Crowned & Curel

Chapter 5 Dont forget who runs this

Chelsea Blackwell’s POV

There are three things I don’t tolerate:

1. Bad lighting.

2. Knockoff designer bags.

3. Girls who forget whose school this is.

And lately? Marlow James has been skating a little too close to number three.

When she first transferred, I clocked her within ten seconds. Blonde, symmetrical, shiny enough to be interesting—but not enough to threaten me. I figured she’d orbit the outer layers of the social circle, maybe sit next to Savannah at lunch, post a few desperate thirst traps, and fade into irrelevance.

But then she opened her mouth.

And mentioned crowns.

Real ones.

Pageants. Titles. A list of wins that made my own resume look like a clearance rack.

That’s when I realized she wasn’t here to orbit.

She was here to climb.

So I did what any smart queen would do: I pulled her in.

Because keeping your enemies close is strategy. Keeping your competition closer? That’s survival.

But now…

She’s skipping lunch to “train.”

She’s ignoring stories.

She’s brushing off plans like she’s got something better going on.

And the part that really irritates me?

She does.

She’s working with Delaney Voss. The pageant legend. A woman who hasn’t taken on a teen competitor in years. And now suddenly she’s pouring all her energy into Marlow like she’s some kind of diamond.

It’s not that I’m jealous.

No.

It’s just—there’s a balance. A system.

And when people forget how that system works, things get messy.

So when she came to me today with that flirty little fake apology and asked to take a selfie like everything was fine?

I let her.

Because I needed the post. The tag. The likes.

But I didn’t forget how quick she was to drop us for drills and drills and more drills.

People don’t get to be me without earning it.

Marlow thinks she’s earning it by perfecting her walk.

What she doesn’t know is that power here isn’t just about walking right.

It’s about knowing when to strike.

And I’m watching her.

Carefully.

⸻

The party was at Jenna’s house, but everyone knew who it really belonged to the second I walked in.

I didn’t need to announce it. The volume dipped when I entered. Heads turned. Girls straightened their hair. Boys elbowed their friends and smirked like they were about to try something dumb.

My kind of night.

The lights were low, music pounding through the walls, and the scent of vanilla candles trying (and failing) to compete with a room full of teenagers and too much cologne. The living room had been cleared out, replaced with colored lights, two ring lights near the mirror wall, and an impromptu photo backdrop—thankfully something neutral and tasteful, not those cringe 2018 balloon arches.

I stepped in with Savannah and Giselle on either side, a trio in heels and confidence.

Then she walked in.

Marlow James.

Wearing black. Long, sleek, and intentionally not overdressed. Her dark brown hair was blown out and glossy, cascading in soft waves like she hadn’t even tried—though we both knew she absolutely had. Her heels were taller than mine. Her lip gloss was shinier.

She didn’t try to be the center of attention.

Which, of course, made everyone look at her.

Jenna blinked twice before greeting her. Milo turned his head a fraction. Two senior guys I didn’t even know the names of openly stared.

My eyes narrowed.

Savannah leaned in. “She looks good.”

“Obviously,” I replied flatly.

I watched Marlow scan the room, her eyes landing on me like we both knew how this worked. She smiled that smooth, polished smile and made her way over.

“You made it,” I said, sipping my drink.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied coolly. “You throw the best parties.”

Flattery. Good. But not enough to balance the power shift I could feel stirring underneath my heels.

I glanced around at the room. The girls watching her. The guys noticing. The camera flash already lighting up behind us.

“Come on,” I said, tugging her arm. “We’re doing pictures.”

I pulled her toward the mirror wall, where ring lights bounced perfectly off our cheekbones.

We posed. Flashed. Laughed like nothing was off.

But I was watching.

Every smile. Every stare she got that used to belong to me.

And the second we sat down on the velvet couch with the inner circle, I leaned over to her with a honeyed tone and said:

“So… Marlow. You still training? Or do you finally have time for us little people again?”

She smiled sweetly. “I’m always multitasking.”

Savannah laughed. Giselle raised a brow.

I sipped my drink again.

This wasn’t over.

⸻

It happened fast.

One minute, we were lounging like queens—Giselle recounting some tragic outfit a freshman wore, Savannah scrolling through everyone’s Stories to make sure we were tagged in enough, and Marlow laughing like she’d always belonged here.

And then—

Giselle’s phone lit up.

She froze.

And her eyes widened like she’d seen a ghost in Dior.

“What?” I asked, leaning in.

She didn’t answer.

She just turned her screen toward me.

It was a picture.

Me.

From last year.

A party I never posted about. Hair pulled back in a claw clip, barely-there makeup, and—dear God—a hoodie. I was laughing mid-bite into a slice of pizza, someone had clearly zoomed in, and my eyes were half-closed.

Unedited. Undesirable. Unforgivable.

“Where did you get this?” I snapped.

Giselle swallowed. “Someone just posted it on The Feed. Like, just now.”

The Feed.

That god-awful anonymous i********: page that ranked everything from outfits to fights to whose perfume lingered the longest in the hallway. No one knew who ran it. But everyone watched it.

And now I was on it.

Captioned:

“This your queen? 👑 #ThrowbackThursday?”

The comments were already filling up.

“Chelsea Blackwell? More like Chelsea Backwell 👀”

“She looks like someone’s tired aunt.”

“Where’s the glam now?”

My jaw clenched. “Who posted it?”

“No one knows,” Savannah murmured. “It’s anonymous.”

But I was already scanning the room.

Because whoever did this had timing.

Whoever did this waited until tonight.

When I was supposed to be the main event.

And right now, there were only two people bold enough to want to knock me off my throne.

One of them had just walked in an hour ago, wearing sleek black and a dangerous smile.

Marlow.

I stood up. Smoothed my hair. Forced my breathing to stay even.

If she wanted war, she just started it.

I didn’t storm over to her like some out-of-control freshman.

I glided.

Chin high. Shoulders back. Every heel click like punctuation.

Marlow was by the drink table, casually sipping something fizzy, laughing at something Milo Grayson just said.

Of course.

Of. Course.

I stopped right beside her and tilted my head with a slow, poisonous smile.

“Cute drink. Have something stronger back at your little secret war room?”

Marlow blinked once. “Excuse me?”

I didn’t even look at Milo. “That post. The Feed. The picture of me. You seriously thought that was funny?”

She straightened, the smirk slipping just slightly.

“I didn’t post that.”

“Didn’t say you did,” I said coolly. “But you’re the only new variable in this school, and that account suddenly starts throwing shade at me the second you show up?”

Marlow raised an eyebrow. “You think I run The Feed?”

“I think you’re ambitious. And sneaky. And smart enough to know timing.”

Her gaze flicked around like she was making sure we weren’t drawing too much attention. Then she leaned in slightly.

“I didn’t even know about The Feed until I got here. It’s been around long before me, Chelsea. If it just turned on you now, maybe the issue isn’t me—maybe it’s that you’re finally slipping.”

My jaw tightened.

She smiled. “But if you really think I’m behind it, go ahead. Tell everyone. Make it a thing. Let’s see who they believe—me, the fresh mystery… or you, the girl who’s been clinging to the same crown since middle school.”

I hated that it stung.

Not because it was true. But because she knew it would.

Milo cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped back. He wasn’t going to save either of us.

Marlow, cool as ever, turned back to the drink table like our little spat was just casual conversation.

I took a step back, my blood simmering under my flawless skin.

She wanted to play this game?

Fine.

But she clearly forgot one thing:

This school might have its whispers and rankings and boys with pretty smiles…

But I built this empire.

And I will burn it down before I hand her the keys.

⸻

I was about to walk away, chin high, when I heard a voice I hadn’t heard since sophomore year.

“Funny how you always think people are after you, Chelsea.”

I turned.

Ugh. Of course.

Reagan Pierce.

Former “It Girl” for about ten minutes, 8th year. Had one good hair day, got added to our group chat, and then got kicked out the second she tried to date a senior I called dibs on.

She’d been circling the outer social ring ever since.

Petty. Bitter. And apparently… patient.

Reagan stood with her phone in hand, that same smug smile she used to wear when she thought her Forever 21 dress counted as couture.

“You look surprised,” she said, slowly walking up. “Didn’t think you’d see me tonight?”

“No one did,” I replied sharply. “We stopped inviting leftovers to main events.”

“Oh, I wasn’t invited. I just showed up to witness karma.”

The music dipped. Not completely off—but just low enough for whispers to float.

I felt it—the shift. People edging closer. Waiting.

“I know everyone’s blaming Marlow for that little Feed post,” Reagan said, loud enough for the crowd to hear now, “but since I know how to screenshot things before they get deleted…”

She held up her phone.

And there it was.

A DM.

From her anonymous account.

To The Feed.

Attached was my photo.

Captioned:

“Got something juicy for you. Let’s see if Queen C survives this throwback. ;)”

I froze.

The room practically tilted.

Savannah gasped.

Giselle covered her mouth.

Reagan shrugged. “Don’t worry, I used a burner. But I figured I’d take credit once it blew up.”

The way people looked at me. Like I’d just been dethroned in real time.

My heart pounded. But my face? Stone cold.

“You just admitted you’re pathetic enough to run an anonymous smear page,” I said, arms crossed. “So… congratulations on telling the truth for once.”

But she smiled wider.

“Pathetic? Maybe. But at least now everyone knows the real reason you’re paranoid.”

She turned to Marlow. “Sorry for the false blame. Queen Chelsea’s just used to attacking any girl that breathes near her spotlight.”

Then she walked away like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb.

Marlow didn’t say a word. Just stared at me with this unreadable look.

I turned, every part of me screaming to lash out, but I couldn’t—not here. Not now.

The only thing worse than losing your crown…

is knowing someone else helped hold it up for you.

And now?

Everyone knew it had cracks.

I needed air.

Not the cute kind of “step outside and fix your lip gloss” air. I mean the kind of air that didn’t smell like perfume, lies, and social collapse.

My feet moved fast—heels biting into the marble tile as I cut through the party like I hadn’t just been ambushed in front of half the school. I didn’t check to see who was staring. I already knew they were.

Savannah and Giselle followed, falling into step behind me like trained security.

“Chelsea—” Savannah started.

“Not now,” I snapped, swinging open the glass doors to the patio.

The cool night air hit my skin, but it didn’t do a thing for the heat building in my chest. I stopped by the railing, fingers clutching the edge as if it could anchor me. I stared out at the string lights glowing over the pool and the silhouettes inside still gossiping.

My party.

My rules.

And somehow, I’d lost control of it all.

I could feel my girls hovering behind me. Waiting. Watching. Not saying a word. And that? That silence was almost worse than Reagan’s little performance.

“Do you guys believe her?” I asked, without turning around.

Silence.

Then Giselle said, “I mean… it did sound like her. And she showed proof.”

I closed my eyes.

Savannah jumped in. “But she’s obviously jealous, Chels. Everyone knows she’s been bitter since you kicked her out of the circle.”

“I didn’t kick her out,” I muttered. “She removed herself the second she tried to play queen.”

More silence.

I finally turned to face them.

“Look, I don’t care if people believe her or not. What matters is what we do next. We don’t let one bitter reject rewrite the whole narrative. Got it?”

Savannah and Giselle nodded, but I could tell.

They were shaken.

This was new territory.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted her.

Marlow.

Still inside, standing near Milo, talking to some sophomore in a lavender dress like she wasn’t standing in the middle of a party she’d just been falsely blamed for sabotaging.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

And still in the circle.

The worst part?

She didn’t look smug.

She looked… untouchable.

And for the first time in a long time…

I wondered if I’d finally met a girl who didn’t want to be me—

Because she might actually be me.