Pretty In Pain

Ariella Everyone at Ridgeview High thinks Remington Cole is a golden boy. Nineteen. Tall. That dark messy hair girls whisper about. Smiles too easily, laughs too loudly, never takes anything seriously. He’s the kind of boy who doesn’t just walk down the halls—he owns them, like even the floor tiles bend for him. And he’s mine. Well… not officially. Not in real life. Not yet. But he will be. I’m Ariella Kingsley, and I don’t give up on things I want. Not when it comes to pink dresses. Not when it comes to writing on my blog. And definitely not when it comes to the boy who thinks he’s too untouchable to touch me. Today’s outfit is carefully planned. Pink pleated skirt, soft sweater the same shade as strawberry milk, hair tied with a ribbon. Sweet. Girly. The kind of look that makes teachers shake their heads, but makes Remington glance twice before forcing himself to look away. And that’s all I need. Proof he’s watching. I spot him near the courtyard wall, leaning back like the world is too heavy but he’s too cool to notice. His tie is hanging loose, shirt collar undone, like rules were created just for him to break. A group of guys hover nearby, hanging onto his every word, but Remington isn’t really paying attention. He’s scrolling his phone, pretending to be detached from everything—including me. But I see the way his eyes flick up the second I step into the sunlight. His jaw flexes. His thumb pauses on the screen. Gotcha. “Remmy!” I call, swishing across the courtyard, notebook clutched against my chest like it’s a diary instead of math notes. I ignore the curious stares; I’m used to them. Everyone knows Ariella Kingsley is obsessed with Remington Cole. What they don’t know is that I’m closer than they think to cracking him open. He lifts his head lazily, his lips curving in that smirk that could probably melt glaciers. “Ariella,” he drawls. His voice is low, rich, threaded with mockery. “Skipping class again just to chase me around? Tragic.” I huff, planting myself directly in front of him. The sun frames him like some kind of rebel saint. My heart does its stupid flutter thing. “Maybe I like chasing you.” His smirk twitches. For a heartbeat, his gaze drops to my mouth. Then he laughs. Loud. Careless. Pretending. Always pretending. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head. But I see it. The crack. The flicker of heat in his eyes before he shutters it away. Good. That’s the thing about Remington Cole—he hides behind smiles and games, but I’ve learned to read the shadows he thinks no one notices. “You’re smiling again,” I tease, tilting my head, letting my ribbon brush my shoulder. “Means you were thinking about me.” The air shifts. He leans forward slightly, just enough that his scent—clean soap, mint gum, something darker—wraps around me. His eyes narrow, playful on the surface but sharp underneath. “Cocky much?” “Honest,” I correct, grinning. For one wild second, I swear he’s going to kiss me right here, in front of everyone. My pulse skitters. My lips part. I can practically taste the storm rolling off him. Instead, he straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets. That easy smile slides back into place like armor. “You really shouldn’t say things like that, Ariella. Not to me.” His tone is soft. Dangerous. I should step back. I don’t. “Why not?” I whisper. His eyes burn into mine. And I swear I see it—that monster he hides. The hunger. The claim. The sharp edges beneath his pretty-boy mask. Because you’d ruin me, I think. Because you’d swallow me whole and never let me go. But Remington just smirks, careless again. “Because people might think you’re in love with me.” My heart squeezes. I force myself to hold his gaze, even though my cheeks are on fire. “Maybe I am.” His smile falters. The mask cracks. For half a second, I see raw hunger flash across his face before he laughs again, sharp and cruel. “Careful what you wish for, little blogger.” And just like that, he’s gone, striding off like he didn’t just shake the ground beneath me. I press my notebook harder against my chest, trying to steady my racing heart. He thinks I’m too sweet, too young, too soft for whatever’s inside him. But he’s wrong. I’ll prove him wrong. Later that night, I open my blog. Username: PrettyInPink Post Title: Dangerous Daydreams He smiled at me again. The kind of smile that tastes like a warning. I know he wants me, even if he’ll never admit it. Everyone else sees a boy who plays games. I see the man beneath. And I don’t care how dark he is. I want him anyway. Even if it hurts. I hit publish. A minute later, a notification pops up. 1 New Comment. Anonymous: Careful, pretty girl. Not everyone is who you think they are. --- Remington She’s going to kill me. Not literally. But every time Ariella Kingsley bats her lashes at me, every time she struts around in pink skirts that cling just enough to remind me she’s not a little girl anymore—I come closer to snapping. And snapping means ruin. I lean back in my room, phone buzzing with some group chat, but all I can think about is the look on her face today when she said it. Maybe I am. God. She doesn’t even know. She thinks I’m harmless. The easygoing playboy who cracks jokes and skips homework. She doesn’t know about the nights I lie awake, fists clenched, imagining her crying my name while I drag every breath of sweetness out of her. She doesn’t know how badly I want to mark her up until everyone sees she’s mine. Nineteen. That’s me. Seventeen. That’s her. Too young. Too pure. Too pink for the darkness that lives inside me. So I laugh. I tease. I keep her at arm’s length while my insides rot from wanting her. But tonight something itches in the back of my head. I open her blog. Yeah, I know about it. I’ve known for months. She thinks she’s anonymous, but she’s not careful enough. And when I see her new post—read her words about me—my chest tightens. She wants me. She really wants me. My phone buzzes again. A new comment. Anonymous. But I didn’t write it. Careful, pretty girl. Not everyone is who you think they are. The blood in my veins turns cold. Someone else has found her. And I swear, if they touch her—even with words—I’ll show them exactly what kind of monster Remington Cole really is.