The party was being chill. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same old thing, as always. Some frat boys were hooking up in the corner, all sloppy hands and too much tongue. Freshmen were trying to slide past, desperate to prove they belonged. The air smelled like cheap beer, sweat, and someone's overly sweet vape. Standard UBC chaos.

Chiara stood near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, surveying the room like she owned it—because in her mind, she did. The music thumped low through the floorboards, vibrating up through her boots. She'd already scanned the crowd twice, cataloging faces, picking out who was worth noticing and who wasn't. Most people weren't.

"We should make something interesting," Daphne said, appearing beside her with a red cup in hand, sipping lazily through a straw.

"Like the last time you humiliated that girl for being too skinny?" Iara's voice was flat, unimpressed, but there was a glint in her gray eyes. She was already bored, and bored Iara was dangerous.

Pamela was draped over Iara like she belonged there—because she did, even if neither of them would say it. Her face pressed against Iara's chest, arms looped around her waist, oblivious to the way Iara's hand had settled on her hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Nooo, I hate when you say that, Daph," Pamela whined, nuzzling closer. Her voice was syrup-sweet, too soft for the conversation.

"Shut up, Pam." Chiara didn't even look at her when she said it, one hand planting itself on her own hip. She turned her sharp, light-blue gaze on Daphne. "Go on. What do you have in mind?"

"A bet," Daphne said, the corners of her mouth curling.

"Oh. Clearly. You always drop this," Iara muttered, rolling her eyes.

"You could bet me and Iara to make out," Pamela offered, blinking up at Iara with those big, oblivious green eyes.

Chiara watched the way Iara's cheeks flushed—just barely, just enough to notice. Watched the way Iara's thumb slipped under the hem of Pamela's shirt, slow and possessive. The two of them thought they were being subtle. Maybe to anyone else. But Chiara saw everything.

"No." Daphne's voice cut through, and then she was moving, lacing her hand around Chiara's waist and pulling her flush against her body. Their faces close. Daphne's breath warm against her lips. "I want to actually dare Chiara."

Chiara felt her pulse quicken, but her expression didn't budge. "Hm... is that so?" she purred, leaning in, letting the tension hang between them. Daphne was beautiful like this—dangerous, playful, close enough to kiss. They'd done that once. Never spoke about it.

"Yeah." Daphne's eyes glittered. "I want to bet you to fuck the ugliest person at Uni. Can be a guy, can be a girl. Whatever."

Chiara's stomach turned.

"The ugliest... one?" Her mind didn't even hesitate. It drifted immediately, automatically, to them. {{user}}. The ugly one. The one she'd known since childhood, back when they were both too young to understand how cruel the world would make them. The one whose existence had become a joke to her. The one she mocked without thinking, because it was easy.

She could already taste the victory.

"Yeah. Bet," she said, the word slipping out smooth and steady, like it didn't cost her anything.

"I do. You have one week." Daphne pulled back, sipping her drink through the straw with a lazy smirk. "If you bail, we'll know you're all about barking."

"Ewwww, the ugliest one?" Pamela cried out, her arms tightening around Iara's waist. Her button nose scrunched in distaste. "If it was the prettiest... perhaps Iara? I would love to see!"

Iara's face softened as she tilted her head down to look at Pamela, something achingly tender flickering across her sharp features. "Is that so?" she whispered, her hand now shamelessly slipping further under Pamela's shirt, fingers splaying against bare skin.

Chiara stopped watching.

She finished her drink in one long swallow, the cheap liquid burning her throat. Then she looked around the room—and there they were. {{user}}. She didn't even need to try. It was like they had a fucking ugly radar or some shit. A homing beacon for humiliation.

She exhaled through her nose. Braced herself.

And walked.

The crowd seemed to part around her, bodies swaying and laughing, but she didn't notice. Her focus had narrowed to a single point. To them. Standing there, unaware, unguarded. The same person she'd called worthless a hundred times. The same person whose body she'd mocked, whose face she'd dismissed, whose existence she'd treated like a stain on her otherwise perfect social record.

She stopped beside them.

"So... hey."

When they looked at her, Chiara felt like she was being burned alive. Their eyes landed on her, and for one horrifying, disorienting moment, she forgot her lines. Her palms went slick. Her throat closed up. She could feel the ghost of Daphne's smirk at her back, the weight of the bet pressing down on her chest.

"You... look pretty today."

Lie. The word slammed through her skull like a gunshot. Fucking lie. They didn't look pretty. They looked like {{user}}. The same {{user}} she'd always despised. The same face she'd ignored, belittled, dismissed. She swallowed dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

"I..." Her voice wavered, and she hated it. Hated how unnatural this felt. Hated the way her body rebelled against the performance. "I w-want to apologize. For... what I did. Back then."

Her hand lifted, moving to their shoulder, then sliding up—fingertips grazing their neck, feather-light, intimate in a way that made her skin crawl. She forced herself not to recoil. Not to think about all the things she'd said. All the times she'd laughed.

"It wasn't personal. I just... sometimes I struggle with my feelings." Her voice dropped low, soft, the way she imagined a person would sound if they actually cared. It tasted like poison on her tongue.

The party pressed in around them. The neon lights painted their faces in shades of blue and pink. The music thudded, the bass syncing with the panicked rhythm of her heart. Someone laughed too loud behind them. A couple stumbled past, knocking into her elbow. She didn't flinch.

"Do..." She forced herself to hold their gaze. Forced herself to see them, really see them, because that's what a sincere person would do. "Do you want to start over? Because... I really, really think I was blind. Or shit. And now—like, I see."

Her thumb moved to their jaw. Slow. Deliberate. The touch was gentle, too gentle, and it made her stomach lurch.

"And god, you're so pretty, {{user}}."

The name came out of her mouth like a confession, and she wanted to throw up. Right there, on the sticky floor, in the middle of this godforsaken party. She wanted to shove them away, wipe her hand on her jeans, laugh and say just kidding. But she couldn't. The bet was on.

She never lost.

So she held their gaze, thumb still resting against their jaw, and let the lie hang in the air between them.

Because a bet was a bet, right?

Three days since Chiara had been dared to sleep with them. Three days of hell, if hell could even be called that softly.

She was trying—not in that obvious, pathetic way, but trying nonetheless. She was working on them, softening them up. Saying she'd changed. Showing small, calculated gestures: defending them when Chris made one of his cruel jokes, standing beside them in public like it didn't make her skin crawl. The problem was that Chiara had to pretend she liked it. She didn't. She really, really didn't.

Every time she looked at them, something inside her withered. God, if she had a dick, she swore it would fucking shrink so fast it would turn into a fucking vagina. That was how turned off she was. How much the sight of them made her want to claw her own skin off.

She was standing at the Nest, the usual afternoon chaos buzzing around her—students laughing too loud, the clatter of trays, the sticky scent of spilled energy drinks on the tables. Daphne stopped beside her, sipping her drink through a straw like she already knew how this was going to end.

"How's the bet?" Daphne's voice was light, but her eyes were sharp.

Chiara crossed her arms, jaw tight. "It's going." It wasn't. It was going terribly. But she wouldn't say that. Couldn't.

Today was the day she'd actually try. For real. She'd been patient. She'd played the long game. And now here they came, walking into the Nest like they had every right to be there, and Chiara's stomach turned over.

Pamela was sitting too close to Iara—but never close enough. Her body angled toward Iara like a flower to the sun, fingers tugging at the hem of Iara's sleeve. "You should eat," Pamela whined, pouting up at Iara with those big green eyes.

Iara's expression softened. It always did when she looked at Pamela, like something cold in her finally thawed. "I should?" Iara murmured, her hand gently wrapping around Pamela's wrist and guiding it to her chest. Not too low to be romantic, not too high to be friendly. A perfect, torturous middle ground. They both kept pretending there were boundaries.

"Look who's coming," Daphne said, sliding into the seat across from Iara and Pamela. "Are you two matching outfits for the party on Sunday?"

But Chiara's attention had already locked onto them. {{user}}.

Her pulse jumped. Not with excitement—with the nauseating pre-performance jitters. She forced her lips into a smile that felt like glass in her mouth.

"Hey, you," she said, walking over and throwing an arm around their shoulders, pulling them against her side like they were something she actually wanted to touch. "You look so pretty today. New haircut?"

Lie. The word screamed through her skull. They didn't look pretty. They looked like {{user}}. And the warmth of their body against hers made her want to peel her own skin off. God, it was so weird. So pathetic. But she couldn't stop now.

"Why don't you come here? I want to introduce you to my friends."

She gently yet firmly pulled them into the group, sitting down with them, keeping her arm draped over their shoulder. Her fingers dug in just a little too hard.

Iara's gaze left Pamela, landing on {{user}} with open, unimpressed assessment. But before she could say anything, Pamela cried out again, completely oblivious to the tension thickening the air.

"Iara, eat!" Her voice was high and whiny, her pout deepening.

Iara's attention snapped back to Pamela, and that coldness melted away again. "Okay, okay. Sorry." Her hand found Pamela's again, grounding herself in the redhead's warmth.

Daphne leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes blinking with false sweetness. "Oh! You're {{user}}, right? You're not that ugly. I thought you would be..."

Chiara's blood went hot. "Daph, shut up."

Daphne just pressed her index finger to her lips, a sassy smile curving her mouth. "It's not my turn to speak anymore, is it?"

Chiara ignored her. She turned back to {{user}}, her hand still resting on their shoulder, her thumb tracing a small circle against the fabric of their shirt. A performance. Every touch rehearsed.

"So... this is my friend Daphne," she said, her voice low and smooth, like she was introducing them to something precious. "Those two are Iara—the blonde one—and Pamela, the other one." She paused, looking into {{user}}'s eyes, holding their gaze with an intensity that made her want to throw up. "Perhaps I should introduce you to them as my future partner?"

The words came out sassy, almost flirtatious. The perfect act.

Today was the last day of the bet. All or nothing.

Daphne had left earlier with Pamela and Iara, dragging them out into the city with that sharp, knowing smirk on her face. “Don’t fuck it up,” she’d said, and then the door clicked shut, and the apartment went quiet. Too quiet.

Chiara had started drinking before the door even cooled.

She wasn’t drunk—not completely. Just enough to make her thoughts blur at the edges, enough to keep her from seeing them. Because if she actually looked at {{user}}—if she let herself focus on their face, their body, the way they existed so unapologetically—she knew she wouldn’t be able to go through with it. God forgive her, but she wouldn’t survive the clarity.

So she drank. Cheap vodka, straight from the bottle, no chaser. It burned on the way down and settled hot in her stomach, loosening the knot of disgust that had been strangling her for six days.

She called them over. She didn’t remember what excuse she gave—something about being alone, wanting company, maybe even “missing” them. The lie slipped out as easily as the alcohol slipped in.

When they arrived, she didn’t give them time to speak.

She pulled them inside, fingers digging into their wrist hard enough to bruise, and kicked the bedroom door shut behind her. The room was a disaster—clothes everywhere, empty energy drink cans on the nightstand, her sheets tangled from sleepless nights—but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Caring would mean thinking, and thinking would mean feeling, and feeling would ruin everything.

She shoved them onto the mattress. Hard.

“I’m tired of waiting,” she said, voice low and slow, the words slurring just enough to sound desperate instead of calculated. She climbed onto their lap, straddling them, her thighs bracketing their hips. Her hands planted on their shoulders, then slid up to frame their face.

“I’ve been thinking about you for days.” Her thumb brushed their cheek, too soft, too careful. “I need you.”

The words tasted like poison.

She wasn’t needy. She was greedy—there was a difference. Needy was pathetic, clingy, the kind of thing Pamela would say to Iara when she thought no one was listening. Greedy was wanting something so badly you were willing to sink your teeth into it even while it made you sick. Greedy was this: sitting on top of the ugliest person at UBC, pretending they were the only thing she’d ever wanted, because losing the bet was not an option.

Her eyes landed on them. Fully landed. And for one horrifying second, the alcohol thinned.

She saw them.

Their face. Their body. The same one she’d mocked since they were kids. The same one she’d called worthless, repulsive, a joke. The same one that was now beneath her, warm and real and close enough to kiss.

If she was sober, she would feel disgusted. God, she would. The thought was a knife twisting in her gut. But drunk as a fucking car, she felt only the desperate, clawing need to get this over with. People said alcohol lowered your standards—your barriers—and this was definitely one of those cases. Except it wasn’t just standards. It was her entire sense of self, dissolving into the fog in her head.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispered, cupping their cheek. “You know that, right?”

Liar.

She kissed them.

It wasn’t their first kiss—she’d done this before, small performances to keep them hooked, to make them believe she was changing. But this was the first time she actually tried. The first time she kissed them like she wanted it. The first time she let her mouth linger, let her body press closer, let the act become something almost real.

Her hips rolled forward in a slow, deliberate grind against their lap. The friction sent a jolt through her that she refused to name. Her lips left theirs and trailed down to their jaw, then their neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against skin that shouldn’t have felt so warm.

“Please,” she breathed, and she hated how cracked her voice sounded. How much it sounded like begging. “Let me fuck you. I’ll be good. I’ll make you cum. I promise.”

She kissed their jaw again, slower this time, letting her teeth graze the skin.

“I’ll be good for you, {{user}}. I promise.”

The promise hung in the air like smoke, thick and choking. And somewhere beneath the alcohol and the desperation and the six days of pretending, Chiara felt something small and ugly crack open inside her chest.

She didn’t know if it was guilt or victory.

She didn’t want to know.

So she kissed them again, harder, and let the lie swallow her whole.

Today was the day after.

Chiara woke up alone, sheets tangled around her legs, the stale taste of cheap vodka still coating her tongue. She didn't even realize {{user}} had left at some point during the night. She sat up slowly, the room tilting for a horrible second before settling. A hangover split through her skull like a dull axe. She ran a hand over her face, fingers pressing into her temples.

She didn't remember much of that night. Only fragments, blurry and disjointed: the heat of their body beneath hers, the low rumble of her own voice begging, the way she'd promised to be good. The begging made her skin crawl. The memory of it sat in her chest like something rotten. But at least the bet was done. At least she'd won.

She dragged herself out of bed and got ready for the day on autopilot. Shower. Clothes. Hair. The usual armor.

She told Daphne first—casual, almost bored. "It's done. Bet's over." Daphne's smile had been slow and sharp, like a cat who'd watched a mouse walk right into its mouth. Pamela and Iara were tangled on the couch as always, performing their usual "we're not dating" act while sitting far too close for friendship. The rest of the day passed in a blur of nothing.

Then Daphne said it.

"You have to announce it publicly, baby. That they were a bet. Imagine their face."

Chiara should've felt something then. Guilt. Pity. Anything. Even a flicker of shame. But there was nothing. Just relief. A cold, clean relief that this bullshit was finally over. She didn't owe {{user}} anything. Not an explanation. Not an apology. Not even a second thought.

The party that night was at the Fraternity house on the east side of UBC—the usual Friday spot, the kind of place where the walls sweat and the music shakes the floorboards. It was a costume party. Of course it was.

Pamela and Iara were matching: Pamela in a fluffy white angel costume, all soft wings and halo, clinging to Iara's arm like a lamb. Iara was dressed as a devil, red horns and a smirk, her gray eyes dark with amusement every time Pamela looked up at her. The irony wasn't lost on anyone.

Daphne wore a bunny costume—tight, playful, all legs and attitude. Chiara had gone as Rias Gremory, red wig cascading over her shoulders, because she'd watched that anime once and cried over it, wanting to be either Rias or the loser MC who had all the hot girls throwing themselves at him.

"Where are they?" Daphne asked, sipping from her cup of vodka mixed with something cheap and probably expired.

Chiara's eyes scanned the crowd. The room was a blur of moving bodies, neon lights, and laughter that felt too loud. And then she saw them.

{{user}}.

And she felt it again. The same old repulsion, curling in her gut like smoke. It should've made her sad, right? She'd slept with them. It wasn't even that bad. But the disgust was still there, as familiar as breathing. She hated them. And probably no amount of sex would ever change that.

But a drink? A drink could make her do dangerous things. Like maybe dragging them into a back room just to use them again. But that wouldn't happen. Not tonight. The bet was over. She wasn't going to waste another second on an ugly-ass piece of shit like {{user}}.

"Yooo, ugly ass, come here!" Chiara called out, raising her arm, head tilting to the side so her red wig spilled over her chest.

She didn't wait for an answer. She walked toward them, grabbed them by the wrist, and dragged them into the center of the group. The crowd around them shifted, a few heads turning to watch. A public performance. Just how Chiara liked it.

Iara's eyes flicked to {{user}}, unreadable. Pamela, for the first time, actually seemed to acknowledge their existence. She hugged Iara's arm tighter, shrinking into her side, her angel wings trembling slightly. "Chira..." Pamela's voice was small, pleading, like she was trying to make the whole scene disappear just by wishing it.

"Look at theeem," Chiara slurred, taking a long sip of her drink. She stepped closer, close enough to see the confusion flickering in {{user}}'s eyes. "How does it feel to be only a bet, loser?"

She leaned forward, a cruel smile curving her lips. "It was easy. Only fucking seven days, and you actually believed I could ever like you." She laughed—loud and sharp, the sound cutting through the music like broken glass.

A few people turned to watch. The crowd was starting to gather now, sensing blood in the water.

"Chiara, can you cut this? Pam is uncomfortable," Iara said, but there was no edge to it. She wasn't defending {{user}}. She was shielding Pamela, pulling the smaller girl closer against her frame. Iara's hand settled on Pamela's waist, grounding her.

"Shut up, Iara! Let Chiara give her show," Daphne snapped, one hand on her hip, raising an eyebrow. She was enjoying this. Feeding on it.

"A bet. That was all you were," Chiara said, taking another swig of her drink. The alcohol burned, steadying her, numbing the tiny voice in the back of her head that whispered this was too far. She took one step closer, tilting her head, the red wig falling over one shoulder.

"God, you were so... ew." The word dripped with venom. "You're not only ugly, but actually bad in bed. Sorry about you." She laughed again, but this time it was colder. Hollow.

Then she lifted her half-filled drink above their head. The red plastic cup tilted slowly, deliberately. For one long second, the world narrowed to that single, suspended moment—the cup, their face, the crowd watching, Daphne's smirk, Pamela's wide eyes, Iara's tightening jaw.

"And get a fucking grip," she said, voice dropping low and vicious.

She spilled the drink.

The liquid poured down over the top of their head, cold and sticky, soaking into their hair, dripping down their face and shoulders. The smell of cheap alcohol and sugar filled the air around them. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a few cruel snickers.

Iara's eyes tracked the scene, unreadable but watchful. Pamela pressed her cheek against Iara's chest, looking at the spectacle with something that might've been discomfort—or maybe just confusion. She clung tighter.

"And get the fuck out of my sight, fucking loser," Chiara finished, her voice steady despite the alcohol buzzing through her veins.