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Chapter 8 - Never Agree To A Favour

I scan my surroundings in the car park, searching for Dominic. Eventually, I spot him casually leaning against the side of his sleek, black car. Despite the crowded environment, he sticks out like a sore thumb with his impeccable style and confident demeanour.

As I make my way towards him, I notice how engrossed he seems to be in his phone. He occasionally looks up to survey the area, his gaze bouncing around over a group of people and it quickly flickers past me. But when he realises that I am the person his gaze is looking for, his eyes saunter back onto me and then finally linger there.

He rolls his eyes to convey his irritation and beckons me over impatiently.

Anxiously burying my hands into the crevices at the back of my jeans, I heave a heavy sigh and reluctantly stroll over towards him.

"Hey," I greet him with a stiff smile inching onto my lips, "Wassup?"

"You're late, that's wassup," he says bluntly and turns around to get in his car, slamming his door shut.

Under my breath, I sarcastically murmur, "Great. I'm also good, thanks for asking," nodding to myself.

Standing beside his car, feeling completely lost and unsure of what to do next, I watch him for a while. He glances at me through the window. After rolling his eyes impatiently, he rolls down the window expectantly, his eyebrows raised as if that in itself is explanation enough.

What the hell does the flick of his eyebrow even mean? Is it a signal that we can now part ways after this encounter, or is he planning to keep my sketchbook forever, using it as a makeshift toilet paper despite the discomfort it would cause him?

"What are you waiting for?" Before I can respond, he demands, "Get in the car."

"No," I immediately dispute, even gesturing my disapproval with my hand.

"What?"

Then I tug a stiff grin onto my face to still appear polite even though all I want to do at this very moment is bash his face in. "No, I don't think you understand. I have to get back home soon, so I'd truly appreciate it if you could be a darling and just give me my sketchbook back so I can leave."

"I don't think you're in any position to call the shots. If you want your sketchbook, you'll get in the car."

My face falls and the pretentious grin that was previously on my face evaporates instantly.

"Prick," I mutter, but nevertheless go around to get in the passenger seat. I slam the door behind me and huff into my seat.

Guess I was wrong to think that he would've turned over a new leaf.

What was I expecting?

A sudden change of heart?

This is the same guy who, back in year nine, turned the school into a circus by spreading that vicious rumour about Mia—something disgusting involving her, Onyx and someone contracting herpes from the other. All because she "made" him fail a project.

Real mature.

The fallout wasn't just hallway gossip. It nearly cost Mia everything. Her parents found out, flipped out, and started packing her bags for another school before she even had a chance to blink. Expulsion was genuinely on the table. No one cared about what was true. Just about what they had heard.

Thankfully, Mia fought back and talked her parents down.

She managed to stay.

But the damage was already done.

So yeah, if I thought this guy was suddenly going to play fair with me now… clearly, I need a mirror to check how naïve I look.

"Put your seatbelt on," he says flatly, not even looking at me as he shifts the gear.

I squint at him. "What?"

He exhales sharply, and I swear I hear his patience give up the ghost. "I don't feel like getting charged with attempted murder if we crash. Which would be accidental, of course. Completely accidental. Since I have zero intention of seeking revenge for the time you ran me over."

There is a heavy dash of sarcasm in that last part.

"Put. Your. Seatbelt. On."

I tilt my head, deadpan. "Could you say that a little more aggressively? I don't think I heard you well enough the first time."

He finally glances at me with just one hollow look.

The kind of expression that screams, I could not possibly care less about your existence right now.

I sigh.

To be fair, I am pretty sure he sees himself as some grand aristocrat, and I'm the annoying street peasant tugging at the hem of his tailored trousers. Or worse—a stray cat he accidentally fed once and is having trouble getting rid of. I probably smell like an inconvenience to him.

Still, I reach for the seatbelt. Not because he ordered me to. But because I enjoy breathing, and dying in a fiery vehicular explosion doesn't quite vibe with my life planner.

"Happy?" I mutter.

He doesn't respond.

Just revs the engine and drives out of the school leisurely and effortlessly.

The quiet inside the car is pristine. The only sound is the low hum of the engine, which feels like it's mocking me with its smooth purr.

I shoot him a sideways scowl.

He doesn't even have to try. He drives like it's second nature, wrist draped over the wheel with that effortless air of someone born in a luxury sedan. Meanwhile, I sweat bullets every time I touch the accelerator as if defusing a bomb. And let's be clear, my struggle has nothing to do with the offhand comment he made about my race when I ran him over. That was just peak racist behaviour.

He, of course, looks entirely unaffected, relaxed and barely blinking.

His hood is down again.

And just like that, the world tilts three degrees sideways.

The messy black hair that usually stays hidden beneath that grey hoodie is now out in full rebellion, strands falling in perfectly imperfect directions. It's criminal, really, how unfairly good he looks like this. Unbothered. Effortlessly magnetic in the kind of way that makes people accidentally walk into doors.

I should look away.

I should be training my eyes to unlearn the habit of landing on him like this, taking inventory of every loose strand, every shadow cast under afternoon light. But instead, my gaze lingers. Not long enough to be obvious, but definitely long enough to feel like I have betrayed myself.

It's not just the hair.

It's the way this version of him feels more real.

I swallow and quickly shift my eyes.

The silence stretches thin between us, almost elastic. For a while, I let it win but the longer it goes, the louder my thoughts get, spiralling into a chaotic monologue that makes me want to scream just to hear anything.

So I give in.

"I still think you're dramatic for comparing the bumper to attempted murder," I say, voice flat but itching for friction.

His grip on the wheel barely twitches.

He smirks slightly.

And that tiny, smug curve makes me want to launch a seat cushion at his face.

"So… where exactly are we going?" I ask, eyes narrowed and voice low. "Are you gonna find another closet that you can drag me into?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he mutters, like my question deserved to be shredded on sight.

I stare at him in question, waiting for him to answer my enquiry.

"We're obviously heading to my place. You want that sketchbook back?" He pauses, and then with a grin that should come with a warning label, he says, "You will have to blow me for it."

My breath catches.

"What?" I whisper, unsure if I heard him right or if my ears staged a prank.

Heat crawls up my neck and paints fire onto my cheeks as I physically shrink into the passenger seat.

Shock doesn't begin to describe how I feel from his words.

Is he serious?

Why would he demand I… blow him just to get my sketchbook back? Just to get a sketchbook. Does he think the book is worth that much effort? That I would go to such lengths just to get it back? What kind of monster thinks humiliation is a valid transaction for getting back the one object holding pieces of my soul?

"That's what Michael would've said," he replies.

A little smirk edges onto his lips.

What does he mean that's what Michael would have said?

My stomach twists.

Has he shared the details of my sketchbook with him? Does this mean James has also been told too? Would Dominic do something like that to me?

James has a girlfriend. One who once threatened to fight someone for looking at him wrong. I heard she gets really jealous. What if she decides to attack me at school? I cannot fight… a girl. Okay, I wouldn't survive that encounter with anyone. I have no combat skills. I wouldn't even make it past round one. My only move is maybe a wildly uncoordinated groin kick.

Why would Dominic do this to me?

Dominic casts a sideways glance at me, and the moment he catches my expression—blood draining from my face, lips parted in shellshocked horror—he immediately backpedals.

"Relax," he mutters quickly. "I'm not gonna make you do anything sexual. The thought alone makes me want to throw up."

"Oh thanks," I say, voice dipped in sarcasm and eyes full of murder. "Appreciate that."

"You should be grateful it wasn't Michael or…" he trails off, pretending to dig through his mind. "Who was it again? James?"

I don't answer; not with words, anyway.

The glare I level at his side profile is enough to roast him.

He notices. Thrives off it, even.

"Yeah," he continues, watching me with too much amusement. "You should be glad they weren't the ones who found these. Who knows what they would have made you do to get them back?"

My jaw tightens and my entire body goes from simmer to boil. Not because of his trashfire words but because mentioning the other boys I used to like is simply a way for him to mock my feelings.

Until it hits me.

How the hell does he know about Michael and James? Neither of them was ever drawn in my sketchbook. It was only ever Edward. The sketchbook was new, a purchase I made last year. Clean of past mistakes. Untouched by the cocky charm of Michael or James with his oddly sweet weed induced conversations. Dominic never made an appearance either, because frankly he wasn't worth the ink.

The only time I ever spoke of the three of them was in my vlogs. Nowhere else will you hear about them, definitely not in my sketchbook.

I sit up straighter, panic swirling beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

"Wait, how do you know about that?" My voice cracks slightly. "Michael and James? I never mentioned them… not in the sketchbook."

"Oh yeah." His head tilts nonchalantly with a murmur of agreement in his throat. "I almost forgot about that."

And then he moves.

He shifts to the side, reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, and pulls it out.

That black chip.

My black chip.

The one I had left in my camera—meant to be left in my camera—except I was distracted by that stupid librarian.

He dangles it between two fingers, smirking as if offering a treat to a dog.

Eyes wide, I lunge forward to grab it but he is obviously faster. He pulls back just in time and flashes that smug look again.

I nearly scream.

My hands tremble in my lap as I swallow the urge to rip the upholstery off his car seat in pure frustration. "That does not belong to you," I hiss, voice low and sharp.

He twirls the chip once like he's spinning a coin. "It's in my hand, isn't it?"

My blood boils.

"I can't believe you," I snap, the rage rising in my throat like bile. "That's a complete invasion of privacy."

"You left it out." He leans back, utterly unbothered. "I picked it up. The world is full of consequences."

Once we have stopped at a red light, he puts my memory card back in his pocket and tugs his seatbelt across his front, clicking it shut. Then he glances over at me with those stupid unfeeling, brown eyes of his and my stomach sinks into a dark pit.

Dread surges within me when I see the cold, calculative glimmer in those eyes.

They make him look apathetic.

He said I should be grateful?

That word doesn't even belong in the same sentence as Dominic.

The moment I start to ask myself whether I should feel relieved that he—and not Michael or James or any other goblin—found my sketchbook and now apparently my memory card too, the answer slaps me across the face in under three seconds.

Absolutely not.

Grateful for what?

That the guy who once started a rumour so nuclear it nearly got someone expelled now holds personal incriminating material of mine? Yeah, no thanks. If Michael or James had stumbled across it, worst case scenario they would probably trip over themselves trying to decode my doodles.

But Dominic?

Dominic is the kind of person who wouldn't just weaponise my vulnerability. He would plot twelve moves ahead like he's playing emotional chess against my entire mental stability. He's not just unpredictable. Strategic and terrifyingly good at pretending he's okay while the world burns around him.

And now he has leverage.

My sketchbook.

My memory card.

So, no. Not grateful.

Terrified.

He proves every suspicion right with one sentence one I never imagined would come out of his mouth.

"I need a favour."

"A favour?" My brows shoot up so fast they might escape my face. "From me?"

He gives me an irritable look. "No, from the person whose secrets I hold in the palm of my hand," he replies with a snap of sarcasm that slices through the air.

I scowl.

His tone makes it sound like I'm some clueless footnote in his story. Like my intelligence is somewhere between an overripe tomato and the back of a cereal box.

He doesn't stop there.

"Do you know why I want a favour from you?"

"Uh…"

Before I can reply, he steamrolls over me, "Because I have not only the material that could destroy your social life, but the ammo to take out every friendship you have managed to salvage since the Savannah incident. And we both know you'd do anything to stop that trainwreck from happening."

My face scrunches. "What happened between me and Savannah?"

He smirks like he has won a game I never agreed to play. "You really think I don't know what goes down at our school?"

I look away, jaw tight, eyes scanning the world outside like it might offer me escape.

In the car next to us, a young mum glances worriedly at her baby in the backseat. The infant waves a rattle around like a wand, gummy smile blooming on her chubby little face. The sight melts her tension in an instant.

And it hits me—soft and sharp.

That drive home from the hospital. Amma asleep in front. Yang Jin cradling our newborn siblings. Appa leaning between the seats, making dumb faces just to hear me laugh. That moment was warmth, security, home.

Dominic's words twist through me like acrid smoke.

Because as much as I hate everything he stands for, he's not wrong. Social embarrassment is something I can deal with. I have gone through it before and survived. But losing my people, not having my three best friends with me? The ones who have seen the unfiltered crying, the ones who have laughed with me, the ones I have confided in… I can't even imagine what that would do to me.

I could not survive that.

And Dominic knows it.

"We both know how much they weigh," he says quietly, echoing my thoughts like he owns them.

The silence in the car is thick enough to bottle.

I turn slowly toward him, my eyes narrowed and voice deadpan. "So what I'm hearing is… you're blackmailing me."

He shrugs without missing a beat. "You say poh-tay-toe; I say poh-tah-toh."

I stare at him, utterly unimpressed. "Literally nobody says poh-tah-toh."

"Then I'm ahead of my time," he mutters, just as the light turns green.

He shifts gears and returns to ignoring me.

I watch his profile—the taut jawline, the neutral expression—and try to decode whatever villainous spreadsheet is open in his head. But it is like trying to read hieroglyphics from the past.

Eventually, I speak.

"Why me?"

He opens his mouth then hesitates which alone feels like a cosmic glitch.

"Well, I'm not exactly choosing you because I want to—" He glances my way, sees the death glare forming on my face, and wisely aborts the joke. "It's just… I have leverage over you. So why not you?"

Oh, beautiful.

Just casually confirming that I'm the most convenient victim in his game of manipulation.

I lean forward, eyes sharp. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

He flicks his gaze toward me, one brow raised like I have asked if the sky feels insecure of the ocean sometimes.

No shame.

So I spell it out.

"Going through personal sketches that belong to someone else, digging through private vlogs, stealing my memory card? Does that not ring your moral alarm bells?"

He hums thoughtfully, as if considering the question. Then shrugs indifferently. "Nope."

My mouth drops open.

Is he even human to begin with?

When he doesn't look remotely guilty, I lean back into the comfortable seat, crossing my arms over my stomach in an irked manner.

"Then you should have a talk with your Dominic 2.0… if you even have one."

He glances sideways. "Dominic 2.0?"

"Your conscience," I reply sweetly, smiling like poison. "You know that inner voice that speaks to you constantly, causing you to waver when you're about to do something vile and immoral? The sort of vile and immoral act like perhaps stealing and manipulating someone. Ring a bell, Dominic?"

"You hear voices in your head?" he asks, brushing aside my snide remark.

"Voices aligned with morality," I reply with a frown. "And guess what, they all hate you."

Dominic leans back in his seat, his tone almost bored. "Is it?"

He's pretending to care, but the glazed look in his eyes says he wouldn't lose sleep even if I spontaneously combusted.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, "Anyway, are you gonna help me or not?"

I raise an eyebrow, letting the tension simmer in my voice. "And what if I don't?"

He barely pauses. "Then I will print those adorable little sketches of Edward. You know, the ones with the smoldering gaze and suspiciously shaded jawline. And decorate every hallway at school with them. Everyone will get a front row seat to who you really are. Turns out the quiet little 'gay best friend' isn't so innocent after all."

I stiffen.

He continues, lips curling into a twisted smirk. "Even your friend… Tracey?"

"Taylor," I snap, venom lacing the correction.

He rolls his eyes like the name offended him personally. "Yeah, her. She'll find out too. That her best friend is a backstabbing prick in love with her boyfriend."

My blood boils.

I glare so hard at the side of his skull I'm surprised it does not combust. "Okay first of all, fuck you for labelling me like a token sidekick in a bad romcom. Second, I am not in love with Edward."

"Funny. Your videos tell a different story."

"All I have ever said is that I like him. That's it. Full stop."

Just a dumb crush.

Still, the heat beneath my skin betrays me. My jaw clenches. My eyes narrow.

Because his spiteful words stab at something I have fought hard to keep buried. I don't love Edward. I will never let myself fall off that cliff because I know exactly what is waiting at the bottom. Unspoken feelings, jealous nights and the kind of self-hate that stings your chest long after you've considered how betrayed your friend would be after finding out.

I'm already tired of drowning in unrequited emotions.

"How do I know that you won't just do it in the end?" I ask him. "How can I guarantee that you won't just out me in the end after getting what you want?"

His hands stay locked on the steering wheel, but his voice is maddeningly casual. "I give you my word."

I blink at him, slow and unimpressed. "You give me your word?" I echo, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh great. Should I frame it? Hang it on my wall as a guarantee?"

He doesn't flinch. "My word is my bond."

I stare at him. "Am I just supposed to trust you blindly?"

Dominic exhales, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm a man of my word, Starr. I wouldn't out you after you have delivered. That's not who I am."

I laugh but there is no humour in it. "No, of course not. You're just someone who steals other people's property and invades their privacy to blackmail them."

He glances at me briefly through his peripheral vision, just a flick of the eyes like even giving me full eye contact is too generous. There is that wall again, the one he carries like a shield, carved out of pride and impassivity.

And suddenly, the question gnaws louder: What does he want?

Dominic isn't exactly a social butterfly. He is the walking embodiment of working alone. So what could he, of all people, possibly need help with enough to stoop to blackmail?

Why me?

I get the convenience of blackmailing me, but why me?

Why do I have to have such horrible luck?

Can I not just go through one year of secondary school without having something deterring me from focusing solely on my academics? Unlike Christian, I cannot juggle around a relationship, my supposed masochism and school work.

I give up on trying to decode his expression.

"What do you need help with?" I ask, letting the question drop like a weight. No point tiptoeing around someone who has made blackmail his preferred option.

He doesn't answer right away, which is very on brand.

So I poke the bear. "Let me guess. A handy? Blowjob? Quick fuck maybe?"

His head whips toward me, voice flat but visibly tense. "I already said the thought of anything sexual with you is nauseating."

I scowl. "Glad to know I don't meet your royal standards, Dominic."

I spot the blush crawling faintly up his neck.

Not so impervious now, huh?

"I'm quite capable of getting that myself," he mutters, defensive and stiff.

I snort. "Really? Got a girlfriend hidden in your glove compartment or something?"

He ignores me, eyes locked on the road until he finally snaps, "Are you going to help me or not?"

I fold my arms. "Depends. What exactly am I signing up for?"

That's when I notice the unfamiliar building up ahead. He turns into the car park of a restaurant that screams understated wealth with the smooth marble exterior and gold lettered signage. It looks like the kind of place that expects reservations and more than just stability.

We pull into a spot.

Dominic cuts the engine, but instead of getting out, he just stares at the steering wheel.

I give him a beat with a frown of confusion, but when I feel my patience doing cartwheels off a cliff, I lean slightly toward him.

"What am I doing, Dominic?" I repeat impatiently.

His jaw works, clenching and unclenching.

Does he really need so much time to think about it? Because I don't think I can wait until the second coming of Jesus to hear what favour he wants from me.

And then, with a breath that sounds too heavy for someone so composed, he finally turns to look at me.

And speaks.

"I need your help… with someone I like."

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