Crowned & Curel

Chapter 2 The Throne Room

⸻

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.

⸻

Chelsea was mid-scroll when two girls approached the table—heels clicking in sync, lip gloss shining under the cafeteria lights like they were walking a red carpet.

Alana Kim and Giselle Rivera.

#4 and #5 on the It Girl list. Pretty, polished, practically bred for private schools and whispered drama. They didn’t speak until they reached the table, like it wasn’t allowed until they were within range.

Chelsea didn’t look up. “Took you long enough.”

Alana flipped her hair and sat beside Savannah. “My physics teacher tried to assign homework. I stared until he felt uncomfortable.”

Giselle slid into the seat beside me, smiling like we were lifelong friends. “You must be Marlow. I love your necklace.”

I didn’t respond. Compliments are cheap, and I don’t hand out thanks unless they’re earned.

Chelsea finally glanced up. “They’re fine,” she said casually. “Alana’s family owns a yacht dealership. Giselle went to summer school in Paris.”

Alana smirked. “And Chelsea’s approval, apparently.”

Chelsea tilted her head. “Not easy to get. Even harder to keep.”

The table laughed.

And then, like a slow-motion nightmare… someone else approached.

Not one of us. Not even close.

A girl—probably sophomore or junior—skinny jeans, awkward smile, backpack clutched like a security blanket. Her name was Rachel Bloom, and I recognized her immediately.

#3 on the Loser List.

She paused beside the table, clearly shaking but forcing a smile. “Hi, um… is this seat taken?”

Everything stopped.

The Royal Table. Frozen.

Rachel looked at me. Then Chelsea. Then all the girls.

Savannah snorted into her straw.

Chelsea didn’t blink. Instead, she turned slowly to me and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“What do you think, Marlow? Is she… worth sitting at our table?”

It wasn’t a real question.

It was a test.

I looked Rachel up and down once. Slowly. Her shoes were knock-off brand, her foundation was two shades too light, and her split ends practically begged for mercy.

She shifted awkwardly, clearly hoping I’d be nice.

Big mistake.

I turned to Chelsea and said, completely deadpan:

“Only if we’re collecting donations.”

The table howled.

Rachel’s face crumbled. She let out a quiet “Oh,” before backing away like she’d been slapped. She disappeared faster than a clearance rack dress at a sample sale.

Chelsea raised her drink. “To Marlow.”

The girls raised theirs too, giggling.

I clinked mine with hers, smiling coldly. “Just keeping the standard.”

Across the room, Milo was still watching.

But this time… his expression was different.

Harder to read.

Not amused.

Not impressed.

But I didn’t care.

Let him look. Let them all look.

If Chelsea wanted to test me, I’d pass with flying colors—and maybe throw in a little extra cruelty just to show her who she was really dealing with.

⸻

The lunch crowd was still buzzing with gossip and filtered camera flashes when Chelsea tapped her glossy nail on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then stood up.

She didn’t say anything—just gave me a look. A silent command.

I followed, obviously.

We slipped out of the cafeteria and into the back hall where no one really went unless they were making out, crying, or plotting someone’s downfall. The second the door clicked shut behind us, her whole energy shifted.

The queen mask didn’t drop—but it cracked.

“I wanted to see what you’d do,” Chelsea said, crossing her arms, staring at me like she was still making up her mind.

“And?” I replied, leaning against the wall. “Was I mean enough for you?”

She paused. “You were perfect. Cold. Quick. No hesitation.”

“I don’t do hesitation.”

She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, “You know I used to be her.”

I blinked. “Rachel?”

She nodded once, eyes narrowed, voice quieter. “Not in looks. But socially? Yeah. Invisible. Desperate to sit with girls who didn’t know my name.”

“Can’t picture that.”

“No one can,” she said flatly. “I made sure of it.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—tense.

“I had braces, acne, and a nervous stutter,” she continued. “Then my mom shipped me off to a pageant boot camp in Palm Beach. It was either that or boarding school in Vermont. So I learned to walk, smile, lie, and destroy.”

I tilted my head. “So this is… trauma couture?”

She laughed, short and dry. “Something like that.”

Then she looked at me—really looked at me. “You’re not just another pretty girl. You’ve got that edge. But don’t mistake this school for a runway. Here, everything is blood sport. The moment people think you’re soft, they eat you alive.”

I smirked. “I don’t do soft. I do silent weapons.”

She gave a small nod. “Good. Because I like you. But if you ever try to replace me…”

She stepped in closer, her perfume strong and sweet like poisoned fruit.

“…I’ll end you before you even see it coming.”

I stared at her, unfazed.

“Noted,” I said.

She smiled again. And this time, it almost felt real.

“Come on,” she said, turning back toward the lunchroom. “Let’s go remind people why we’re on top.”

I followed her, heels echoing through the empty hallway.

And even though the threat was still lingering in the air…

I didn’t feel scared.

I felt invincible.

icy exterior.

⸻

The lunch crowd was still buzzing with gossip and filtered camera flashes when Chelsea tapped her glossy nail on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then stood up.

She didn’t say anything—just gave me a look. A silent command.

I followed, obviously.

We slipped out of the cafeteria and into the back hall where no one really went unless they were making out, crying, or plotting someone’s downfall. The second the door clicked shut behind us, her whole energy shifted.

The queen mask didn’t drop—but it cracked.

“I wanted to see what you’d do,” Chelsea said, crossing her arms, staring at me like she was still making up her mind.

“And?” I replied, leaning against the wall. “Was I mean enough for you?”

She paused. “You were perfect. Cold. Quick. No hesitation.”

“I don’t do hesitation.”

She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, “You know I used to be her.”

I blinked. “Rachel?”

She nodded once, eyes narrowed, voice quieter. “Not in looks. But socially? Yeah. Invisible. Desperate to sit with girls who didn’t know my name.”

“Can’t picture that.”

“No one can,” she said flatly. “I made sure of it.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—tense.

“I had braces, acne, and a nervous stutter,” she continued. “Then my mom shipped me off to a pageant boot camp in Palm Beach. It was either that or boarding school in Vermont. So I learned to walk, smile, lie, and destroy.”

I tilted my head. “So this is… trauma couture?”

She laughed, short and dry. “Something like that.”

Then she looked at me—really looked at me. “You’re not just another pretty girl. You’ve got that edge. But don’t mistake this school for a runway. Here, everything is blood sport. The moment people think you’re soft, they eat you alive.”

I smirked. “I don’t do soft. I do silent weapons.”

She gave a small nod. “Good. Because I like you. But if you ever try to replace me…”

She stepped in closer, her perfume strong and sweet like poisoned fruit.

“…I’ll end you before you even see it coming.”

I stared at her, unfazed.

“Noted,” I said.

She smiled again. And this time, it almost felt real.

“Come on,” she said, turning back toward the lunchroom. “Let’s go remind people why we’re on top.”

I followed her, heels echoing through the empty hallway.

And even though the threat was still lingering in the air…

I didn’t feel scared.

I felt invincible.

⸻

We were halfway back to the cafeteria when I slowed down by the girl’s bathroom, pretending to check my lip gloss. Chelsea didn’t wait—she never did. She breezed off like a gust of designer wind, leaving a trail of judgment and vanilla perfume in her wake.

I leaned against the cool tile wall, the silence wrapping around me like a silk robe. The hallway was empty. Perfect moment to breathe.

Or so I thought.

“You’re a lot colder up close.”

I didn’t jump. Of course not. I just turned my head slowly—and there he was.

Milo Grayson.

Leaning against the wall across from me like it was staged. Hands in his pockets, sleeves pushed up, his smirk dialed to exactly 60%—charming but sharp.

“Eavesdropping’s a bad habit,” I said.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he said with a shrug. “Hallways aren’t exactly soundproof. Especially when Chelsea’s threatening people like a Bond villain.”

I rolled my eyes. “She wasn’t threatening. She was… reminiscing.”

He raised a brow. “That what we’re calling it now?”

I didn’t answer.

He took a step closer.

“So,” he said, “that girl earlier… Rachel? You crushed her like it was a warm-up act.”

“She asked to sit at a table she had no business being near,” I replied. “I didn’t crush her. I reminded her of reality.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “You say stuff like that with no emotion. Like you don’t even hear yourself.”

I gave him a long, flat look. “You’re not the morality police, Milo. Save the lecture for someone who cares.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t amused this time. It was… curious.

“You weren’t like the others,” he said. “At first.”

“At first?”

He shrugged. “Now I’m not so sure.”

I pushed off the wall, stepping closer until we were face to face.

“I didn’t come here to be understood,” I said softly. “I came here to win.”

He looked me dead in the eye. “Win what?”

I smiled. “Everything.”

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Then he leaned in—just a little. Not enough to kiss. Just enough to make me feel the heat of it.

“Careful, Marlow,” he said, voice low. “When you play the villain too well, you start to forget who you were before the mask.”

I didn’t flinch.

“I don’t wear masks,” I said. “I am the show.”

He gave me one last look, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, and then—

He walked away.

Not dramatically.

Just… like he knew I’d still be standing there.

And I was.

But not because I was stunned.

Because for the first time all day… someone actually made me feel something I didn’t have a name for.

Yet