Crowned & Curel

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Milo Grayson’s POV

There’s something about mornings at this school that always feels… staged.

Too shiny. Too rehearsed. Like the whole place was built for a reality show, and we’re all just waiting for someone to call “action.”

I was halfway through a protein bar, casually weaving through the crowd toward homeroom, when the PA system crackled on. That alone was weird. Early-morning announcements meant one of two things: either someone vandalized a vending machine again, or something big was going down.

“Attention, students,” came Principal Dawson’s voice, all business as usual. “Please report to the auditorium for a special school-wide assembly.”

No one moved right away. Then came the murmurs, the eye-rolls, the slow shuffle of designer sneakers against polished floors.

I followed the herd, shoulders back, usual expression of bored curiosity locked in place.

And then I spotted her.

Marlow James.

Sitting front and center, like the universe owed her that seat. Perfect posture. Hair too perfect to be real, confidence too sharp to be fake. She didn’t glance around. She didn’t need to. Chelsea sat next to her, clearly trying to keep the spotlight but already feeling that subtle shift—like Marlow had cracked the social code and rewritten it with her own signature.

She was magnetic, no question.

And infuriating.

I couldn’t figure her out.

Most girls here? You saw the gears turning. The try-hard energy. Marlow didn’t try. She commanded. Everything about her screamed, “I win. I always win.”

But yesterday… the way she handled that loser list situation? Yeah. That chilled detachment she showed—like breaking someone socially was just part of her skincare routine—that was different.

Scary, even.

The kind of girl who doesn’t just want power—she needs it.

I was still watching her when Principal Dawson took the stage, flanked by a man in a blazer and a woman with pageant hair and posture like she’d been posing since the ‘90s.

And then came the bombshell.

“Students, we’re excited to announce that our school has been selected to host this year’s statewide Teen Prestige Pageant preliminaries!”

Boom.

The energy shifted instantly.

Whispers exploded. Someone squealed. Even the quiet kids looked up from their phones.

Pageant drama? Here?

Chelsea sat straighter, practically glowing with excitement. This was her arena. Her ego just expanded five sizes.

But Marlow?

She wasn’t excited.

She was ready.

Her expression didn’t shift. She just smiled that same ice-cold, perfect smile. The kind of smile that said, I’ve been waiting for this.

Principal Dawson continued, but I barely heard the rest.

Something about tryouts, judging panels, the top four girls representing the school at state level.

All I could focus on was Marlow.

She was already standing, already walking with that runway confidence toward the exit. Like she’d just been handed the throne before the war even started.

And maybe she had.

But here’s the thing—girls like Marlow don’t just take the crown.

They burn everything down to make sure no one else even dares to touch it.

And part of me wanted to see what would happen when someone finally stood in her way.

Because even queens have breaking points.