*Trigger warnings* Dreams/ flashback to childhood abuse, bullying, toxic relationship, family issues.
"Remember, I don't want you to talk to him unless I'm present, you understand?"
"Yes, dad," I say.
"I'm not joking. Now tuck your shirt in because he's arrived."
Uncle Tommy, bathed in perspiration from a day's labour in the summer heat, flung wide the front door.
He tossed his suitcase on the floor and untied his boots, saying, "It's a scorcher out there, ain't it?" "Thank you for allowing me to crash for the night."
My father said coldly, "Just as long as you're gone in the morning."
"Of course."
"Now," Uncle Tommy replied, lowering himself to a knee and turning to face me. "Can you tell me where my embrace is?" It's been a while since I've seen you."
I took a few steps closer to him and hugged him. I let out a tiny cry as his tight embrace made me uncomfortable.
He tugged at my long sleeves and said, "Don't you realize it's a hundred degrees out there?"
I told him, "I haven't been outside today."
"Don't you have any chores to finish?" Dad stepped in and said something.
I shuffled off to my room, knowing it was my cue to depart.
Later that night, I was tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep, when I heard footsteps outside my bedroom in the corridor. The door slowly opened after several long seconds of silence, a dark silhouette of a guy entered the room, and the door closed again. There was nothing but deafening silence for a few more seconds. If it hadn't been for the sound of a hushed breath being delicately released, I could have sworn I'd dreamt it all.
I could feel him approaching. At this hour, the warmth of another person in the room was unusual. I was unprepared for this and wished that he would leave, even if he had to return in the morning.
He reached down and put his hand on my shoulder. He rolled me onto my stomach and pulled my shirt up over my head. I could see two things out of the corner of my eye: a dim beam from a pocket flashlight and Uncle Tommy's eyes scrutinising my bare flesh. His rough fingertips traced the length of my back. He abruptly stood up and walked to the bedroom door, exiting. I tried again, and this time I was successful.
By the time I awoke, he was gone.
While my father was out, the phone rang around midday.
"Hello?" I responded.
"Hey there, Cherish."
"Uncle Tommy?"
"Yeah. Is your father still around?"
"Oh, no. He went to the supermarket."
"Alright," he responded, a little nervously. He took a breath and stopped. "I'm phoning to inquire about yesterday night's events. I'm not sure whether you were awake or not — "
"I was."
The fire crackled softly, casting a golden glow across the room, but it did nothing to warm the deep, aching cold settled in my bones. My body felt heavy, sluggish, like I was swimming through static just trying to wake up.
Everything hurt. A dull, pulsing soreness radiated from my side, wrapping around my ribs like a vice.
Washington. The decathlon. The gunshot.
The memories came in jagged pieces—flashes of pain, sirens, Miras's voice yelling my name.
I inhaled sharply, a mistake. Pain flared through my ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath.
"Easy," a voice murmured.
My head jerked toward the sound, heart hammering.
Miras.
He was slouched in the chair beside the couch, dark eyes steady on me, his expression unreadable. He shouldn't be here.
I glared. "Why the hell are you in my house?" My voice came out hoarse, brittle.
He didn't even blink. "You think I'd just leave you alone after—"
"Imani!" I snapped, pushing myself upright. Pain exploded through my side, dragging a sharp hiss from my lips.
Almost immediately, my bodyguard stepped into view from the hallway, arms crossed. Imani was six-foot-something of unimpressed indifference, his gaze sweeping over me before flicking to Miras. "What?"
I gestured weakly at Miras. "Why is he here?"
Imani shrugged. "Because he walked in."
I shot Miras a look. "You broke in?"
Miras scoffed. "No, your dad let me in."
I stilled.
Of course. My father, who trusted Miras with far too much, had probably waved him right through the front door.
I exhaled sharply through my nose. "That doesn't explain why you're still here."
Miras leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because you got shot, Cherish." His voice was unusually quiet. "You scared the hell out of me."
Something flickered in his expression—something raw.
I shoved it aside. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, you look fine," he deadpanned, nodding at my pale, exhausted self half-slumped against the couch.
I turned to Imani. "You were supposed to keep people out."
Imani smirked. "He's not people. He's Miras."
"Exactly my point."
Before either of them could respond, the TV in the corner of the room caught my attention. The news anchor's voice filled the space, smooth and professional.
"...joining us now is Maurice Battle, CEO of Battle Enterprises, whose daughter was among the students caught in the attack."
My stomach clenched.
The camera cut to my father, seated in some high-rise studio, his expression a perfect mask of calm authority. "First, let me say how grateful I am to the authorities and medical teams who responded so quickly," he said, his voice measured, unwavering. "The safety of our students should have never been compromised like this. My daughter—" he hesitated just briefly, "—is recovering well."
My jaw tightened. Nice of him to let me know.
The news anchor leaned forward. "There are rumors that this attack may have been more than just a random act of violence. Some sources suggest it was a targeted strike. Do you believe your daughter was the intended target?"
I felt Miras shift beside me, his posture going rigid.
My father didn't answer right away. "I can't speculate on that," he said finally, his voice smooth as ever. "But I can assure you that Battle Enterprises is taking every measure to ensure this will never happen again."
That was it. The end of it.
A vague, polished response.
Not Cherish is safe. Not I'm doing everything in my power to protect her.
Just another carefully crafted PR statement.
The news segment continued, but I had already tuned out. My fingers curled tighter around the blanket
"Cherish," Miras murmured.
I still didn't look at him. "I'm fine," I said, too quickly.
Neither of them answered, because we all knew it wasn't true.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The news broadcast moved on, shifting to another story—something about the stock market, some billionaire's latest scandal—but the damage had already been done.
My father had spoken, and the world had listened.
I stared at the screen, my grip on the mug tightening until the ceramic bit into my palm.
Is that all I am to him? A situation to be managed?
I felt a presence beside me before I heard Miras speak. "Say something."
I swallowed hard, keeping my expression blank. "Like what?"
"Like the fact that you're pissed," he said, blunt as ever.
I forced a short, humorless laugh. "Why would I be pissed? He said I was 'recovering well.'" I lifted my mug in mock-toast. "Guess that makes it true."
Imani sighed from across the room, his jaw tight. "You know how he is."
That wasn't an excuse. It never had been.
I turned to him, expression sharp. "Then tell me, Imani—if he cares so much, why did I hear about my 'recovery' at the same time as the rest of the world?"
Imani didn't answer.
Miras shifted, glancing between us before finally muttering, "He could've at least called."
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to push down the bitterness curling in my chest. "It doesn't matter."
Miras let out a quiet scoff. "Yeah, okay. Sure."
I shot him a look. "What?"
"You always do this," he said, shaking his head. "Act like nothing bothers you." He leaned back against the couch, studying me. "You almost died, Cherish. Maybe admit—just once—that that's not something you can just brush off."
I felt Imani's gaze on me too, heavy and unreadable.
I turned back toward the fire. "I already told you. I'm fine."
Miras muttered something under his breath, probably something sarcastic, but I ignored him.
The truth was, I didn't want to talk about it. The shooting. The hospital. The fact that, for a terrifying few seconds, I hadn't been sure I'd make it out alive.
And I definitely didn't want to talk about how much it still hurt—physically and otherwise.
So I changed the subject. "What time is it?"
Miras checked his phone. "A little past two."
"Afternoon or morning?"
"Afternoon."
Which meant I had slept most of the day.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Great. Guess that means I missed school."
Miras gave me a flat look. "Yeah, because that's what you should be worried about."
I ignored him again, looking at Imani. "Did my dad say anything else?"
Imani hesitated. "About what?"
I frowned. "About me."
A beat passed.
Then, finally: "No."
I nodded, unsurprised.
Of course he hadn't.
Before either of them could say anything else, my stomach twisted, the sharp ache in my ribs making itself known again. I swallowed against the nausea creeping up my throat.
Miras noticed immediately. "Hey—" He sat up straighter. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." I pushed myself off the couch, ignoring the way my legs protested. I needed space. Air. Something. I turned away from the TV, focusing instead on Miras. "Did I miss any homework?"
Miras hesitated, and that was enough of an answer. My glare sharpened. "You were just not going to tell me about the homework?"
"Figured I'd save you the few braincells," Miras said smugly.
"That would be cute if my GPA wasn't higher than yours."
Imani let out a quiet chuckle from his spot on the couch, clearly entertained by our back-and-forth.
Miras rolled his eyes. "Relax. I got all the notes. I was going to tell you."
I crossed my arms, unimpressed. "When? At graduation?"
Miras smirked. "Thought I'd wait until you were less grumpy. So, never, basically."
Imani shook his head, still amused. "You two sound like an old married couple."
I shot him a look. "You're supposed to be on my side."
The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock filled the silence. I had retreated to the couch, stretching out under a thick blanket, my body still aching from the gunshot wound. Miras sat on the floor beside the coffee table, absently flipping through the pages of my calculus textbook while I stared at the embers glowing in the fireplace. Imani hovered near the entrance, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Then, the front doors swung open.
My father entered like a storm.
Maurice Battle was a man who commanded attention without asking for it. His presence alone was enough to fill a room, but tonight, there was something heavier about it—something more exhausted. His sharp gray suit was slightly rumpled, and the tie he usually kept impeccably knotted hung loose around his neck. He didn't acknowledge Imani as he passed, didn't even seem to notice Miras. His eyes found me immediately.
"You took one of my guns." His voice was eerily calm, but I could hear the edge beneath it. The kind of restrained anger that could crack through titanium when pushed too far.
I didn't bother denying it. "I needed it."
He let out a sharp breath, running a hand over his face. "Cherish, do you have any idea what could've happened?"
"Yeah," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "I could've died. Or did you forget that part?"
His expression darkened. "You were shot anyway." He stepped closer, the weight of his presence pressing down on me. "You are not trained. You are not equipped. That gun isn't some toy you can grab whenever you feel like playing hero."
I scoffed. "I wasn't playing hero. I was trying to protect myself because, clearly, your security wasn't enough."
"Hey now," Miras interjected.
. "What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and hope for the best?"
"Yes!" He snapped, the word cracking through the air like a gunshot. "That's exactly what you were supposed to do! Let the professionals handle it!"
I let out a bitter laugh. "Right, because that worked out so great for me last time."
A heavy silence stretched between us. His eyes searched mine, frustration and something else—something like fear—lingering in them.
"You don't understand what you've done," he said finally, his voice lower now. "That gun—do you even know how dangerous it is?"
"I know exactly how dangerous it is." I didn't look away. "And that's why I took it."
His hands curled into fists at his sides. "It's not just any weapon. It's one of mine."
I hesitated, processing what he meant. My father didn't deal in normal weapons. Anything he built was cutting-edge, experimental, decades ahead of what the rest of the world had access to.
My stomach twisted. "You mean it was—"
"Prototype," he confirmed. "And now, because you took it, I had to make excuses. I had to cover for you. Do you know how many questions I had to answer?"
I swallowed hard. I hadn't thought about that. I hadn't thought about what it meant for him.
Still, I refused to back down. "I did what I had to do."
He studied me for a long moment. Then, his expression shifted—something colder settling in. "If you ever do it again, Cherish, I won't just be angry."
A shiver ran down my spine.
"You'll regret it."
The weight of his words settled over the room like a smothering blanket. I didn't flinch, didn't let myself react, but my fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket draped over my lap.
Miras moved first. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his spot on the floor, positioning himself just slightly between me and my father. He didn't say anything—just shifted enough to remind Maurice Battle that he wasn't the only one in the room with presence.
My father's eyes flicked to him, dark and assessing. He let out a slow breath, straightening his tie. The mask of authority slipped back into place as if the crack of raw frustration had never been there.
"I don't have time to argue with you about this," he said finally, his voice cool. "You're alive, and that's what matters."
I hated how hollow that sounded. Like I was nothing more than a problem he was relieved hadn't worsened.
He turned his attention to Imani. "Make sure she stays out of trouble. And if she pulls something like this again—"
"I won't," Imani said simply. It wasn't a promise to stop me. It was a promise to deal with it his way.
My father studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Good."
Without another glance at me, he turned and strode toward the door. The moment he was gone, the tension in my body snapped. My fingers ached from how tightly I'd been gripping the blanket.
Imani was the first to speak, his voice low. "You really shouldn't have taken that gun, Cherish."
I could feel the unease in his tone, the unspoken warning. "I didn't have a choice," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't be here right now."
Miras didn't say anything, but I could feel his eyes on me, his silent assessment lingering between us
"Did you think he was going to go easy on you?" Imani continued, his arms still crossed. "Because it doesn't work like that with him. You might be his daughter, but you know how he is."
I let out a breath, not wanting to get into this now. "I know exactly how he is, Imani."
If I thought my father would be my biggest issue, I guessed horrible wrong. All it took was me missing a week of school.
I noticed it first in the little things.
Miras wasn't at my side between classes. He wasn't waiting for me at my locker with some dumb joke about how I should carry his books for him, since I was so much smarter. His texts were shorter. Less playful. Sometimes, he didn't even reply at all.
I told myself it was nothing. He was tired. Stressed. We both had been through a lot.
But then I walked into the cafeteria and saw him sitting with them.
Nakita. Her entourage.
Miras was right in the middle of it, elbow propped on the table, half-smirking at something she said. His tray sat untouched in front of him, but he didn't look uncomfortable. He looked like he belonged there.
A slow, simmering heat crawled up my spine.
I set my tray down across from Josiah, barely tasting my food as I stabbed at it with my fork. Guess he got over his whole 'Nakita is the worst' phase.
"I heard Miras only hangs out with her because her dad's paying him."
"I mean, she's Battle's daughter. He's smart—he knows where to place his bets."
I told myself they didn't matter. Gossip was just noise.
But then I heard her.
"You don't actually think she sees you as an equal, do you?"
I froze outside the science wing. I knew that voice. I knew that smug, perfectly measured tone.
Nakita.
My grip tightened around my textbook, my nails pressing into the cover.
I peered around the corner, staying out of sight. Miras was standing against the lockers, his expression unreadable. Nakita leaned in closer, voice hushed, but I caught every word.
"She keeps you around because you're useful, Miras. You really think she'd be your friend if her dad didn't like you?"
He didn't say anything.
He didn't walk away.
That was worse.
I turned before I could hear more, shoving down the sick feeling curling in my stomach.
By the time I saw him again, the tension in my chest had settled into something sharp and unrelenting.
It was after decathlon practice, the hallways nearly empty as I caught up to him outside. "Miras."
He paused, but he didn't turn right away.
When he finally faced me, I saw it—that distance in his expression. Like he was already halfway gone.
"You've been avoiding me," I said, skipping the pretense.
Miras exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I haven't."
I laughed, sharp and humorless. "Right. That's why I barely see you anymore. That's why you don't answer half my texts." My voice hardened. "That's why you're suddenly all over Nakita again."
His jaw clenched. "She's not—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Look, Cherish, I have other friends. Not everything has to be about you."
The words hit harder than I expected.
I took a step back, heart pounding. "That's what you think this is about? Me being jealous?"
"I don't know," he muttered. "Maybe?"
That stung.
I crossed my arms, forcing my voice to stay steady. "You know she's playing you, right?"
He finally looked me in the eye then, something flashing behind his expression. "And what if she's not?"
I stared at him. "You don't actually believe what people are saying, do you?"
Miras held my gaze, but he didn't answer right away.
And that was answer enough.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. "Wow. Okay." I let out a small, bitter laugh. "Guess I didn't realize I was just a paycheck to you."
His face twisted. "That's not what I—"
"Save it." I turned on my heel before he could finish, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
I didn't want to hear whatever excuse he was about to make.
By the time lunch rolled around the next day, I had fully intended to ignore Miras and Nakita. Pretend they didn't exist. Let them enjoy whatever twisted little alliance they had going.
But, of course, Nakita wasn't going to let that happen.
I had just sat down at my usual spot when the cafeteria noise shifted, the kind of shift that meant something interesting was happening. I caught snippets of conversation from the surrounding tables—hushed voices, suppressed laughter.
Then, I heard my name.
"Did you hear what she did?"
"I mean, no wonder her own dad barely talks to her."
"God, imagine being that desperate."
I stiffened, my fingers tightening around my fork. My phone pinged.
And at the top, written in bold, attention-seeking text:
"Cherish Battle: Daddy's Disappointment or Just a Liability?"
I clicked on it before I could stop myself.
Screenshots. Clips from the news interview with my father. But instead of just posting his vague, polished responses, someone had edited it—cutting and twisting his words into something much worse.
Maurice Battle's voice played over a series of damning headlines:
"The safety of our students should have never been compromised."
"Battle Enterprises is taking every measure to ensure this will never happen again."
Then, the final cut:
"My daughter—" a hesitation "—is recovering well."
The caption below read:
"Damn, he couldn't even pretend to care. When even your own father is over you 🤷♀️"
The comments were worse.
"I mean, he's not wrong. Maybe if she wasn't so entitled, she wouldn't have needed rescuing."
I didn't go straight to Nakita.
I went to him.
Miras had just stepped out of the cafeteria when I caught up to him in the hallway. He wasn't in a hurry, just walking like nothing was wrong, like his entire table hadn't just humiliated me in front of the entire school.
I grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back. "You just sat there."
He turned, startled, but his expression smoothed out almost instantly. "Cherish—"
"You just sat there," I repeated, my voice sharp, furious. "You didn't say a damn thing while she dragged me through the mud."
Miras sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I didn't—"
"Didn't what?" I snapped. "Didn't think it was a big deal? Didn't think it was worth defending me?"
His jaw tightened, but he didn't look at me. "It's just words, Cherish."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Just words? You've been in this school for five minutes, Miras, and you already forgot how this works? It's never just words. You know that."
He finally met my gaze, something flickering in his expression. "What do you want me to say?"
I stepped closer. "I want to know why you're still sitting with her."
Miras exhaled through his nose, like he was already tired of this conversation. "Maybe because I don't want to be in the middle of whatever this is."
I froze. "What?"
He shrugged. "You and Nakita. The whole war thing you two have going on. Maybe I'm just done choosing sides."
A slow, simmering heat built in my chest. "You don't have to choose sides, Miras. She already did that for you." I gestured toward the cafeteria. "Or did you miss the part where she dragged my name through the dirt?"
He hesitated. "I didn't—"
"You didn't do anything," I cut him off, voice cold. "That's the problem."
The words hung between us, sharp and unrelenting.
For a second, I thought I saw something crack in his expression. A flash of guilt, hesitation—something.
But then he shut it down. "You're overreacting."
I sucked in a slow breath, willing myself to stay calm. "So that's what we're doing now? I get publicly humiliated, and I'm the one overreacting?"
Miras looked away, shifting his weight. "I don't want to fight with you, Cherish."
"Then maybe don't be the guy who sits there while I get ripped apart," I shot back.
Silence.
He didn't have anything to say to that.
Finally, I took a step back, shaking my head. "You know, I really thought you were better than this."
His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. Maybe even apologize.
But I didn't wait for it.
I turned on my heel and walked away, the anger burning in my chest now mixed with something else—something heavier.
Disappointment.
By the time I got home, the anger had settled into something colder. More calculated.
Miras wanted to sit with Nakita? Fine. Let him.
But he wasn't going to do it while working for my father.
I found my dad in his study, seated behind his massive desk, skimming through reports. Maurice Battle didn't waste time on things like unwinding after work—his entire life was work.
He didn't look up when I entered. "You're home early."
I folded my arms. "I want you to fire Miras."
That got his attention.
His pen stilled over the document in front of him, and after a beat, he set it down, finally meeting my gaze. His expression was unreadable, but I knew him well enough to recognize the flicker of curiosity. "Why?"
I clenched my jaw. "Because he's a waste of your time."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "He's one of the most promising minds I've come across in years. I'd hardly call that a waste."
I scoffed. "He's an idiot."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "An idiot who placed top ten in the country's most advanced mathematics competition?"
I gritted my teeth. "An idiot who is currently ruining my life."
He studied me for a long moment. "Ah."
That was all he said. Ah. Like I was some petulant child complaining that I didn't get my way.
I forced my voice to stay even. "He's siding with Nakita. Sitting with her, letting her trash me while he just sits there and does nothing." I crossed my arms tighter. "I don't need someone like that around."
My father exhaled through his nose, something unreadable passing through his expression. He didn't answer right away, which meant he was thinking. Calculating.
I knew how he worked.
Everything was a business decision to him. If I could convince him that Miras was a liability, that keeping him around was more of a risk than he was worth, I could get what I wanted.
So I pressed further.
"You hired him because you saw potential, right?" I said. "Because he's supposed to be smart, loyal, useful." I tilted my head. "But if he's that easy to manipulate, if Nakita Sanders of all people can turn him against me, how valuable is he really?"
My father didn't react at first. But the silence stretched, just long enough to tell me he was considering it.
Then, finally, he sighed. "No."
I blinked. "What?"
"I said no," he repeated, picking up his pen again. "I'm not firing him because you had a fight."
I stiffened. "It's not just a fight."
"I don't make business decisions based on high school drama, Cherish." His tone was even, calm—like he wasn't dismissing me, just stating an irrefutable fact.
My hands curled into fists. "So you'll keep him around even if he's against me?"
My father finally looked up again, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. "Is he?"
That question made my stomach twist.
Because I didn't know.
Miras hadn't defended me. He hadn't stopped Nakita. But had he actually turned against me?
My father leaned forward slightly. "Tell me something, Cherish," he said, voice measured. "Do you want him fired because he's a liability to me?" He tilted his head. "Or because he hurt your feelings?"
The words landed like a slap.
I swallowed, my throat tight, but I refused to back down. "What's the difference?"
He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "When you figure that out, come back to me."
Just like that, the conversation was over.
I clenched my jaw, my nails digging into my palms as I turned and stormed out of the office, my father's words still rattling in my head.
I wanted Miras gone. I wanted Nakita gone. I wanted all of it to disappear.
It was easy enough to delete Miras's pin from our security system. All it took was a few pressed buttons and suddenly he no longer had access to anywhere in the house.
It happened the next afternoon.
I was in the grand sitting room, curled up on the couch, flipping through my tablet when I heard the unmistakable sound of Miras grappling with a keypad.
Then—
BEEP.
A pause.
Another BEEP.
And then—
"You've got to be kidding me."
I smirked, barely suppressing my satisfaction as I stretched lazily and strolled toward the hall, taking my time.
Miras was standing in front of the security panel near my father's office, repeatedly inputting his code. Every time, the small screen flashed red.
ACCESS DENIED.
He exhaled sharply, shoving his hands through his hair. "No, no, no, don't do this to me right now."
I leaned against the doorway. "Problem?"
He turned, and the moment our eyes met, I knew—he knew.
"You," he muttered.
I raised a brow. "Me?"
Miras let out a dry, humorless laugh, gesturing at the locked door. "You really went this far?"
I pretended to think about it. "Well, you have been so busy with Nakita lately, I figured you didn't need extra privileges in my house." I folded my arms. "Just keeping things simple."
His jaw clenched. "Cherish—"
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," I cut in smoothly. "You can still visit." I gestured down the hall. "Just stick to the guest areas like a normal person."
His nostrils flared as he turned back to the panel, entering his code one last time.
ACCESS DENIED.
He let out a slow breath. "You know your dad is going to override this the second he finds out, right?"
"Then you'd better hope he notices before it becomes too inconvenient."
I could see the gears turning in his head, frustration simmering under the surface. Good.
Miras took a step closer, eyes locking onto mine. "You really want to play this game?"
I smiled sweetly. "I don't play. I win."
His lips parted, like he had something to say, but then—
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
We both turned.
Further down the hallway, another security panel flashed red.
And then another.
Miras groaned. "You locked me out of everywhere?"
I shrugged. "Like I said. Guest status."
He muttered something under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. Then, to my utter annoyance, he smirked.
"Fine," he said. "I'll just make myself comfortable wherever I still have access."
Something about the way he said it made me uneasy.
Before I could respond, he turned and strolled toward the one place I hadn't restricted—the main living areas.
My living room. My kitchen. My space.
I narrowed my eyes.
He wanted to be annoying? Fine.
I'd just have to make him regret it.
It wasn't enough that I had taken away his access to parts of the house—now it was time for school.
I knew Miras had been using his special access to certain resources at school—extra time on assignments, priority registration for certain events, even getting exclusive tutoring in advanced subjects. All of it was tied to his association with my father.
I didn't care if he'd earned it or not. He wasn't going to enjoy those perks for long.
I spent the next evening at my desk, my fingers flying over the keyboard. I had access—a little something from my father's endless system of security codes and backup networks. It didn't take much to get into the school's admin system; a couple of well-placed queries and a few clicks, and Miras's privileges were mine to adjust.
First, I locked him out of all the extra resources—no more priority tutoring, no more extra time on tests. I even made sure to reset his ability to register for advanced classes without going through the proper channels. He'd be stuck with the regular course load like everyone else.
Then, for a bit of extra fun, I removed his access to the student lounge—the place where all the upper-tier students went to relax. It was supposed to be a perk for people like him, but now? Not anymore.
Finally, I couldn't resist. I set up an alert to notify me whenever Miras tried to access anything—just so I could watch him struggle.
I sat back, staring at the screen with a smile curling at my lips. I'd pushed him far enough. It was only a matter of time before he noticed.
The next morning, Miras walked into the school like usual, heading straight for the tutoring center. I watched from a distance as he fumbled with his login, entering his credentials several times.
Nothing.
He tried again. And again.
Then, frustration crept across his face. He turned and stomped toward the student lounge, only to find the door locked. His code didn't work.
Perfect.
He pulled out his phone and tried to enter again—nothing.
I didn't have to wait long before Miras showed up at my locker, his jaw clenched in irritation.
"Seriously?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
I glanced up, pretending to be completely innocent. "What's wrong?"
"Cut the crap, Cherish," he snapped. "I can't get into the lounge. I can't register for classes. And I can't access the tutoring I was supposed to get today."
I shrugged, playing the part. "Oh? That's weird. I thought you had everything handled."
He stared at me, but this time, I saw something in his eyes—anger, frustration, but also a hint of hurt. "Why are you doing this?"
I leaned against the locker, casually flipping through a notebook. "I'm just making sure you're like everyone else."
Miras's eyes darkened. "You're screwing with my future, Cherish."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're smart. You'll figure it out."
"Don't pretend this is about that," he growled. "This is about you being pissed that I'm dating Nakita."
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I just stared at him.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "You know, this is ridiculous. What happened to us?"
I forced a tight smile. "What happened to you is you thought you could play me. And now, you're stuck with the consequences."
The training room was quiet—just the hum of the lights and the sound of my breath filling the space.
I needed this. I needed to move, to burn off the anger that had been building up inside me since my conversation with Miras. I pushed myself harder than usual, my sneakers pounding against the mats as I ran through drills, throwing punches, and working on footwork. Each step felt cathartic, like I was beating the anger out of my body.
The pain in my side had been a dull ache for days, but every now and then, it would flare up, reminding me of the hospital bed, the blood, the feeling of my body shutting down.
Still, I pushed through. I'd been through worse.
I jabbed out a punch, feeling the burn in my arm, then quickly shifted into a roundhouse kick. The floor beneath me shifted slightly, but I barely registered the uneven footing as I spun into the movement.
Crack.
A sudden, sharp pain shot through my side, and I gasped, stumbling mid-kick. My vision blurred for a moment, and I gripped my ribs, pain exploding through me like a wave crashing against the rocks.
The room spun as I staggered backward, trying to catch my breath, but the ache in my side only deepened, a sharp throb that felt like it was splitting me in two.
"Shit." I hissed through gritted teeth, my hands clutching my side.
I collapsed onto the nearby bench, leaning forward, trying to steady my breath. But it was no use. The pain kept coming, like a constant reminder of how fragile I still was.
I'd been trying to forget about everything—about Miras, about my father's warning, about all the broken things inside me. But now, in the quiet of the training room, all of it came rushing back.
The fear. The frustration. The feeling of being completely out of control.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but it wasn't working.
The door to the training room creaked open.
I didn't look up.
"Cherish?"
It was Miras. Of course. Who else would show up now?
He must've seen me stagger earlier.
I let out a shaky breath, attempting to calm myself. "I'm fine," I muttered, trying to stand up, but the pain shot through me again, sending me back to the bench with a groan. "How the hell did you get back in here?"
"I didn't have to complain for very long before your dad put my pink back in."
"Figures." I didn't have the energy to argue. The pain in my side was still burning like a wildfire, each breath a struggle. And now Miras—of all people—was standing in the doorway of the training room, looking at me like he was trying to decide whether to come closer or walk right back out. He stepped in further, the door clicking softly behind him as he approached.
"I'm fine, Miras," I gritted through my teeth, trying to breathe through another wave of pain.
"You're not fine," he shot back, voice sharp now, but not unkind. He was close enough now that I could feel the heat of his presence, his hand hovering just slightly by my shoulder like he was waiting for permission to help.
But he was already too close.
"Sit down," Miras said gently, his voice firm despite the softness in his words. "You're not walking this off."
"I can't just sit here and do nothing, Miras," I replied, trying to get up, but I winced as the pain shot through me again. My vision blurred for a moment, and I swayed, the world spinning as my knees buckled.
Miras caught me just in time, his arm sliding around my waist to steady me. I hadn't expected him to catch me. I didn't want him to. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. But he was there, and now I was forced to deal with the fact that he was seeing every crack I was trying to hide.
I let out a shaky breath as he gently guided me back to the bench.
"Dammit, Cherish," he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice.
"I'm fine," I forced through clenched teeth. "I just need a second. Go away."
I tried to push him back, but he ignored me, his hands gripping my ribs firmly, as if he knew exactly where the injury was. Before I could even react, he gave a swift push. I let out a strangled scream, feeling a sickening crunch as the pain in my side flared up to a new level.
I gasped, my body jerking back in pain, but Miras didn't let go. "You're not fine," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "Your rib's out of place. Just let me—"
Before I even processed what was happening, Miras was pressing his hands against my ribs with expert precision, aligning the bone back into its proper place. I felt the shock of it, like being hit by a freight train.
"What the hell are you doing?" I screamed, fury bubbling up in my chest as the pain coursed through my body. I swung a fist at him, trying to shove him away.
But Miras was faster. He caught my wrist before I could land the punch. His grip was firm, but gentle, his eyes hard on mine.
"Just calm down for a second," he said, still not backing off. "It's gonna hurt more if you don't let me fix it."
I struggled against his grip, my mind too fogged with rage and pain to think clearly. "Fix it? You just—you just pushed my rib back in place without asking! Are you insane?" I tried to break free, but his grip tightened, keeping me in place. "You could've killed me!"
"You're welcome," he said dryly, not letting go. "Now, are you done?"
I was too out of breath to argue, too stunned by the sharp throb of pain that had subsided just enough for me to think clearly. But that didn't mean I wasn't pissed.
"I didn't ask for your help," I hissed, finally able to breathe without feeling like I was suffocating under the pressure. "I can handle this on my own."
"You could have done worse by pushing yourself, Cherish," Miras shot back, his voice still quiet but firm. "You didn't know what you were doing. I did what I had to."
I shot him a glare, my heart still racing, adrenaline still pumping in my veins. "Don't ever do that again," I warned him, a low growl slipping into my voice. "If you ever think about touching me like that again, I will punch you in the face. Understand?"
Miras didn't even flinch. His grip loosened just slightly, though his hand stayed on my wrist. "If I hadn't done it, you would've made it worse. I'm not going to let you make yourself worse just to prove a point."
I glared at him, still struggling to regain control over my emotions. "I don't need you or anyone else telling me what to do!"
Miras's expression didn't shift. "Well, I don't need you thinking you're invincible either," he said, his tone dropping slightly, though there was an undeniable bite in his words. "If you keep pushing yourself like this, you're going to break. Not just physically."
I stayed sitting on the bench for a few more moments, my side still throbbing but much less intense than before. The pain was a constant reminder of how fragile I really was. How human. How vulnerable. It made me want to scream.
But Miras didn't walk away. He didn't let me sulk in silence. Instead, he stepped back in, closer this time, sitting down beside me without asking. "I'm sorry."
I hated admitting it, but it felt... good to let go. It felt like breathing again.
It wasn't long before Nakita's usual brand of cruelty came back into the picture.
She'd been quiet for a few days after the confrontation with Miras, but it was only a matter of time before she made another attempt to get under my skin.
It started with a few sly comments between classes—whispers just loud enough for me to hear. I tried to ignore it, but the tension in my chest kept building. Nakita always knew just where to poke.
That day, I was heading toward my locker when I saw her leaning against the wall with her usual entourage. She saw me approaching, and I could feel her gaze sharpening, the familiar sneer creeping onto her face.
"Oh look," she said, her voice carrying just enough to make sure everyone heard. "The princess finally decided to show up."
I rolled my eyes, pretending to brush it off, but my fists clenched involuntarily.
"You know," Nakita continued, her voice dripping with venom, "I was just thinking about how embarrassing it must be to have someone like Miras paying attention to you. I mean, everyone knows who he's really interested in."
I felt my heart drop in my chest, the words landing where it hurt most. But before I could respond—before I could even get a word out—someone else did.
"You need to keep your mouth shut, Nakita."
Nakita blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. "What? What's the matter, Miras? You're actually defending Cherish now? How cute."
Miras's gaze didn't falter. "You're not getting it. You're not going to keep messing with her. I'm done with it. So if you've got a problem, take it up with me."
I stood there, a little stunned, not expecting him to actually stand up for me. He didn't have to. He never had before.
But now? Now, it was like something had shifted between us. Something that was real. Something that didn't need to be explained.
Nakita's smug expression faltered as she glared at Miras. "You think this makes you look better?"
"I don't care what you think, Nakita," Miras replied coolly, crossing his arms. "If you want to keep this going, go ahead. But I'm telling you, I'm done being quiet about it."
There was a moment of tension, the air thick with unspoken words. Then Nakita scoffed and turned away, her followers trailing behind her, leaving me and Miras standing there in silence.
I didn't know what to say at first. My mind was still reeling from the fact that Miras had actually defended me. For once, he wasn't just standing by; he was actively fighting back.
Nakita had barely walked away, her group trailing behind her like she was some kind of queen, before the tension between Miras and me broke. It was like a switch had flipped. The air felt lighter—easier—but there was something different about it this time.
"Well, that was fun," he said dryly, shaking his head.
I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. "You're so full of yourself, you know that?"
"Me? Never," Miras said, looking innocent, though the grin on his face said otherwise. "But hey, at least she's finally learned that I'm the one people should be worried about."
I gave him a flat stare. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
Miras just smirked, not an ounce of shame in his demeanor. "I know. It's a talent."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something more playful. "Yeah, but you love it."
I shot him a side-eye, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. "I wouldn't go that far."
"Sure you wouldn't," Miras teased, his grin widening. "But deep down, you're starting to realize what I've known all along. You can't resist me."
"Oh please, I resist you every day," I shot back.
Miras raised a brow. "You really want to test me right now, Battle?"
I gave him a look, feeling the familiar spark of our back-and-forth. It was comfortable, familiar, like nothing had changed, even though everything had. "Please. You couldn't handle me if you tried."
"True," he admitted, pushing his hands into his pockets, the teasing edge to his voice softening just slightly. "You keep me on my toes. I kind of like it."
I couldn't help but feel a little warmth spread in my chest at that—just a little. The usual banter had its way of making everything feel lighter, but this time, there was a new layer to it, something underneath the sarcasm and the jabs.
"Fine, fine," I said, shaking my head. "I guess I'll let you think you're tough."
"Yeah, I know. I'm irresistible."
I shot him a sideways glance. "Don't push it."