Crowned & Curel

Chapter 9 Spolight stolen

Chelsea Blackwell’s POV

They always say the spotlight is big enough for more than one girl.

Lies. Every last one of them.

I sat at our usual table—my table—in the center of the Parkhurst High cafeteria. It was shaped like a throne room, and I had ruled it for two years straight. But lately? That throne felt… wobbly.

All because of her.

The Feed hadn’t shut up about Marlow James since the pageant. Her talent video had gone mini-viral. Her Q&A answer—“I don’t want to be liked, I want to be remembered”—was now printed on T-shirts in the junior hallway. Someone made a fan edit with glowing stars and her pageant crown sparkling in slow motion.

I couldn’t even scroll without seeing her.

Across from me, Savannah was hunched over her phone, playing the clip again for Alana and Giselle.

“She literally sounds like she was born in a recording studio,” Savannah whispered, not so subtly.

Giselle nodded. “She looked so confident. Like… scary confident.”

Alana added, “The whole school’s obsessed. Everyone’s saying she’s the next Miss Parkhurst.”

I blinked. The next? No. No, no, no.

“I mean, it was cute,” I said, flipping my glossy hair over my shoulder with a practiced flick. “All the glitter and rehearsed smiles. But let’s be real—this school moves on faster than a cheer routine. The moment she gets caught without mascara, it’s over.”

Savannah looked up. “She hasn’t even cracked once. It’s like she’s made of stage lights and ambition.”

Alana giggled. “Kind of iconic, honestly.”

Iconic? Was I not the icon?

I smiled, but it felt tight. Controlled. The kind of smile you give when someone steps on your brand-new heels and you pretend not to care.

The bell rang, and we stood. But as we walked toward the junior hallway, every head turned in the same direction.

There she was.

Marlow James.

Walking like she owned the place.

Dark brown hair in soft waves, crown not on her head but still somehow visible in the way people moved around her. Like they didn’t want to mess up her air.

Savannah leaned over and whispered, “She’s really changing things around here.”

I didn’t answer.

Because deep down, I knew the truth:

I had invited the storm in.

Now I had to figure out how to stay dry.

The thing about being on top—even back in middle school—is that you get used to the crown fitting perfectly.

At Parkhurst Middle, I was the girl. Everyone knew it. I made the rules, set the trends, hosted the sleepovers that mattered. I didn’t ask for attention—it was already mine. No one challenged me. Not really.

But this? High school? Parkhurst High?

This was different.

Because now… people weren’t whispering about me in the halls.

They were whispering about her.

Marlow James.

Ever since she won that pageant—complete with the over-the-top dress, fake lashes, and that dramatic little bow at the end—she’d been the talk of Parkhurst High. The Feed exploded with reposts of her winning moment. Girls were calling her an icon. Boys were calling her “hot but lowkey mysterious.”

And I was over it.

I sat in the girls’ bathroom, alone, legs folded up on the bench near the mirror wall. I stared at my reflection as I scrolled through post after post. Her singing clip. Her answers to the judges. Even a zoom-in of the moment the crown was placed on her head.

It wasn’t jealousy. I don’t get jealous.

It was strategy mode.

I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten.

And while she may have arrived in sequins and been crowned a queen overnight, I was the one who ran this school last year when it actually mattered. I knew how things worked. And I knew girls like her—they shine fast, burn bright, and eventually, they mess up.

So I’d be there. With matches.

I stood and reapplied my lip gloss. The good kind. Not the one I offered her back on day one, just to see if she’d take the bait. She did. Everyone always does.

Outside the bathroom, Savannah leaned against the lockers, already glued to her screen. “They made an edit of her pageant answers,” she said without looking up. “With dramatic music and everything.”

“Of course they did,” I said with a smile so tight it could shatter.

Alana and Giselle showed up next, giggling like idiots over another Marlow post. A meme, this time—something about her being the “new crown jewel of Parkhurst.”

I forced a little laugh. “Funny.”

But inside?

I was already planning. Waiting. Watching.

Because while Marlow James thought she’d stepped into the spotlight…

She had no idea the shadows I was willing to pull her into.

And this time, it wouldn’t be lip gloss and compliments. It would be something real.

Something she’d never see coming.

Absolutely! Here’s the continuation of Chapter 9 as Chelsea Blackwell’s plan starts to unfold — still from her POV:

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Chapter 9 (Continued) — Let the Games Begin

Chelsea Blackwell’s POV

By lunch, the plan was already in motion.

People think reputation is built on what you do. It’s not. It’s built on what people think you might’ve done.

And I was ready to make people start asking questions about Marlow James.

“So,” I said casually as I set my tray down at our table—center of the cafeteria, perfectly lit by the skylight. “Did you hear Marlow’s mom used to buy her way into pageants?”

Savannah raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

I just smiled and sipped my sparkling water.

Alana and Giselle leaned in, eyes wide, already biting the bait. “Like, how do you even do that?” Giselle whispered.

“You don’t,” I said sweetly. “Unless you’re desperate to win.”

No confirmation. No denial. Just the spark of suspicion.

That’s how it starts.

And from the looks of the stares across the cafeteria, my spark was already catching fire.

Marlow wasn’t even at lunch today. Probably off doing another pageant interview or something—and honestly? That helped. Because when you’re not there to defend yourself, people fill in the blanks with whatever they hear first.

And guess whose voice was the loudest?

Mine.

I pulled up The Feed on my phone and tapped into my burner account. The one no one knew was mine. I posted a photo of Marlow in her pageant crown and typed the caption:

“Does money buy royalty now? 👑💸 Asking for a friend.”

Posted. Sent. Viral within five minutes.

By the time Marlow returned to school, her name would still be trending—but not for the reasons she liked.

“Why are you doing all this?” Savannah asked me later, quiet enough so no one else could hear.

I tilted my head. “Because I don’t like when people forget who I am. And I really don’t like when they forget who’s in charge.”

Savannah didn’t respond.

She didn’t have to.

Because I saw the look on her face—the same look they all got when they realized I wasn’t just the pretty, confident girl at the top of the social food chain.

I was the one who built the food chain.

And I had no problem tearing it down… if someone tried to climb ahead of me.