He Deserved It

CHAPTER 11 – Reckoning

They hadn’t known her name at first. Just the girl in the video. The kiss that started it all.

Imani reverse-searched the post’s original upload. Found a tag buried in the metadata—@lianavxo. Savannah found her i********:. A selfie. Same hoodie. Same curls. A caption with a heart emoji and: “He said the stars looked better from here.”

Mila didn’t wait. She messaged: We need to talk.

The reply came hours later. Just one word. Okay.

⋆⸻⸻⋆

The library lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too even.

Lia stood outside the glass-walled study room, palms damp.

Inside, Savannah sat like a board chair at a deposition—perfect posture, blazer crisp. Imani tapped a pen against a closed laptop, rhythm precise. Mila leaned back, booted foot pressed to the wall, chewing gum like it owed her something.

No one looked up when Lia opened the door.

She stepped in anyway.

Silence met her like a wall. She sat. Folded her hands.

Waited.

Mila spoke first. "Did you know?"

Lia inhaled. "Not everything. But yes."

"When?"

"From the beginning. He never lied to me. Not directly."

Savannah's jaw flexed. "Must be nice."

Lia blinked. "It wasn't."

Imani set down her pen. "So you stayed? Knowing?"

Lia nodded. "I thought if I didn’t ask questions, I could pretend the answers didn’t matter."

Mila cracked her gum. "He told you about us?"

Lia shook her head. "Not names. Just... that there were people he hadn't let go of."

"People," Savannah echoed. "That’s cute."

Lia looked down. "I wanted to believe I was the only one that felt real to him."

Imani’s voice was soft. "We all wanted that."

There was a silence that felt longer than it was.

Lia reached into her bag and pulled out her sketchbook.

Set it gently on the table.

The page was open to a pencil drawing: a boy slouched in a car, eyes closed, mouth tilted in a crooked half-smile.

Underneath, in Lia’s handwriting: almost.

Savannah looked at it. Said nothing. Imani leaned in, just slightly. Mila looked away.

Lia said, “He told me he loved me once. In his car. Said I didn’t have to say it back—he just wanted to say it without lying.” Silence. No one moved. No one breathed.

Mila leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And you believed him?”

Lia nodded. “Yeah. Because he didn’t sell me a version of himself. He didn’t perform, or pretend to be more. He just... let me see what was already broken.”

Mila’s jaw tightened. “And that makes it better?”

Lia met her eyes—not defensive, just tired. “No. It makes it worse. I stayed. I told myself that being quiet wasn’t the same as hurting someone else. But it is.”

Imani whispered, “Yeah. It is.”

Savannah finally spoke. "So why are you here? Guilt? Or curiosity?"

Lia met her eyes. "Because even if he didn’t lie to me, he still used me."

Mila tilted her head. "Used you how? Sounds like you were the favorite."

Lia flinched. "That’s why. He gave me the truth to keep me close. So he didn’t have to feel like the bad guy. He let me carry the weight of what he couldn’t say to you."

She paused.

"That’s still manipulation."

Imani tapped her pen once more. Then said, "He made each of us responsible for protecting his lie."

Mila added, "He just gave you a prettier version of it."

Savannah: "But it was still a lie."

Lia nodded.

The air shifted. Not warm. But less sharp.

Savannah leaned back. Mila popped her gum.

Imani opened her laptop again. She turned it toward Lia. A spreadsheet. Color-coded. Dates. Quotes. Screenshots.

Lia swallowed. "You made a..."

"System," Imani said. "Patterns. Language. Timelines."

Savannah said, “He had Homecoming lies he told all of us.”

Mila: “Told me he was sick. Said he threw up in the parking lot and had to go home.”

Imani: “He said he got called into work—some emergency shift at his uncle’s warehouse.”

Savannah: “Told me he was with his cousin in Tempe. Said they’d made the plans months ago.”

They all turned to Lia. She didn’t flinch. Just spoke quietly. “He told me he didn’t believe in performative romance. Said Homecoming was fake. Then showed up at my door in a suit.”

Silence.

Mila’s voice dropped. “So you were the real date.”

Lia swallowed. “I didn’t ask for it.”

Savannah looked down, then nodded. “We know.”

Imani: “That’s why we want you in.”

Lia looked up. “In?”

Mila smirked. “We’re not gonna cry and move on.”

Imani: “We’re going to teach him what it feels like.”

Savannah: "To hold a truth that undoes you."

Imani added, "And to watch it spread."

Lia sat very still. Her fingers hovered near the edge of her sketchbook.

“Why me?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Savannah shrugged, eyes sharp. “Because you kept his secret.”

Imani added, quieter: “And because if you wanted to, you could tear him apart.”

Mila leaned forward. “And because we don’t trust you. Not totally.”

Lia flinched. Just a little.

Savannah’s voice softened. “But we think you’re pissed enough to want in.”

Lia didn’t speak right away. Just stared at the table. Then, quietly, “I am.”

The four girls sat in silence for a long moment.

Not friends.

Not allies.

But something was forming.

A plan.

Lia closed her sketchbook. Stood. “What do I do first?”

Imani smiled. Small. Sharp. “We start with the truth.”

Savannah pulled out her phone. “I’ll dig up the receipts. Texts. Dates. He was sloppy.”

Mila: “I’ll handle visuals. Flyers, tags, maybe something loud for the gym wall.”

Imani nodded. “I’ll write the breakdown. Timeline. Motive. Cold facts.”

Lia looked at all of them. Then down at her sketchbook.

“I’ll handle the message,” she said. “The part that’s meant to burn.”

They gathered their things and moved—like a machine clicking into gear. No more doubt. No more waiting. Just four girls with nothing left to lose.

And everything to set on fire.