The Ivy Lounge pulsed with life, a beating heart of glitter, bass, and power. Golden lights bounced off velvet booths, reflecting in the sequins of sorority gowns like fireworks caught mid-explosion. The scent of expensive perfume mixed with whiskey and cologne, and somewhere beneath it all, the faint tang of sweat reminded me that humans were messy, even here.
Bodies pressed together on the dance floor, grinding and swaying to the music that thumped like a heartbeat, each beat daring someone to move faster, higher, louder. The high-ranked sorority sisters perched in their reserved booths like queens surveying the kingdom, their laughter sharp as champagne flutes clinking. Low-ranked girls lingered near the bar, nursing drinks that burned more than the alcohol - desperate for a scrap of attention.
And me? I was exactly where I belonged.
Center stage
My eyes scanned the room with practiced calculation. Everyone knew Brielle Lancaster. They didn't have to whisper my name; it rolled off tongues, carried on looks, half-envy, and half-curiosity. Tonight, though, I wasn't here for recognition.
I was here with a mission.
I slid into the booth with my girls, the heartbeat of my inner circle:
Camille, sprawled like she owned the space, eyes rolling so hard I sometimes feared they'd detach. She was the voice of reason, even if she didn't always use it wisely.
Chelly, laughing as she leaned on Dante Rivera, the basketball captain, whose cocky grin could win over any room. The two were a perfect storm of charm and ease.
Iris, the beautiful nerd, hair tucked behind one ear, adjusting her glasses nervously, but still somehow radiant. She was out of place here, but Brielle Lancaster had long ago decided the world was better with her presence.
Ivory, the sorority queen bee, who could maneuver every conversation like chess pieces, always calculating who would bow first, who would stumble, who would rise. She radiated power, but in a way I envied and feared.
We clinked our glasses, murmuring over the thumping music.
"You're soaking this in," Camille said, eyebrows raised. "I see the way you're surveying the room like a hawk."
"Someone has to," I replied, voice low. "This is battle territory. Everyone's jockeying for position. I just prefer to know where the pieces are before I make my move."
Chelly smirked. "So… Tristan Kane has officially arrived, huh? Heard the buzz all over campus. Stormhawks' new star. Already stealing hearts, apparently."
I didn't respond. Not yet. Let the anticipation build.
The music had shifted like someone had hit a secret switch, heavier bass now, and lights dipping as if the lounge itself was bowing. Whispers rippled across the crowd, bodies turning instinctively toward the entrance.
And then they appeared.
Tristan Kane, flanked by Zeke Marshall, Eli Thompson, Leo Anders, and Connor Hale, strode in like they owned the night, though no one had handed them a crown.
Zeke, loud and magnetic, waved to a few familiar faces, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Center of gravity, as always.
Leo & Connor, inseparable and mischievous, elbows locked, smirks identical, daring anyone to try and separate them.
Eli, the unreadable one, moved with deliberate ease, aloofness radiating off him in waves that somehow made people lean closer, trying to read the code.
And finally, the man of the moment.
Tristan
Quiet, commanding without raising a finger, the very air around him folding neatly into respect, attention, awe.
I couldn't help but notice the shock ripple when Tristan approached Aiden. Two days ago, the rink had seen them clash; everyone had expected tension thicker than winter ice. But instead, Aiden and Tristan clasped in a bro-hug, grins briefly flashing, burying the hatchet. Gasps and murmurs flitted through the room - the unexpected alliance was almost too much for the onlookers.
Chelly leaned over, voice low but electric: "Did… did they just…?"
"Yeah," I murmured, eyes narrowing, a thrill rippling through me. "They did. And this changes everything."
The boys moved deeper into the lounge, exchanging pleasantries with teammates. Tristan's calm contrast to Zeke's flamboyance, Eli's intensity, and Leo & Connor's chaos only made him more magnetic. Every eye in the room, from sorority queens to jittery first-years, followed him without realizing it.
I caught Tristan's gaze for a brief moment. Cold, assessing. That same unreadable look from the rink. My pulse kicked. Every plan, every thought I had, shifted imperceptibly toward a single goal.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, Ethan's absence gnawed at me - a reminder that the past didn't matter tonight. Tonight was mine.
– – – –
I felt his presence before I saw him. Something about the shift in the crowd, the subtle pause in movement, the almost imperceptible intake of breath that signaled him.
He stepped through the throng, hair slightly mussed from the evening's chaos, hand hesitating at the edge of my booth as if unsure how to approach. There was that familiar soft smile - the one that used to make me feel untouchable, wrapped in warmth, a tether to the person I'd been before Tristan Kane arrived.
My pulse quickened. Not because I wanted him. Not even close. No. Because this - this moment - was too delicious to waste. Too perfect to let slip. I had spent weeks honing the sharp edge of my charm, my plans, and my cruelty. And here he was, all innocence, all vulnerability, right where I could wield it like a weapon.
"Elle…" His voice trembled just slightly, low, hopeful. "Can we talk?"
The word talk sounded small against the bass-thumping lounge, insignificant in the haze of music and laughter. But I could feel it. I could feel how much it carried for him - all the late nights, the texts unanswered, the calls ignored. His hand reached for mine, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
I looked down at it, coolly, deliberately, and let my fingers brush against his. Just long enough to make him think I might relent. And then I yanked my hand away, sharp, and final. A sound like a snap in the music, a rupture he could feel all the way to his chest.
"Not now, Ethan," I said, loud enough for the nearest tables to turn their heads. "Actually… not ever."
The words hung in the air like acid. Silence rippled outward from my corner of the lounge, soft murmurs swelling as heads swiveled. He froze, eyes wide, mouth opening as if to protest, but no sound came.
I watched him. Really watched. The vulnerability etched across his face, the sudden tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw flexed like he was holding back a storm of emotion. The blush of humiliation, hot and immediate, crawling up his neck and cheeks. I could almost see his heart beating in his chest, each pulse loud, relentless, breaking under the weight of public scrutiny.
Around us, whispers swelled like waves.
"Is she serious?"
"He… he looks destroyed."
"You didn't, Brie…"
I didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Let them talk. Let them stare. Let the room feel the sting as acutely as he did. Every reaction only deepened the rush of power sliding through me. I had him. And not in some fleeting, private way - this was public, undeniable, a performance of dominance.
Ethan's hands dropped to his sides, slack, the tremor in his fingers betraying the calm he tried to project. His lips parted, as if words could somehow undo the damage, but I could see that whatever he wanted to say would never be enough. And I didn't let him try. I wouldn't.
"I said… not ever," I repeated, soft enough for the music to swallow but sharp enough for him to hear, a whisper cutting straight to his bones.
He swallowed. His throat bobbed, tight and frantic. The confident boy who had once called me his world was crumbling, exposed in the middle of the Ivy Lounge like prey caught in the spotlight. Every sorority girl, every frat boy, every whispering onlooker was now a witness.
And then… he stepped back. Just a little, but the gesture spoke volumes. The way his shoulders slumped, the tilt of his head, the slow retreat toward the edge of the crowd - it was defeat. He hadn't raised his voice, hadn't lashed out, and hadn't begged. No. Ethan didn't strike, didn't fight, and didn't yell. He didn't even cry, not yet. But the weight of my words, my cruelty, my precision, landed perfectly. He carried it all on his own.
I watched, internalizing the scene, savoring the heat of it, feeling my pulse sync with the rhythm of the lounge. He looked like a ghost of the boy I'd loved - smaller, fragile, exposed. And the room? They felt it too. Gasps, murmurs, and those subtle, longing glances from the curious crowd. I could almost see my own power reflected in their eyes.
Camille muttered beside me, half groan, half gasp.
"Bri… that's… brutal."
I smirked. A tiny, deliberate curl of my lips.
"Yes," I whispered back, voice smooth and deadly. "Brutal… but necessary."
Because it was. Every strategy I had, every plan, every intention to claim Tristan Kane - it began here. Ethan was collateral, a stepping stone, and a warning to anyone who might think they could interfere. And the best part? He didn't even fight. He couldn't. Not tonight.
The music surged, lights flaring, but all I could see was him. Standing there, vulnerable, crushed, and perfectly trapped by circumstance and by my cruelty.
And I? I was ready for what came next.
And for that, I didn't hesitate.
Not tonight. Not when every eye in the Ivy Lounge already hung on us like moths to flame.
The Stormhawks' table was a small island amid the chaos, and the boys—Aiden, Zeke, Eli, Leo, Connor, and of course Tristan—looked up as I approached. Their expressions flickered between shock and curiosity.
'She's really coming here', I imagined Zeke thinking, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappeared into his hairline.
I didn't care. None of it mattered. I stopped in front of Tristan, my heels clicking against the polished floor like the sound of a gavel. I held out my hand, palm up, a challenge etched into the curve of my fingers.
"Dance with me," I said, steady, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear.
Tristan's jaw tightened. His hands flexed at his sides, his body tense, and eyes unreadable.
"I don't dance," he said, low, controlled, the words a wall I hadn't expected but relished the challenge of breaking.
I smirked, leaning closer so my voice was a caress against the ear that had already stolen so many thoughts from me.
"You skate like you're made for it. What's the difference?"
For a fraction of a second, his eyes flicked to mine. Then a sigh. Slow, measured. One that sounded like a man conceding to a storm he hadn't anticipated.
He finally stood, rigid but yielding, and allowed me to lead him toward the center of the lounge.
– – – –
The dance started awkwardly.
Hands on my waist, His grip was stiff, unyielding. I tried to guide him, my own movements deliberate but testing. He followed the rhythm reluctantly, a touch here, a step there, as though he were learning not just the dance but my intention behind it.
And then… something shifted.
The music pulsed through us, the energy syncing, the awkwardness fading. A sharp turn — I leaned into him, and his hand steadied me. A dip, my body brushing against his, and suddenly the air around us was charged. Movement became conversation; glances became flirtation. Every step, every turn, was sharp, fluid, like we'd done this a thousand times before.
The crowd began to notice.
People cleared the floor instinctively, whispers rippling outward.
"Brielle Lancaster and Tristan Kane?"
"Did she just…?"
"Is he actually dancing with her?"
Their surprise only fueled me. The way he looked - calculating, unreadable, but just a hint of something behind those dark eyes - made my pulse spike. Yes. This is perfect.
I guided him through another spin, his hands firm on my waist now, the stiffness gone, replaced by a careful precision that matched mine. We moved together seamlessly, almost dangerously, sparks igniting in every turn, every step.
I could feel the heat between us - almost a warning, almost a prelude. The room was ours. The crowd's attention, undeniable. And yet, I kept my focus where it had always been: on him. On Tristan Kane.
The rhythm carried us, bodies in sync, the heat of motion wrapped around the illusion of intimacy. And then it was time.
I leaned in slightly, lips brushing near his ear. My voice, just loud enough for him to hear, sharpened with calculated confidence.
"Everyone wants a piece of you," I said, letting the words linger, teasing, taunting. "But I'm not everyone. Be mine, Tristan Kane. Tonight and afterwards."
I expected the bowing, the yielding, and the inevitable surrender. Every boy before him had bent, had succumbed to the Brielle Lancaster charm. I smirked, certain of victory, certain that Tristan Kane - newcomer, heartthrob, the storm that had swept into WHU - was about to fall exactly where I wanted him.
But… the pause.
The shift in his weight. The glimmer in his eyes that didn't soften, didn't bend, didn't yield.
And then, words that hit harder than any hockey puck could:
"I don't do that. Not to you. Not to anyone actually. And especially not tonight."
I froze, mid-spin, the smirk faltering. My carefully constructed world, built on certainty and control, wavered. The lounge - the floor, the crowd, the heat of our dance - seemed to collapse around me in a single, brutal instant.
Shock. Silence. The whispers of onlookers became sharper, the stares piercing. I could feel every eye drilling into me, every heartbeat of the crowd pressing against my chest.
The world spun.
The humiliation cut deeper than I'd imagined. Not rejection. Not just the denial. The truth of it: he had seen through me. Called out the act, the plan, the manipulation. And now, with the weight of everyone watching, I had nowhere to hide.
I blinked. One, two times. My mission had failed.
The music still thumped, but all I could hear was the rapid thud of my own heartbeat, hammering against my ribs like it might shatter me from the inside out. The world had narrowed into a single, unbearable point.
He leaned down, eyes locked on mine, voice cutting through the crowded lounge like a sharpened blade.
"You think this is a game, don't you?" His words were low, precise, devastating. "You collect hearts like trophies. But here's the thing, Brielle -"
I lifted my chin, chest heaving, ready to snap back, to reclaim control.
"…you don't own me. And I don't dance to your tune."
The words hit me like ice.
His hand slid from mine with deliberate calm. He stepped back, a measured distance that left me exposed in the center of the floor, a living target for the crowd. His eyes never wavered, never flicked with doubt or hesitation.
And then came the final blow.
"Find another pawn. I'm not interested in being yours."
The sentence landed like a hammer. The crowd around us seemed to inhale as one, the whispers growing into a low roar of incredulity.
He turned, and the Stormhawks fanned out behind him, moving with quiet authority. Zeke, Eli, Leo, Connor — all of them perfectly synchronized, a wall of camaraderie and cool indifference. Adrian had spared me just one final glance, and just like that, they were gone.
Leaving me.
Alone.
The whispers sliced the air, slicing me with them.
I could feel eyes on me - the whole lounge, the center of this living auditorium of judgment. Some were shocked. Some were amused. Some were quietly reveling in my fall from carefully constructed grace.
Ethan's face at the edge of the crowd burned into my mind. Shattered. Vulnerable. The way his shoulders sagged, the way his hands twitched at his sides - as if he wanted to run to me, and yet had no right. My cruelty, my ambition, my hunger for Tristan's attention had just left him in pieces, too.
Behind me, my girls froze. Camille's mouth hung open. Chelly's hand flew to her chest, Dante's sharp glance meeting hers in silent disbelief. Iris looked away, biting her lip, while Ivory, the queen of composure, faltered for just a fraction of a second - a flicker of "this is worse than we expected."
I stood there, chest heaving, heels clicking against the floor with every unsteady step I took as I retreated from the center. Every eye followed, every whisper magnified the sting.
This humiliation was worse than heartbreak.
And tonight…
Tristan Kane handed me both.