Crowned & Curel

⸻ Chapter 1 “New School, Same Crown” Marlow There are two kinds of girls in the world: the ones who blend in, and the ones who make everyone look twice. Guess which one I am? The tinted window rolled down and I caught my reflection in the side mirror—flawless, obviously. Soft curls falling just right, lip gloss popping like a fresh runway finish, and cheekbones my last three pageant judges literally complimented. I didn’t look like I was starting at a new school. I looked like I owned the building. “Good luck, sweetheart,” my stepdad said from the driver’s seat. As if I needed luck. Please. I stepped out of the car like it was a grand entrance—and honestly, it was. Heads turned. Girls stared. Guys gawked. Parkhurst High didn’t know me yet, but I could feel it: that moment when the room shifts. I was the shift. My heels clicked as I walked through the front doors, designer tote slung over my shoulder, perfectly unbothered by the stares. “Who’s that?” “She looks expensive.” “She looks like she’s about to ruin someone’s life.” Exactly the energy I was going for. The hall was loud, chaotic, full of cheap perfume and even cheaper personalities. A girl with too much eyeliner bumped into me and muttered an apology. I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. That’s when I saw her—Chelsea Blackwell. I knew it was her the second our eyes locked. Tall, sleek, and dripping with power. She was surrounded by girls who laughed way too hard and flipped their hair like it paid their bills. Her lip curled into the faintest smirk when she saw me. Not fake-nice. Not mean, either. It was a look that said, “You’re either a threat, or you’re mine.” She started walking toward me like she was floating. No rush. She didn’t need to rush. Power doesn’t run—it waits. “You’re new,” she said, voice honey-sweet but sharp underneath. “And clearly not from here.” I smiled, sugar-coated and lethal. “Nope. I’m from somewhere with better hair, better fashion, and better crowns.” A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise? Amusement? Maybe respect. “So, you’re one of those girls,” she said, eyeing my shoes. “Pageants?” “Three state titles, two nationals,” I replied. “And a Miss Southern Star crown that still has girls crying about it.” Chelsea tilted her head like she was deciding whether to slap me or invite me to brunch. “Cute. You’re either going to fit in just fine… or completely ruin everything.” I didn’t blink. “I don’t ruin things. I make them better.” She laughed once, short and sharp. Then turned to the girls around her. “She’s with us now. Don’t let her sit with the background characters.” And just like that, I was in. Or so I thought. Because the next thing she said was this: “But one warning, Marlow. If you mess up our image—even once—you’ll wish you stayed invisible.” I smiled back. She had no idea who she was talking to. ⸻ She turned to walk off like she’d just knighted me, and the others followed—heels clacking, egos trailing. I blinked once, flipped my hair, and followed without a word. Rule number one of survival in a new school: if the queen bee lets you sit at her table, you don’t hesitate. You smile and act grateful—then wait for your moment to steal the throne. Chelsea led me to a locker like it was reserved just for her followers. Savannah, her sidekick with razor-sharp eyeliner and perfectly over-it energy, raised a brow at me but said nothing. Smart girl. Chelsea opened her sleek white purse, pulled out a Chanel lip gloss, and handed it to me like it was sacred. “You’re slightly pale,” she said with a smirk. “You can borrow mine. That’s what friends do.” I took it without blinking. “How generous.” I applied the gloss slowly, deliberately, like I was accepting some kind of twisted sorority initiation. It tasted like vanilla poison. Sweet, but dangerous. Chelsea smiled like she owned me now. “You’re welcome,” she said. I handed it back. “You needed to feel useful. I get it.” Savannah choked back a laugh. Chelsea narrowed her eyes just slightly. A tiny crack. Noted. We strutted down the hall like royalty, passing nobodies and background characters who tried not to stare. I was mid-eye roll when I nearly ran headfirst into someone rounding the corner. Tall. Athletic. Casual swagger like he lived in a Nike ad. His eyes locked on mine with a smirk like he already knew who I was. “Woah,” he said, stepping back a little. “Didn’t mean to block the runway.” I stared. Not because I was stunned—but because he was. Tan skin, messy dark hair, eyes that practically dared me to say something rude. That annoying kind of hot. Chelsea’s eyes lit up. “Milo,” she purred, “this is Marlow. Our newest addition.” Ah. So this was Milo Grayson. He turned to Chelsea, then back to me. “Marlow, huh?” He looked me up and down, definitely not subtle. “Fitting. You look like someone who’s used to people saying your name a lot.” I tilted my head. “And you look like someone who’s used to hearing no, but still tries anyway.” His smirk widened. “Spicy.” Chelsea inserted herself between us faster than her lip gloss could dry. “We should go. Bell’s about to ring.” Milo didn’t move. His eyes stayed on me. “Well… welcome to Parkhurst, Marlow. Try not to get bored too fast.” I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I won’t. There’s already plenty of entertainment.” We walked away, but I could feel his eyes on me the whole time. Chelsea didn’t speak until we were a full hallway away. “He flirts with everyone,” she said lightly. “Don’t take it seriously.” I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t taking it seriously. But that look in his eyes? He was definitely going to be a problem. And I might just let him ⸻ I walked into my first class like I was walking onto a set. Lights, camera, eyes on me. The desks were tragic. The lighting? Offensive. But the stares? Perfection. I slid into the seat near the back—not too close to the teacher, not too far from the drama. Chelsea took the desk beside me without asking, like she was staking her claim. Savannah plopped down on her other side and immediately pulled out her phone. Chelsea tapped at her screen with freshly manicured nails, smirking to herself. “Here we go,” she said like she was announcing something important. “What?” I asked, pretending not to care—but obviously caring. She turned her phone toward me. The Daily News. It wasn’t an official school newsletter. It was a student-run i********: page with 5,000 followers and all the subtlety of a TMZ ambush. Posts dropped every morning at 8:45. Right on cue, the newest post had already racked up comments like wildfire. And there, in bold white letters over a glittery background, was my face. 💅🏽 NEW GIRL ALERT: MARLOW JAMES 💅🏽 “Former pageant queen? Rich stepdad? Hair that looks like it has a personal security team? Looks like Parkhurst has a new contender for the crown. Word is she’s already linked up with Chelsea Blackwell’s circle, which means she’s either brave or stupid. But one thing’s clear: she’s not here to blend in.” Beneath the post was a ranking chart, split into sections: Top 5 It Girls (So Far): 1. Chelsea Blackwell 👑 2. Savannah Cole 3. NEW ENTRY Marlow James 🔥 4. Alana Kim 5. Giselle Rivera I raised an eyebrow. “Top three on day one? I didn’t even try.” Chelsea smirked. “Welcome to Parkhurst. One selfie with me and your social credit triples.” Savannah leaned in. “They also update the rankings every Friday. If you drop, everyone notices.” “Oh no,” I said with fake horror. “Public humiliation? My favorite.” Chelsea laughed softly. “You’ll be fine—as long as you don’t screw it up.” I ignored the veiled threat and scrolled down the post. Someone had already commented: @queenchelsfan: why does this marlow girl look like she eats PR for breakfast @justplainnick: idc if she’s mean she’s HOT @alankaaa: i heard she was homeschooled for pageants?? is that true?? @modelofchaos: this girl’s giving Kendall Jenner if Kendall could kill with a look I tossed Chelsea’s phone back at her. “They love me already.” “They don’t know you yet,” she replied, still smiling. “That’s the difference.” Savannah turned around in her seat and whispered, “They will.” And just like that, the bell rang. The teacher started talking, but I wasn’t listening. My phone buzzed quietly in my bag—probably more messages, probably more reactions. New school. New stage. Same crown. Let’s see how long I can keep it. ⸻ The teacher’s voice was a distant buzz in the background. Something about expectations, grading scales, blah blah participation. None of it applied to me. Participation wasn’t my thing unless there was a crown involved. I leaned over to Chelsea and whispered, “Okay. You showed me the It Girls… where’s the real fun?” She gave me a knowing look. “You mean the guys?” I tilted my head. “Obviously.” Without a word, she pulled out her phone again and tapped into the Daily News post. A little further down was the second chart, in bold black and blue: 🔥 Top 5 It Guys / Campus Crush List 🔥 1. Zayden Cruz – “Senior. Football captain. Abs rumored to be sculpted by gods.” 2. Hunter Reed – “Star swimmer. Drives a Tesla. Eyes like ocean trauma.” 3. Milo Grayson – “Basketball guard. Hot, cocky, and impossible to ignore.” 4. Leo Santos – “Plays guitar. Writes sad songs. Girls cry.” 5. Jayden Malik – “Best smile in school. Prob knows it.” I scanned the names, but my eyes locked on #3. Of course. Right on cue, the classroom door creaked open—and in he walked. Milo Grayson. Tall, laid-back, and absolutely irritating in the kind of way that made girls lose IQ points. Hoodie half-zipped, chain peeking from beneath, smirk already loaded. He glanced around the room like he was bored of everyone before even sitting down. Then he saw me. Our eyes locked for half a second—his eyebrows lifted just a little, like he was amused I was still here, still glowing. He took the empty desk two rows in front of me and leaned back in his seat like he owned the air. His hair was slightly messy in that perfectly calculated way, and he had a basketball tucked under his arm like it was part of the outfit. I looked at Chelsea. “Number three?” She didn’t even look up. “He used to be number two, but he ghosted the head cheerleader. Lost points for being ‘emotionally unavailable.’” Savannah snorted. “She cried in the locker room for, like, three days.” I looked back at Milo. “He doesn’t look emotionally unavailable.” Chelsea leaned in. “That’s the trap.” He turned his head, caught me watching, and winked. I immediately looked away, flipping my hair like I wasn’t just caught. Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I smiled to myself. I wasn’t planning on falling for Milo Grayson. But I wasn’t planning on staying away either.