The secrets we bury

Dancing With the devil

Homecoming season at St. Agatha’s was nothing short of a royal affair.

And as one of the reigning queens —no, the queen — I wasn’t about to let this year fall short of legendary. As a part of the Homecoming Committee, the girls and I had full creative control. Lace-draped halls, chandeliers strung from the gym ceiling, imported roses, fairy lights — it would be a night to remember.

Or to regret.

Emma, Averie, and I stayed late after school most evenings, supervising the hired decorators and finalizing every detail from the playlist to the custom scent that would mist the room from hidden diffusers. Luxury was the bare minimum.

But beneath the sparkle of it all, something was rotting.

Emma.

The bruises were getting darker, harder to miss. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes anymore. She flinched when anyone brushed against her, especially when Jason showed up unexpectedly during prep meetings.

Still, she said nothing.

And I didn’t press.

Because when she was ready, I knew she’d come to me. They always did.

But that wasn’t the only thing slipping from my grasp.

Melanie.

And Thornton.

What started as a little experiment — a shiny, scandalous distraction — had evolved into something I never intended. Something real.

They were falling.

She looked at him like he was oxygen.

He looked at her like she was untouchable.

And it made me sick.

Thornton was never meant to feel anything. He was a pawn. A stepping stone. A rite of passage for Melanie — not a happily ever after.

Now, the lines were blurring.

And when lines blur… people get hurt.

We were at Emma’s house, trying on dresses for the big night.

Champagne-colored satin. Velvet emeralds. Crimson silks.

Melanie held up a delicate pale pink number, strapless with a sweetheart neckline. It was gorgeous. Dreamy even.

“You think Thornton will like this one?” she asked, cheeks pink, eyes shining.

Emma and Averie exchanged a glance.

I smiled.

“Mel… you could wear a garbage bag and he’d still fall all over you.”

She giggled, holding the dress to her chest.

She was happy. Genuinely happy.

And for a moment, I almost… almost let her have it.

But then I remembered.

She was never meant to win.

Later that night, I sat on my bed, staring at my phone screen.

Text from Ethan: “Can’t stop thinking about you.”

Another from Thornton: “Mel wants to practice dancing this weekend, that cool?”

Cool?

No, baby. It wasn’t cool.

It was a goddamn betrayal.

So I did what I did best.

I plotted.

Because Homecoming wasn’t just a dance.

It was the stage.

And I was about to take back control.

Part of me — a very small, weak part of me — wanted Melanie to have happiness. To feel wanted. To feel loved.

But then again, I wasn’t God.

And I sure as hell wasn’t in the business of handing out happy endings.

So against my better judgment — against every ounce of reason clawing inside me — I FaceTimed Thornton.

He answered immediately, shirtless, sprawled across his bed like some goddamn Greek statue.

His voice came low, thick with sleep.

“Hi, sweetie,” he said, lips curling into that lazy grin that used to undo me.

My face stayed hard. Smile? Thin. Forced.

I wasn’t here to flirt.

“I need to ask you something.”

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, eyebrows raising.

“What’s that?”

My voice faltered. Just a bit. Enough to let something vulnerable slip through.

“Are you falling for her?”

I looked away as the question lingered in the air.

He scratched his head, the silence dragging.

“I don’t know… I think I might be.”

He sighed. “She’s just so different from what I’m used to.”

That was the problem.

She was new.

She hadn’t been worn out and bruised by the world yet. She still believed in magic and fairytales and love.

“Melanie’s a minor, Thornton,” I snapped, trying to hide the shake in my voice. “There’s no future there.”

He stared at me through the screen. Not angry. Not amused.

Just disappointed.

“So are you, Ava. And that’s never stopped us.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

The walls were cracking. I could feel it.

I forced a brittle smile. “I gotta go. Emma’s calling.”

A lie.

One I didn’t even try to make believable.

Before he could say another word, I hung up.

And for the first time in a long time — something broke.

Not a scream. Not a tear. Not some grand theatrical meltdown.

Just a quiet shatter inside my chest.

A truth I didn’t want to name.

Why did I feel this way?

Why did it feel like I was losing something that was never even mine to begin with?

And why, out of everyone in this twisted little game I played…

Was she the one who made him real?