When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Nine: Pride and Prejudice

Willow Harrison's POV

The day of the acquaintance party finally came. It was Saturday, and as early as 7 a.m., Oliver had all of us, the student council, along with the class representatives from every year, prepping the venue. He was annoyingly efficient that morning, already giving instructions with that strong scent of coffee lingering around him, replacing the usual floral scent of random women's perfume.

We transformed the auditorium into a glowing, whimsical jungle.

The theme was “Into the Wild.” Jungle vines draped from the ceiling, fairy lights twinkled like fireflies, and paw prints trailed toward the dance floor like some kind of enchanted safari. We even set up different “habitats” around the venue—there was a jungle corner with hanging leaves and tribal drums playing in the background, an arctic zone with fake snow and polar bear cutouts, a Savannah lounge with beanbags shaped like rocks, and an underwater selfie booth complete with bubble machines and glowing seaweed.

The idea was simple: welcome everyone to the jungle—AKA, high school. Whether you showed up in an animal costume, as a mermaid, a fairy, or some weird hybrid in between, you belonged.

It was fun. Wild. Whimsical. And completely off-brand for someone like Oliver Clarke.

I wonder which girl he was trying to impress this time. I scanned the crowd with mild curiosity, lips pressed together to hide the smile threatening to escape. I wouldn’t put it past him to show up dressed like a peacock if it meant someone would swoon over it.

I sighed. Who was it this time?

With Oliver, everyone’s guess was as good as mine.

Hours flew by as we put on the final touches. By 3 p.m., we were done miraculously ahead of schedule. The venue looked incredible, and everyone was buzzing with anticipation. The event wouldn’t start until 5:30, which meant we had time to rest, shower, and get into costume.

Oliver clapped his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “Alright. You can all go prepare your costumes. Be back by five sharp.”

There were cheers, scattered thanks, and the shuffle of exhausted but excited feet heading for the exit.

I was just about to follow when I felt a tug on the back of my shirt.

“Not you, Harrison,” Oliver said casually, still holding the fabric between his fingers like it wasn’t borderline assault. “You’re staying longer. With me.”

I turned around slowly, arching a brow. "Why do you always single me out, Clarke?"

"Because you, Harrison, are the only person here worth paying attention to." He said it almost too casually, like it didn’t just make my heart stutter mid-beat. Oliver continued, "Let's do a final sweep on the light setup and sound system."

"This is a power trip, you know? Do you hate me that much?" I rolled my eyes, crouching by the cables and checking if they were plugged in properly.

“If I really hated you, I wouldn’t be spending my Saturday with you in an empty auditorium,” Oliver said, tapping a mic and watching the levels flicker. “I’d be spending my Saturday somewhere more peaceful. Like a war zone.”

Sarcasm. How refreshing.

Then, my eyes trailed to the entrance where a familiar silhouette stood, framed by the glow of the fairy lights.

Jaime Montoya. The only girl Oliver Clarke ever loved. His first girlfriend. His first real love.

The rest that followed were just names on a list. Playthings, if we’re being honest. None of them ever quite touched the same space in him that she once did.

I’d never officially met her. But I knew who she was.

Everyone did.

She transferred schools during our last year of junior high. A senior at the time, two years older than us, with that effortless kind of beauty people write songs about. The day she left, Oliver shut down. And the next? He was someone else entirely. Dating girls left and right, charming everyone like he was trying to outrun her ghost.

But even now, with all the time and distance, that ghost had a name. Jaime.

How could she be here?

My eyes flicked to Oliver instinctively when I saw her walking in, but I caught myself and quickly turned away, pretending to focus on the tangled mess of cables in front of me. I scoffed under my breath. “I think everything here’s good. We can leave—”

"Jaime." Oliver’s voice cut through the silence, deep and unmistakably steady.

I didn’t look up.

“Ollie.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. It carried that kind of familiarity you can’t fake. Her perfume reached me a second later, a subtle scent of vanilla, not the overwhelming, artificial kind, but something warm and clean that complimented Oliver's lingering coffee scent so well. She continued, "I heard about the regional academic thing. Congratulations."

"Thanks." His reply was clipped, but not cold. Wounded, if anything. “You didn’t have to come all this way just to say that. I didn't even win. I was just runner-up."

"You did a good job; that's all that matters." Jaime didn’t flinch. “The event you organized for later at 5:30? I’m handling it from our end. Surely you knew it was me before you even proposed it, right?” Her voice was even, practiced. “You know I’ve always volunteered at the center—"

"I didn’t." Oliver cut her off, sharper now. “Don't be mistaken. I didn't throw this event for you.”

I wanted to leave, so I tried to quietly crouch, thinking maybe I could slide out from behind the equipment unnoticed, like some awkward deer escaping the headlights—thunk. My head smacked right into the corner of the desk. Or at least, it would have. But it didn’t.

Because Oliver’s hand was already there, open, steady, shielding me before I even made contact. Like he saw it coming. Like he always did.

I blinked, startled.

He didn’t look at me. But his hand stayed where it was. Long enough to make it obvious. Definitely long enough for Jaime to notice.

“Oh,” she said. Just that. One syllable, but it carried layers. Surprise, recognition, and maybe even something bitter were folded neatly behind her smile. “I didn't know you were here, Willow.”

Her eyes scanned me briefly—no hostility, no friendliness either. Just a calm assessment. The kind that came from someone who had once been important and knew it. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” I said, forcing a smile. “Expectations are exhausting.”

I could hear Oliver scoff behind me. Low and amused.

His eyes didn’t leave me as he spoke. “Well, we’ve finished the final sweep. We should head back.”

“We still have time to catch up, don’t we, Ollie?” Jaime asked, her voice light like it hadn’t just cracked the air between us.

Oliver’s gaze lingered on me, like he already knew what I was thinking. Amused. Annoying. Unreadable, I glared at him. “We don’t,” he said, without looking away from me.

Then, casually—too casually—he grabbed my arm, warm fingers curling around my wrist like he’d done it a hundred times before, like he had every right to. He walked me toward the changing rooms and plopped down on one of the benches like he owned the place. I snickered. “What? Are you planning to watch me change?”

“If you let me,” he said without missing a beat, “why not?”

I rolled my eyes. “I know what you’re doing, Clarke. And it’s not going to work on me.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned back, watching me with that infuriating half-smile. “And what exactly am I doing?”

“That thing you do with every other girl.”

“Never. Not with you, Harrison,” he said smoothly, still smirking.

I said, just as casually. “If you’re using me to get back at Jaime for leaving you… I can do it. For a price.”

I didn’t know why I said that. Pride, probably. Or something much dumber. I could hear the pause in his breath, the way the words landed heavier than he expected—but he tried to brush it off with a scoff. “You’re not the type.”

“But I am,” I said, flashing a grin. “Your parents pay me a few hundred bucks a month to keep you safe from threats. That’s why I always take a bite of your food first.”

It was a lie. A ridiculous one. But I said it with the same ease I always said things I didn’t mean, hoping they’d hit close enough to the truth to sting.

He didn’t say anything.

Oliver Clarke just stood up and left. Just the quiet sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway, steady, controlled, and somehow louder than they should’ve been.

For a second, I stood there, blinking at the empty space he left behind.

But I couldn't fall in love with Oliver Clarke.

I can't. Not again.