Belford College was buzzing.
From the dorm lounges to the library steps, the only na on anyone’s lips was Craig Lesnar. The upcoming birthday party had taken on a life of its own—glamorous, unforgettable, and wildly extravagant.
Whispers of live performances, a champagne wall, even imported velvet furniture had turned the campus into a frenzied hive of curiosity and envy.
Students were scrambling for invites like it was The Oscars.
Phoebe couldn’t stop talking about it. "I heard they had to build a temporary stage extension just to fit the perforrs. Chart-topping Artists, guys. Do you know how insane that is?"
gan chid in, wide-eyed. "Soone said they brought in a glass sculptor. A sculptor. For ice."
rlina just nodded, lips tight. Her na hadn’t co up once in any of those rumors. Except in her own head.
But Craig Lesnar ?
His na was everywhere. His voice, his smile, his damn smirk—like echoes trapped in the halls, haunting her. Even the flyers had his initials embossed in gold. It was like the whole school had been swallowed by a glittering hurricane of Craig.
And rlina was suffocating.
She’d spent the last few days burying herself in schoolwork, avoiding his ssages like they were landmines. She hadn’t responded to a single one. Not the ’Can we talk?’ Not the ’I just want to understand.’ Not even the final one she never admitted stung the most— ’I guess I was wrong.’
She thought distance would help. That if she stayed away long enough, the feelings would fade. The guilt would ease. The kiss would stop replaying in her head like a broken record. But this party? This party was like a giant, sparking reminder that Craig Lesnar was unavoidable.
He was in her ears, her eyes, her bloodstream.
Every ti soone ntioned his na, her stomach twisted. Every ti a flyer appeared on a bulletin board or slid under their dorm door, she felt smaller.
Like she was watching a version of him that felt overpowering—untouchable, idolized by people, moving on without a scratch while she carried the weight of everything that had happened between them.
He had gone full golden boy. Center of attention. Star of the show. And sohow, it made her feel like the villain in a story she didn’t even understand.
Was this revenge? A public declaration that she no longer mattered?
She caught herself staring too long at the embossed flyers. Wondering who printed them. If he helped choose the shade of gold. If he knew it was her favorite accent hue for decorating
Then imdiately after—she’d scoff. Roll her eyes. Shake her head like she could physically rattle the thought of him out of her brain.
It had beco a habit lately.
That stupid reflex, getting pulled in for a second, then snapping herself out of it with a quiet sigh, a soft "Get a grip," or slamming her locker a little too hard.
She hated that he still had that effect on her. That after all her attempts to forget about her feelings, he could still live in her head rent-free, stealing space she’d tried so hard to clear.
She was supposed to be over this gut-wrenching ache by now.
Supposed to be okay.
But no matter how hard she tried to block him out, he was everywhere. And sohow, that hurt worse than any ssage he had stopped sending.
Because if he was everywhere and she was nowhere—maybe that ant she really had beco nothing to him at all.
And then ca the mont.
Adriana herself strutted into their dorm room, heels clicking like punctuation marks, a gold box of invitations in her manicured hand.
"Phoebe!" she said brightly, handing one over. "gan, this one’s for you."
She rifled through the stack again. Then again.
lina sat on the edge of her bed, pretending to scroll on her phone, pretending not to care. Her hands shook faintly as she gripped the phone, eyes darting away, yet Adriana’s sudden silence was deafening.
"Wait... hold on." Adriana frowned, flipping through the sleek stack of gold-rimd invites again. Her glossed lips pressed together, a flicker of panic crossing her face. "That’s weird. Yours should be in here, rlina."
The room fell quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.
Phoebe’s eyes darted to gan. gan’s fingers fidgeted nervously in her lap, avoiding Phoebe’s gaze. Even the music playing faintly from soone’s speaker in the hallway seed to pause.
rlina rolled her eyes once, then looked away, pursing her lips just enough to show how uncomfortable she was—like she was trapped in a mont she had no wish to be a part of.
"It’s probably just a mix-up or sothing," Adriana added quickly, voice a little too bright now. "I’ll bring it by later, okay?" She didn’t et rlina’s eyes when she said it.
lina was speechless.
Not out loud, of course. Out loud, she just smiled politely and nodded like it didn’t matter.
But in her head? She was screaming.
Craig is so ridiculous. The fact that he sent his girlfriend to un-invite her—or whatever that awkward performance was supposed to be—was petty on a level she didn’t even know he had.
He could’ve just left her off the list. Quietly. Let her find out through the grapevine like everyone else. But no. He had to make a scene of it. Send Adriana with her lip gloss and fake confusion to twist the knife just a little deeper.
’Yours should be in here.’
’It’s probably just a mix-up.’
Yeah, sure.
lina almost laughed. Almost. But her throat felt tight.
So this was his response to being ignored. To her not texting back. Childish. Calculated. Classic Craig Lesnar.
Adriana offered a faint shrug, then exited swiftly, like she couldn’t handle the awkward tension either.
Phoebe’s jaw dropped the mont the door clicked shut. "Did Craig Lesnar seriously not invite you?"
gan looked from her to rlina, confused. "I thought... I an, you two seed like you were getting better."
rlina shrugged, forcing her voice steady. "We’re not friends."
Phoebe tossed her invite onto the bed like it had burned her. "What ? No. If he didn’t invite you, then I’m not going. I’m so serious."
"No. Please." rlina added quickly. "Don’t make this a big deal. It’s fine. I really don’t care."
But inside, she knew the truth. She did care. More than she could ever admit.
The party night transford the room into a flurry of dresses, accessories, and perfu. gan and Phoebe were laughing again, twirling in front of the mirror, trying on heels and reapplying lip gloss like they weren’t walking into the party of the year—but floating.
When it was ti, they grabbed their tiny bags and slipped out the door in a cloud of shimr and excitent.
"Don’t wait up!" Phoebe called playfully. gan blew a kiss over her shoulder.
And rlina?
She stayed curled up on her bed in a tee and old shorts, hair shoved into a loose bun, trying not to feel like she was the only person left behind in a ghost town.
Because Belford was empty. Even students without official invites had gone, just to stand outside the venue and feel close to the madness. Instagram stories were already flooding in—glass chandeliers, dancers suspended midair, glowing drink fountains. Laughter, lights, legends.
Craig Lesnar had outdone himself.
rlina sighed and pulled her blanket closer, trying not to think about him, like the fabric could shied her from everything she was feeling.
She hated how she kept checking her phone. Hated that so part of her still expected him to co through, sohow. A text. A call. An invite slipped under the door. Anything. Even if he knew she wouldn’t go. Even if she had no business wanting to.
But nothing ca.
Instead, the only light in her room was the soft glow of her laptop, playing a comfort movie she’d seen a hundred tis. One of those feel-good, viral ones where the girl always gets her happy ending—even after the guy screws up everything.
She was halfway through a scene she could recite from mory when it happened.
And then—
A knock.
Soft. Faint. Not urgent. Almost hesitant.
She paused, brows furrowed. "Huh? Did they forget sothing?" she mumbled, dragging herself off the bed. She didn’t even check the mirror. Just shoved her hair into a rougher bun, yanked her old tee down over her shorts, and shuffled toward the door.
She reached for the handle, still half-talking as she opened the door. "Did you guys forget soth—"
Her sentence died on her lips, a sharp intake of breath escaped, fingers froze on the doorknob, trembling as her heart hamred against her ribs.
Ti slamd to a halt.
Because standing there, frad by the dim hallway light, cloaked in black from head to toe, with the faintest glint of gold on his collar, his eyes deep and impossible to read, pinning her place.
Craig Lesnar.
The birthday boy himself.
Not at his party. Not on a stage.
Here.
At her door.
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