Crowned & Curel

Chapter 10 The CROWN Titls

Marlow James’s POV

I knew something was wrong the second I walked into Parkhurst High.

People weren’t looking at me the way they usually did.

They weren’t admiring me.

They were watching me.

Whispers swirled like smoke the moment I passed. Girls pretending to scroll their phones while side-eyeing me, boys snickering like they’d just read something hilarious. It wasn’t admiration. It was… something darker. Sharper.

And then Savannah caught up to me in the hall.

“Hey,” she said, her voice tight. “You might want to check The Feed.”

I frowned. “Why?”

She didn’t answer—just handed me her phone.

There it was.

A zoomed-in photo of me in my crown at the pageant. Same image that had been everywhere last week. Except this time, the caption read:

“When the tiara costs more than the talent. 💅💸 #DaddyPaysForEverything #PrincessProblems”

My blood ran cold.

I scrolled down.

Another post. This one showing a blurry screenshot of someone “anonymous” claiming I only won my titles because my family “sponsors” events. A comment thread underneath full of people asking if I was fake. Manufactured. A fraud.

“No,” I said under my breath. “This isn’t real.”

“It started yesterday,” Savannah said quietly. “While you were gone for that interview. And now… it’s everywhere.”

I stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, throat tight, crown heavier than ever—even if it wasn’t actually on my head today. I could feel it tilting. Sliding.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew how this worked.

This wasn’t an accident.

Someone was trying to ruin me.

And I didn’t need a glitter-drenched clue to figure out who.

Chelsea Blackwell.

She smiled too hard when I won. She stood too still when the crowd cheered for me. She hated sharing the spotlight—and now that she wasn’t the center of it?

She was tearing it down brick by brick.

I clenched Savannah’s phone in my hand.

“Oh, she wants a war?” I whispered. “She just got one.”

I wasn’t new to sabotage.

Pageant girls could be vicious. One minute you’re all smiles and backstage hugs, and the next, someone’s hidden your lipstick and told the judges you fake cry for sympathy points. I’ve seen girls unravel on stage because of one rumor.

But I never crumbled.

I adjusted my crown. I smiled harder.

And I always. Walked. Away. Winning.

This? This was no different.

If Chelsea thought her little rumor campaign would make me break, she had seriously underestimated who she was dealing with.

By the end of lunch, I had a plan.

Step one: remind the school why I’m the new queen.

“Savannah,” I said as we sat down at our usual table, “how fast can you get Giselle and Alana to the front courtyard after school?”

“Um… fast?”

“Perfect. I want cameras. I want lighting. I want the entire Feed watching.”

She blinked. “You’re doing a photoshoot?”

“No,” I said, taking a bite of my apple, “I’m doing a takeover.”

If Chelsea wanted to paint me as a spoiled, bought-and-paid-for pageant princess, then I’d give her something even harder to compete with—authentic popularity.

Not just likes. Loyalty. Attention that couldn’t be bought.

I made a few calls. My old pageant coach Miss Delaney? She still had a few connections. By the end of the day, there was a parked Jeep, a ring light, and a glitter backdrop set up on school property. The minute last bell rang, the courtyard turned into a scene out of a high-fashion magazine.

And I was center stage.

Outfit change? Check.

Wind machine? Check.

Giselle filming stories. Alana handling wardrobe. Savannah feeding comments to The Feed live.

Every student stopped to watch. Some even filmed.

The caption I dictated for the first video?

“Crowns aren’t bought. They’re earned. 💋 #RoyalReality #StayMad”

By dinnertime, my name was trending again—but not because of Chelsea’s lies. It was because I was winning the narrative.

Again.

Chelsea hadn’t made a dent. She’d just reminded everyone why I was better.

I sat at my vanity that night, brushing out my dark brown hair, staring at the dozens of messages flooding in—support, curiosity, even envy. It was all mine again.

I smiled to myself.

Let her come for me. I’d be ten steps ahead every time.

And this time?

I wasn’t playing nice.

I walked into Parkhurst High the next morning like I owned the building—because after yesterday, I basically did.

The photoshoot blew up.

The Feed couldn’t stop talking about it. The comments had flipped overnight. Suddenly, people weren’t whispering about my crown being fake—they were reposting clips with captions like:

“Now THAT’S a queen.”

“Chelsea who?”

“Marlow’s in her domination era.”

I didn’t even have to say anything to Chelsea Blackwell. Not yet.

She saw me in the hall, I saw her—and I smiled. Just enough to make her blink.

She hated not being the center of attention. It radiated off her like perfume gone sour. Savannah said she was “planning something,” but I wasn’t worried. Girls like Chelsea always planned something. That didn’t mean it ever worked.

At lunch, the girls—Savannah, Giselle, and Alana—were buzzing.

“Oh my gosh, Marlow, your post hit 90k views,” Alana whispered like she was scared Chelsea might hear it.

“She’s already downplaying it,” Savannah added. “Told someone you were ‘desperate for attention.’ But the thing is, people are into it. Like… obsessed.”

I sipped my iced tea and gave a fake-sweet smile. “That’s the thing about desperation—it only looks desperate when it doesn’t work.”

I flipped open my compact mirror and checked my lip gloss. Perfect. Not even a smudge.

Then I leaned in closer, voice cool and low. “She came for my crown. So I reminded everyone that I am the crown.”

Giselle actually clapped. I didn’t even mind—it felt earned.

We had barely finished lunch when Milo passed by.

And not just passed—paused.

He was walking with his basketball crew, hoodie slung low, that quiet confidence like he didn’t care what people thought, which somehow made him even more magnetic.

But this time? He definitely cared.

His eyes locked with mine for half a second too long. His friend said something to him, but he didn’t answer. Just looked. And smirked.

My pulse actually did a stupid skip.

Savannah elbowed me under the table. “You see that?”

“Obviously.”

“You think he’s into you?”

“He’s either into me,” I said, “or he’s scared of me. Either way, I’m winning.”

And I was.

But somewhere in the back of my mind… that look stuck with me.

Not in the way Chelsea’s dirty schemes did.

Not in the way the Feed flipped.

It was different. Slower. Like he saw something I hadn’t let anyone else see.

And that scared me more than Chelsea ever could.

Chelsea Blackwell hadn’t said a word to me all day.

Not one fake compliment, not one backhanded “you look so confident in that outfit,” not even her usual warning-glance when someone complimented me too loudly near her.

Which is how I knew she was spiraling.

She sat at the other end of the cafeteria table, surrounded by Giselle, Alana, and Savannah like always—but the energy? It was different. Frozen. Tight. She was scrolling on her phone with a grip so hard I thought she might snap it in half.

Let her watch.

I sat perfectly still, sipping my iced matcha while Savannah leaned closer and whispered, “She’s been refreshing The Feed all day.”

I didn’t have to ask why.

My photoshoot had been posted for less than 24 hours and already passed 90k views. The comments weren’t just positive—they were obsessed. My favorite?

“Chelsea Blackwell better start taking notes.”

And the best part? I didn’t even post it myself.

The buzz came from the pageant team, from Miss Delaney’s official account, and The Feed picked it up from there. I barely lifted a finger. That’s what real fame looked like.

Chelsea tried to ignore it, but she wasn’t good at hiding when she felt threatened.

She looked at me from the corner of her eye—just long enough for me to see the tension behind her smile. She turned to Alana and asked some fake question about her nail color like I wasn’t sitting six feet away, crowned and glowing.

Cute.

If she wanted to pretend nothing had shifted, fine.

But we both knew it had.

Even Milo walked by with that unreadable look again—the one that lingered, like he was trying to figure me out. Like maybe he’d already started to. He said nothing. Just a slow, subtle smirk and a nod.

The kind that makes your skin heat up, even if you pretend it doesn’t.

Chelsea definitely noticed. Her jaw tensed.

That’s when I decided to let her have her silence. Because deep down, silence was worse than confrontation. She wanted me to react, to fumble, to prove I couldn’t handle the attention.

But I wouldn’t.

I was raised on stages.

I was crowned under spotlights.

And I didn’t fear girls like Chelsea Blackwell.

I let her stew. Let her sit in the fading echo of her own popularity while mine only got louder.

Let her watch.

⸻