Queen B Trouble
790 Words
If the first week of school was meant to be a “fresh start,” then the Moon clearly forgot to CC me on the memo.
I finally found my amphitheater hall after walking in circles so many times I could’ve been mistaken for a lost freshman. I’d just slipped into a seat when the room suddenly shifted into chaos, chairs screeched, sneakers squeaked, and half the class bolted toward the wide glass windows like moths to a flame.
“He’s here!” someone squealed.
“He looks even better in person,” another gushed.
Curiosity won. I should’ve known better but I found my legs leading me to the window and I even dared crane my neck to look.
Outside, the campus courtyard was a war zone of flashing cameras and screaming girls. Journalists jogged to keep up with the tall, broad-shouldered figure stepping out of a sleek black car. His blonde hair caught the sunlight, his movements so sure and commanding it made sense why half the world apparently adored him.
Xavian Blackridge.
I gripped the edge of the desk. Nothing. No rush of heat. No tightening in my chest. No invisible pull. Just… stillness. My stomach dipped.
So I really am numb now.
Should I be happy about that? Or is this just the Moon’s way of saying I’ve been downgraded to “emotionally obsolete”?
I turned to leave the window and walked straight into trouble.
Literally.
Hot coffee splashed down my shirt and across the body of the girl in front of me.
“Oh—sorry!” I gasped.
The girl looked down at her stained designer top like I’d just handed her a death sentence. Her aura slammed into me immediately. She was definitely not a human. Beta, maybe even high Gamma. She’d felt my Omega energy too. I saw it in the flicker of mild disdain in her ice-blue eyes.
Her lips curled into a smile, the kind that promised nothing good. “Apologies won’t fix this.”
She was stunning, aside from her venom lips she had a slim build, long legs, high ponytail that bounced like it had its own PR team. And of course, she had two shadowy minions flanking her, both wolves but weaker than her.
Fantastic. Queen B on the very first day.
(What’s next, a slow clap and a Mean Girls reference?)
“You should change,” she said sweetly. “Come to the cheerleaders’ locker room. I have a spare T-shirt.”
“I’m fine, really—”
Her smile didn’t budge. This wasn’t a question.
So I followed. Because Omega survival rule #1: pick your battles.
The locker room was blindingly white, lined with glossy lockers and smelling faintly of lavender body spray and malice. She handed me a folded shirt. I took it with a tight smile and ducked into the shower stall.
As I peeled off my wet top, her voice floated in, syrupy but sharp. “Aren’t you going to wash your pants and shirt? I hate when I offer help and people think they can refuse. It’s so… frustrating.”
Translation: Do as I say, or regret it.
I hesitated. Fighting three wolves stronger than me in a tiled room? Hard pass. “I sometimes act too humble,” I said lightly. “Apologies. Here.”
I handed over my clothes. They laughed softly outside the stall then the sound of running water splashed for a moment… then stopped.
Silence.
“Hello?” I called. “Can I have my shirt back?”
No answer.
I sighed, pulling the so-called “spare” shirt over my head, only to find a giant hole cut in the middle. Of course. I yanked it on backwards, stepped out… and found my actual clothes stuffed in the sink, dripping wet.
I lifted my jeans with one finger. “Great. First day, and I’m already starring in a low-budget prank show.”
The shirt barely covered my thighs, and there was still a hole at my back. So I decided to wait until another cheerleader came in, preferably one not hellbent on wardrobe sabotage.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse I heard…
Male voices and loud thumping footsteps. It sounded like a parade or maybe just an over display of testosterone.
They were probably just passing through. I slipped back into the stall, heart thudding. But the footsteps didn’t pass…they stopped? What the hell is going on—
The door to my stall creaked open before I could lock it.
And the person in front of me.
Tall, broad shoulders, icy eyes locking on mine with the same piercing intensity I remembered from… nowhere, really, but felt anyway.
Xavian.
- Writer
