hitched.
“His mother. His board. The people who think you’re an easy scandal to bury. They’ll all be there.”
“Why would you want me to come?”
Elias leaned in, voice low and unbothered. “Because right now, you’re a headline. But if you show up on my arm? You’re a threat.”
She stared at the envelope.
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t.”
He was right.
She was tired of whispering. Tired of hiding.
She was done being collateral.
Emma tucked the envelope into her bag.
“This isn’t a date,” she said.
“Of course not.”
“And this isn’t about Jace.”
Elias smiled. “Nothing’s ever just about one boy.”
She started to walk away, but his voice stopped her.
“Wear black.”
She didn’t turn around.
But her fingers curled around the envelope like a promise.
That night, she stood in front of the mirror with her closet door wide open and everything inside feeling useless. Nothing screamed war. Nothing screamed “Don’t touch me unless you want to bleed.”
Until she found the black dress. The one she bought for a wedding she never attended.
She slipped it on.
Tight. Sharp. Bare at the back. Cut low at the chest.
She didn’t look soft in it. She looked dangerous.
And that’s what she needed.
She pulled her hair back into a knot. No curls. No gloss. Nothing soft.
Tonight wasn’t about being beautiful.
It was about being remembered.
She stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. She didn’t look like the girl who arrived on campus hopeful, quiet, terrified of breaking rules. That girl wouldn’t have survived this week.
She wasn’t surviving anymore.
She was planning.
Across the room, her phone buzzed.
Elias: Car arrives at 7. Don’t keep me waiting.
She didn’t reply. She let the screen go dark.
There was nothing left to explain. Nothing left to cry about. Her eyes were dry now. Dry enough to smile.
When she finally stepped into the heels, she almost felt tall. Not because of the shoes , but because she wasn’t bending anymore.
Let them look.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder how the scholarship girl turned into something they couldn’t bury.
By the time she stepped outside, the sky was dark. A sharp wind bit at her arms, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t cold. Not anymore.
A black car pulled up to the curb like a shadow on wheels.
Elias stepped out, dressed like he was born in power , all tailored lines, crisp black, and a lazy smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
His gaze raked over her.
He didn’t whistle. Didn’t flirt.
He just said, “Perfect.”
And for once, she believed it.
She climbed into the car beside him. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence was comfortable, charged. Like a fuse waiting to burn down to something dangerous.
As the car pulled away from campus, Emma stared out the window.
She wasn’t going to the gala to prove anything.
She was going to remind them that ashes don’t mean it’s over.
Sometimes, ashes spark.
Sometimes, they ignite.
- Writer
