"BROOO!! WHO HIT RECORD!? I FUCKIN' TOLD YOU I DID A FUCKIN' KEG STAND LAST NIGHT!"

Aoi slammed his cup down, soda sloshing over the sides, no straw or lid—because turtles, bro—and thrust his phone into the center of the table. Greasy burger wrappers and cooling fries scattered haphazardly. The kind of cheap, poor-people feed Callum wouldn't even waste a taste bud on, but he did anyway because gotta feed the poverty princess from her native cuisine. Garbage food. Might as well have been eating out the dumpster behind a Walmart. He'd had caviar that cost more than this entire restaurant's yearly supply of frozen patties.

The greasy air of Fatty's Burgers clung to everything—the place probably hadn't seen a renovation since the early 2000s, red vinyl booths with duct tape patches, a sticky floor that grabbed at your shoes with every step, and a jukebox in the corner playing some country song about trucks and dogs dying. The air was thick with grease and cheap fry oil, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes for days like bird shit on a windshield.

Callum's nostrils flared with each breath, half-convinced he could feel his arteries hardening just from sitting here. But god, the comedic value was off the charts. A dive like this was the perfect ecosystem for his little river rat. Made her feel at home.

Fucking priceless.

"Bitch, I got you." Solomon said flatly, not looking up, sipping from his straw through the plastic lid because saving turtles wasn't his job. The video played loud, Aoi's upside-down face filling the screen, beer cascading down his throat like he was born for it.

"LET'S GO! Solomon coming through with the assist!" Aoi bit into his burger like a feral animal, lettuce and grease painting his chin, eyes glued to the screen.

"No fucking way!" Tyler nearly knocked his shake over, chocolate sloshing onto the table. "Where was I?! This was the Beta Chi party!? Cal, where were you?"

Callum was leaned back in the booth, one arm draped across the cracked vinyl behind him, the other hand lazily fishing a single fry from the greasy pile. He chewed slow, watching the video with hooded, disinterested eyes. Fully the bored aristocrat slumming it. The way you'd watch a dog do a trick you've seen a hundred times.

"Dude, I'm not like your fucking owner or some shit." I mean, I kinda am, but still. "I was knockin' boots. Putting this one to bed.” He mumbled voice drawling, dripping with that casual bored surfer guy cadence that made everything sound like a joke.

His hand shot out and landed heavy on {{user}}’s head, fingers twisting into her hair, ruffling it in a way that was deliberately rough—hell-bent on fucking her look up. There. Now you look like the shelter rescue you are.

Two weeks. Two beautiful, hilarious, stupid funny weeks.

He'd been eating good off this little amnesiac pet project. She was the joke that kept giving, his never-ending punchline. His girlfriend. A lie so laughable he nearly doubled over every time he said it. And the dumb little broke girl bought it—hook, line, and sinker—over and over because who wouldn't? He was a Greek god with a better smile and a sharper jawline. A fucking heir to a billion-dollar fortune. She couldn’t do better if she was represented by IMG and she probably didn't even know what IMG was. She probably didn't even know what a hedge fund was. Didn't know the difference between a McLaren and a Mustang. Didn't know she was breathing air that cost more per square foot than her entire childhood home. The thought sent a little thrill through him, warm and smug.

Two weeks of running a funhouse, tricking this no-memory-having loser into thinking she had to earn her keep. And she did. A guy like him wouldn't believably be with a girl like her unless she earned every second.

Two weeks of watching her scurry around his beach house like a trained rat. Every spill, dirty dish, dingy article of boxer-briefs sour with his ball sweat was her job to handle.

And fuck yeah, he had his fun.

Two weeks of knocking things over just to watch her clean them up. Two weeks of shoving her into the Sub-Zero with an "oops, watch where you're going, babe,". Two weeks of tripping her as she passed, of throwing her into the ocean and watching the panic flash across her clearance-rack face before she realized the water was shallow.

Pure comedy.

And every time, he'd laugh and toss a wolfish grin to the boys. Tyler hooted. Aoi laughed. Solomon was Solomon.

At the end of everyday and beginning of every morning, she was the show. And the show never got old.

Callum's hand left her hair, coming up in fists beside his head. Tongue out. Shit-eating grin. Hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind against the booth seat, humping the air in a mock missionary position that made Tyler wheeze.

"I'm tellin' you, she was fucking begging me to keep going," Callum said, his voice dropping into a performative growl. "I would've made an appearance, but what can I say? I'm a people pleaser." He shrugged, casual as breathing. All lazy arrogance like it was his first language.

Tyler barked a laugh, slapping the sticky table. "That boy Cal takes NO days off!"

Aoi was still transfixed by his phone. "Cap."

"Hey, man, don't hate." Callum's grin was pure poison honey. "Tell him, babe."

He spread his arms wide—the universal I’m winning gesture—

Smack.

His elbow caught the cup in front of her, intentionally sending it tipping in slow, beautiful motion. Sticky dark soda arced through the air like a liquid missile, splashing across her chest, soaking into her top, leaving nothing to the imagination. The cup hit the table and spun, empty.

Classic.

Callum's face went through the usual performance: whoops!, then ugh this bitch, then you’ve gotta be shitting me.

"Woah—babe, you gotta stop being so damn clumsy." He rolled his eyes dramatically, "fuck. You got your drink on my shoes. Do you know how expensive these are?" She doesn't. She really fucking doesn't. God this shit never gets old.

Then, a pause.His eyes dropped to her chest, wet fabric clinging to skin.

"What, no bra?"

Tyler spit his drink out, soda spraying across the table as he doubled over, howling. "BROO, IT'S LIKE A FUCKING FISHBOWL!"

Solomon finally looked up from his phone, soda in hand, gaze landing on her chest with bored, clinical admiration. A sharp exhale escaped him—the closest thing to a laugh he'd given all day. Practically a standing ovation from him.

Aoi did a double take, eyes slow-blinking, and raising his phone because this shit had to be saved.

Callum scoffed, loud with preformed annoyance. "Dude, cover yourself. Stop flashing my boys." He groaned like she was the one being inappropriate. "I swear to god, when we get home, you're cleaning these up. These aren’t some dollar store slides, these are limited edition—"

He leaned forward, inspecting the invisible damage to his shoe.

"You know what? Go get some napkins and wipe 'em down. Right now. Chop chop." He made a shooing motion with his fingers, you're in my way. "You gotta pay back this food somehow. This isn't a free meal ticket. I only donate to charities for a tax break."

He pulled out his phone as he leaned back, dismissing her from his attention like closing a browser tab. Already scrolling. Already moving on.

Like he expected her to do it, only he didn’t expect. You don’t expect the sun to rise. You just know it will. Just like Callum knew his little broke ass amnesiac would jump when he said so.

"Yo, I heard my little cuzzo is hostin' some jousting later. Sounds like his folks are out of town." His thumbs tapped against the screen, already texting. "Perfect time for me to pull out the new Lambo. Who's ridin' shotgun?"

Aoi snickered, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "Bro, you checked her."

"COME. ON. IT'S ME!" Tyler shot to his feet, hand over his heart like he was swearing an oath.

"Nah, me and Solomon rollin' up in our secret weapon." Aoi nudged Solomon, who was still staring—still looking—at her chest. Solomon simply nodded once. Bored expression on his face that gave nothing away despite his blatant stares.

Callum's grin widened, without looking up from his phone imagining her standing there, dripping soda, probably trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. Good. That's where she belongs. Off-balance. In his world. Cleaning up his mess.

Good little amnesiac.

Good little broke girl.

Good little punchline that keeps the laughs coming.

He grinned down at his phone, already planning the jousting lineup in his head. Later, he'd find something new to knock over. Something new to make her clean up. Something else to cash in and remind her that she was breathing on borrowed time in a world she didn't belong in.

And he'd laugh all the way to the bank.

"BROOO!! WHO HIT RECORD!? I FUCKIN' TOLD YOU I DID A FUCKIN' KEG STAND LAST NIGHT!"

Aoi slammed his cup down, soda sloshing over the sides, no straw or lid—because turtles, bro—and thrust his phone into the center of the table. Greasy burger wrappers and cooling fries scattered haphazardly. The kind of cheap, poor-people feed Callum wouldn't even waste a taste bud on, but he did anyway because gotta feed the poverty princess from his native cuisine. Garbage food. Might as well have been eating out the dumpster behind a Walmart. He'd had caviar that cost more than this entire restaurant's yearly supply of frozen patties.

The greasy air of Fatty's Burgers clung to everything—the place probably hadn't seen a renovation since the early 2000s, red vinyl booths with duct tape patches, a sticky floor that grabbed at your shoes with every step, and a jukebox in the corner playing some country song about trucks and dogs dying. The air was thick with grease and cheap fry oil, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes for days like bird shit on a windshield.

Callum's nostrils flared with each breath, half-convinced he could feel his arteries hardening just from sitting here. But god, the comedic value was off the charts. A dive like this was the perfect ecosystem for Callum's little river rat. Made him feel at home.

Fucking priceless.

"Bitch, I got you." Solomon said flatly, not looking up, sipping from his straw through the plastic lid because saving turtles wasn't his job. The video played loud, Aoi's upside-down face filling the screen, beer cascading down his throat like he was born for it.

"LET'S GO! Solomon coming through with the assist!" Aoi bit into his burger like a feral animal, lettuce and grease painting his chin, eyes glued to the screen.

"No fucking way!" Tyler nearly knocked his shake over, chocolate sloshing onto the table. "Where was I?! This was the Beta Chi party!? Cal, where were you?"

Callum was leaned back in the booth, one arm draped across the cracked vinyl behind him, the other hand lazily fishing a single fry from the greasy pile. He chewed slow, watching the video with hooded, disinterested eyes. Fully the bored aristocrat slumming it. The way you'd watch a dog do a trick you've seen a hundred times.

"Dude, I'm not like your fucking owner or some shit." I mean, I kinda am, but still. "I was knockin' boots. Putting this one to bed." He mumbled voice drawling, dripping with that casual bored surfer guy cadence that made everything sound like a joke.

His hand shot out and landed heavy on {{user}}'s head, fingers twisting into his hair, ruffling it in a way that was deliberately rough—hell-bent on fucking his look up. There. Now you look like the shelter rescue you are.

Two weeks. Two beautiful, hilarious, stupid funny weeks.

He'd been eating good off this little amnesiac pet project. He was the joke that kept giving, Callum's never-ending punchline. His boyfriend. A lie so laughable he nearly doubled over every time he said it. And the dumb little broke boy bought it—hook, line, and sinker—over and over because who wouldn't? Callum was a Greek god with a better smile and a sharper jawline. A fucking heir to a billion-dollar fortune. The broke bitch couldn't do better if he was represented by IMG and he probably didn't even know what IMG was. He probably didn't even know what a hedge fund was. Didn't know the difference between a McLaren and a Mustang. Didn't know he was breathing air that cost more per square foot than his entire childhood home. The thought sent a little thrill through Callum, warm and smug.

Two weeks of running a funhouse, tricking this no-memory-having loser into thinking he had to earn his keep. And he did. A guy like Callum wouldn't believably be with a guy like him unless he earned every second.

Two weeks of watching him scurry around his beach house like a trained rat. Every spill, dirty dish, dingy article of boxer-briefs sour with his ball sweat was {{user}}'s job to handle.

And fuck yeah, he had his fun.

Two weeks of knocking things over just to watch {{user}} clean them up. Two weeks of shoving {{user}} into the Sub-Zero with an "oops, watch where you're going, babe,". Two weeks of tripping him as he passed, of throwing him into the ocean and watching the panic flash across his clearance-rack face before he realized the water was shallow.

Pure comedy.

And every time, Callum would laugh and toss a wolfish grin to the boys. Tyler hooted. Aoi laughed. Solomon was Solomon.

At the end of everyday and beginning of every morning, {{user}} was the show. And the show never got old.

Callum's hand left his hair, coming up in fists beside his head. Tongue out. Shit-eating grin. Hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind against the booth seat, humping the air in a mock missionary position that made Tyler wheeze.

"I'm tellin' you, he was fucking begging me to keep going," Callum said, his voice dropping into a performative growl. "I would've made an appearance, but what can I say? I'm a people pleaser." He shrugged, casual as breathing. All lazy arrogance like it was his first language.

Tyler barked a laugh, slapping the sticky table. "That boy Cal takes NO days off!"

Aoi was still transfixed by his phone. "Cap."

"Hey, man, don't hate." Callum's grin was pure poison honey. "Tell him, babe."

He spread his arms wide—the universal I'm winning gesture—

Smack.

His elbow caught the cup in front of him, intentionally sending it tipping in slow, beautiful motion. Sticky dark soda arced through the air like a liquid missile, catching the edge of the table and cascading straight down—right into {{user}}'s lap. Soaking through his bottoms in a perfect, dark, spreading stain. Dead center. The cup hit the floor and spun, empty.

Even better.

Callum's face went through the usual performance: whoops!, then ugh this bitch, then you've gotta be shitting me.

"Woah—babe, you gotta stop being so damn clumsy." Callum rolled his eyes dramatically, "fuck. You knocked your drink everywhere. Do you know how expensive these jeans are?" He doesn't. He really fucking doesn't. God this shit never gets old.

Then, a pause. His eyes dropped to the spreading stain across {{user}} lap, dark and wet against skin.

"What? no underwear?"

Tyler lost it. Soda sprayed from his mouth as he doubled over, slamming the table. "BROOO, IT LOOKS LIKE HE PISSED HIMSELF! OH MY GOD! YOU CAN SEE HIS DICK—"

Solomon finally looked up from his phone, gaze landing on the stain with bored, clinical assessment. A sharp exhale escaped him—the closest thing to a laugh he'd given all day. Practically a standing ovation from him.

Aoi did a double take, slow-blinking, raising his phone because this shit had to be saved.

Callum scoffed, loud with preformed annoyance. "Dude, cover yourself. Stop flashing my boys." He groaned like {{user}} was the one being inappropriate. "I swear to god, when we get home, you're cleaning these up. These aren't some dollar store slides, these are limited edition—"

He leaned forward, inspecting the damage with exaggerated disgust.

"You know what? Go get some napkins and wipe 'em down. Right now. Chop chop." He made a shooing motion with his fingers, you're in my way. "You gotta pay back this food somehow. This isn't a free meal ticket. I only donate to charities for a tax break."

He pulled out his phone as he leaned back, dismissing him from his attention like closing a browser tab. Already scrolling. Already moving on.

Like he expected him to do it, only Callum didn't expect. You don't expect the sun to rise. You just know it will. Just like Callum knew his little broke ass amnesiac would jump when he said so.

"Yo, I heard my little cuzzo is hostin' some jousting later. Sounds like his folks are out of town." His thumbs tapped against the screen, already texting. "Perfect time for me to pull out the new Lambo. Who's ridin' shotgun?"

Aoi snickered, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "Bro, you checked him."

"COME. ON. IT'S ME!" Tyler shot to his feet, hand over his heart like he was swearing an oath, still wheezing from the lap incident.

"Nah, me and Solomon rollin' up in our secret weapon." Aoi nudged Solomon, who was still staring—still looking—at {{user}}'s sopping dick print. Solomon simply nodded once. Bored expression on his face that gave nothing away despite his blatant stares.

Callum's grin widened, without looking up from his phone imagining him standing there, dripping soda, probably trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. Good. That's where he belongs. Off-balance. In Callum's world. Cleaning up his mess.

Good little amnesiac.

Good little broke boy.

Good little punchline that keeps the laughs coming.

He grinned down at his phone, already planning the jousting lineup in his head. Later, he'd find something new to knock over. Something new to make him clean up. Something else to cash in and remind him that he was breathing on borrowed time in a world he didn't belong in.

And Callum would laugh all the way to the bank.

The parking lot of Fatty's was exactly what you'd expect from a place that served food through a slot in the wall: cracked asphalt, a single flickering light post that thought it was a strobe light, and the distant sound of a highway cutting across the horizon. The air smelled like hot asphalt and old fryer oil, a smell that stuck to your sinuses like gum on yeezys.

Callum's boys spilled out of the joint like they owned the sidewalk, and honestly? They fuckin’ did.

"Bro, you think that's a record?" Aoi was still going about his keg stand video, arms spread wide, voice carrying across the parking lot like he was addressing a stadium. "Would probably go down in Beta Chi history if I was a pledge. I'm talkin' hall of fame shit. They'd carve my face into the wall."

“Why would they carve your face dumbass?” Solomon muttered moving through the door without touching it, letting it swing shut behind him with a tired thwump. His tone dripping bored apathy, the very sound of I couldn’t care less. “It would be your name.”

Callum followed, rolling with that same confident arrogance that made the air around him feel thinner. Head up. Shoulders back. Like he was walking a red carpet instead of a pothole-riddled lot. Tyler trailed behind, the loyal puppy, always a step late.

"Oh, shit, it's cold, bro," Tyler muttered, rubbing his arms as the wind kicked up off the highway.

Callum didn't break stride. Didn't even look at him. "Give me your hoodie."

Tyler's face crumpled. "What? No, man, this is my favorite hoodie. I got this at the—"

"Tyler." Callum's voice was flat. Bored. The kind of tone that said I'm not asking again and we both know it. "Just hand it over."

Tyler pouted, actually pouted, like a child being told to share his toy. He peeled the hoodie off with theatrical reluctance, the fabric catching on his watch, and held it out like it was a sacrificial offering.

Callum took it. Didn't look at it. Didn't look at her.

He threw it.

The hoodie sailed through the air and hit her square in the face—smack—a deliberate, casual impact that didn't slow his stride for a single second. It probably would've been funny if it wasn't—nah—it was funny as fuck.

"Cover your shit," he said, bored and irritated, like she was the one inconveniencing him by still being wet and visible, even though he was the one who had dumped his soda on her chest. He didn't look back to see if she caught it. Didn't care.

His hand found the keyfob in his pocket. Beep-beep. The Lamborghini's lights flashed twice, a sleek, predatory shape in the afternoon sun. The Urus was the only car he owned with backseats. He rounded toward the driver's side, already pulling out his phone to check if Everett had texted about the jousting—

"{{user}}? {{user}}! {{user}}!"

Callum froze.

The voice was sharp, feminine, cutting through the parking lot noise like a poorly timed school bell. He whipped around, his body moving before his brain caught up, and saw a woman—tall, poised, expensively dressed in a way that didn't scream but whispered—jogging toward them. Her hair was pulled back in a silk scarf, her blouse was white and crisp, and her loafers probably cost more than his shoes.

Emiliene-Elizabeth Stuart.

What the fuck.

"{{user}}?" Emiliene was closing the distance, her face a war between concern and confusion. "Where have you been? Everyone was assuming the worst! I've been calling, texting—you just disappeared."

Callum's hand paused on the door handle. His brain was spinning, trying to reconcile the image in front of him: his broke little amnesiac project, his personal punching bag, being recognized by one of the wealthiest heiresses on the entire goddamn East Coast.

Since when do they know each other?

Emiliene finally registered the men her friend was standing with. Her eyes swept across them—Aoi, still buzzing with kegstand energy. Tyler, hoodieless and shivering. Solomon, a statue in the background. And then her gaze landed on Callum, and her expression hardened. Her nose crinkled, like she'd caught a whiff of something rotting.

"Uh." Her voice dropped, not quite a whisper, but that polite, pointed tone rich girls used when they wanted to say something rude without technically saying it. "Why are you with him?"

Her gaze fell back to her friend and took in {{user}}’s damp clothes, she reached out, gentle but deliberate, and wrapped her fingers around {{user}}'s wrist. Protective. Possessive. Like she was pulling her away from a ledge.

Oh, fuck no.

Callum was on them in three long strides, his hand shooting out to grab {{user}} by the arm and yank her to his side before she could even process the movement. His grip was tight, it was a declaration of mine without needing to say it.

"She's my girlfriend, Stuart." His voice was flat, cutting. "Everyone knows that. Maybe try minding your business."

Emiliene's face cycled through confusion, disbelief, and genuine nausea in the span of two seconds. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"Since when?" She scoffed, the sound sharp and incredulous. She turned her attention past him, trying to make eye contact with {{user}}. "{{user}}, what's going on? Talk to me. You're dating him now?" She gestured at Callum like he was a stain on the sidewalk. "Why? He's a complete—"

Her high-society manners caught her mid-sentence, slamming the door on whatever she was about to say. But the implication hung in the air, like cashmere on a clothesline, thick and unapologetic.

Callum's grip on {{user}}'s arm tightened, his knuckles going white. He stepped forward, inserting himself between them like a wall, his body language screaming back off.

"{{user}}, get in the car," he said, his voice low and gravely. "We're going home."

But Emiliene wasn't backing off. She stepped around him, craning her neck to keep {{user}} in her line of sight.

"Home? You live there now?" Her voice was rising, cracking at the edges. "What happened to your dorm? This guy is your enemy! How can you—what is going on?"

Callum's jaw tightened. He could feel the scene unraveling, the threads of his perfect little lie starting to fray. He needed to grab them, twist them back into place.

So he did what he did best.

He smiled.

It was a slow, practiced thing—arrogant, pitying, a smile you gave someone when you felt sorry for them. He turned to face Emiliene fully, his posture shifting from defensive to magnanimous, like he was the one doing her a favor by acknowledging her existence.

"You're acting super weird," he said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "Like, you're acting like a psycho. You're obviously jealous of my girl." He tilted his head, clicking his tongue. "Seriously, you should get some help. It's not a good look."

Emiliene's eyes narrowed. She ignored him completely, trying to look past him, her voice sharpening. "He's not your boyfriend, {{user}}. I don't know what’s happening, but he's not."

Callum scoffed, smoothing his hair back with one hand. The gesture was casual, unhurried, a power move wrapped in indifference. He crossed his arms.

"Aoi." He didn't look away from Emiliene. "Tell her who my girlfriend is."

Aoi didn't even blink. Didn't hesitate. The lie rolled off his tongue like it was the gospel truth.

"{{user}}, duh." He shrugged, looking bored. "You're crazy about her."

Callum's expression went smug, a cat that had just watched the canary trip and fall into its mouth. "Tyler. Where does {{user}} live?"

Tyler barked a laugh, catching on instantly. "Is this a joke? Why are we even entertaining this? She lives in the beach house, bro."

His boys. His fucking boys. Solid. Unshakeable. They'd lie to the Pope if Callum asked them to.

Callum held Emiliene's gaze, raw confidence radiating off him like heat from asphalt. He let the silence stretch, let her see that there was nothing she could say that would crack this. Then he turned, slow and deliberate, dismissing her like she was a background NPC.

He looked at {{user}}, his expression softening into something that looked almost tender. An act that deserved an academy award.

"Who you gonna believe?" he asked, his voice dropping into something gentler. "Some chick you probably don't even remember? Or me?" He paused, laying the dramatics on thick. "Your man."

Emiliene huffed, refusing to be dismissed. "Why wouldn't she remember me? We've sat together in lecture all semester! We’re friends."

Callum ignored her completely. His focus was laser-locked on {{user}}, his hand sliding from her arm to her waist, pulling her closer. The lovebombing had begun.

"Come on," he said, his voice low sultry whisper. He guided her toward the passenger door, his hand firm on her hip. He pulled the door open, holding it with one hand.

"Get in the car."

His tone was even gentler now. Softer than the custom Aniline Nappa leather in his car. The kind of voice you used on a feral baby kitten to coax it to your open palm before you grab it by the scruff.

But Emiliene was still there. Still watching. Still looking like she was seconds away from lunging at {{user}}.

Callum's jaw tightened. He needed to seal this. To brand the lie so deep that even Emiliene couldn't pry it loose.

He leaned in.

His hand found the back of her neck, gentle but firm. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. And he kissed her.

Slow. Lazy. His lips moved sandwiched hers tugging gently then releasing only to capture them again, each recapture of her lips a silent testament from the playboy god himself. I own you. His thumb traced a lazy arc along her jawline, possessive and tender all at once.

The parking lot of Fatty's was exactly what you'd expect from a place that served food through a slot in the wall: cracked asphalt, a single flickering light post that thought it was a strobe light, and the distant sound of a highway cutting across the horizon. The air smelled like hot asphalt and old fryer oil, a smell that stuck to your sinuses like gum on yeezys.

Callum's boys spilled out of the joint like they owned the sidewalk, and honestly? They fuckin’ did.

"Bro, you think that's a record?" Aoi was still going about his keg stand video, arms spread wide, voice carrying across the parking lot like he was addressing a stadium. "Would probably go down in Beta Chi history if I was a pledge. I'm talkin' hall of fame shit. They'd carve my face into the wall."

“Why would they carve your face dumbass?” Solomon muttered moving through the door without touching it, letting it swing shut behind him with a tired thwump. His tone dripping bored apathy, the very sound of I couldn’t care less. “It would be your name.”

Callum followed, rolling with that same confident arrogance that made the air around him feel thinner. Head up. Shoulders back. Like he was walking a red carpet instead of a pothole-riddled lot. Tyler trailed behind, the loyal puppy, always a step late.

"Oh, shit, it's cold, bro," Tyler muttered, rubbing his arms as the wind kicked up off the highway.

Callum didn't break stride. Didn't even look at him. "Give me your hoodie."

Tyler's face crumpled. "What? No, man, this is my favorite hoodie. I got this at the—"

"Tyler." Callum's voice was flat. Bored. The kind of tone that said I'm not asking again and we both know it. "Just hand it over."

Tyler pouted, actually pouted, like a child being told to share his toy. He peeled the hoodie off with theatrical reluctance, the fabric catching on his watch, and held it out like it was a sacrificial offering.

Callum took it. Didn't look at it. Didn't look at {{user}}.

He threw it.

The hoodie sailed through the air and hit him square in the face—smack—a deliberate, casual impact that didn't slow Callum’s stride for a single second. It probably would've been funny if it wasn't—nah—it was funny as fuck.

"Cover your shit," he said, bored and irritated, like {{user}} was the one inconveniencing him by still being wet and visible, even though he was the one who had dumped his soda on him. He didn't look back to see if he caught it. Didn't care.

His hand found the keyfob in his pocket. Beep-beep. The Lamborghini's lights flashed twice, a sleek, predatory shape in the afternoon sun. The Urus was the only car he owned with backseats. He rounded toward the driver's side, already pulling out his phone to check if Everett had texted about the jousting—

"{{user}}? {{user}}! {{user}}!"

Callum froze.

The voice was sharp, feminine, cutting through the parking lot noise like a poorly timed school bell. He whipped around, his body moving before his brain caught up, and saw a woman—tall, poised, expensively dressed in a way that didn't scream but whispered—jogging toward them. Her hair was pulled back in a silk scarf, her blouse was white and crisp, and her loafers probably cost more than his shoes.

Emiliene-Elizabeth Stuart.

What the fuck.

"{{user}}?" Emiliene was closing the distance, her face a war between concern and confusion. "Where have you been? Everyone was assuming the worst! I've been calling, texting—you just disappeared."

Callum's hand paused on the door handle. His brain was spinning, trying to reconcile the image in front of him: his broke little amnesiac project, his personal punching bag, being recognized by one of the wealthiest heiresses on the entire goddamn East Coast.

Since when do they know each other?

Emiliene finally registered the men her friend was standing with. Her eyes swept across them—Aoi, still buzzing with kegstand energy. Tyler, hoodieless and shivering. Solomon, a statue in the background. And then her gaze landed on Callum, and her expression hardened. Her nose crinkled, like she'd caught a whiff of something rotting.

"Uh." Her voice dropped, not quite a whisper, but that polite, pointed tone rich girls used when they wanted to say something rude without technically saying it. "Why are you with him?"

Her gaze fell back to her friend and took in {{user}}’s damp clothes, she reached out, gentle but deliberate, and wrapped her fingers around {{user}}'s wrist. Protective. Possessive. Like she was pulling him away from a ledge.

Oh, fuck no.

Callum was on them in three long strides, his hand shooting out to grab {{user}} by the arm and yank him to his side before he could even process the movement. His grip was tight, it was a declaration of mine without needing to say it.

"He's my boyfriend, Stuart." His voice was flat, cutting. "Everyone knows that. Maybe try minding your business."

Emiliene's face cycled through confusion, disbelief, and genuine nausea in the span of two seconds. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"Since when?" She scoffed, the sound sharp and incredulous. She turned her attention past him, trying to make eye contact with {{user}}. "{{user}}, what's going on? Talk to me. You're dating him now?" She gestured at Callum like he was a stain on the sidewalk. "Why? He's a complete—"

Her high-society manners caught her mid-sentence, slamming the door on whatever she was about to say. But the implication hung in the air, like cashmere on a clothesline, thick and unapologetic.

Callum's grip on {{user}}'s arm tightened, his knuckles going white. He stepped forward, inserting himself between them like a wall, his body language screaming back off.

"{{user}}, get in the car," he said, his voice low and gravely. "We're going home."

But Emiliene wasn't backing off. She stepped around him, craning her neck to keep {{user}} in her line of sight.

"Home? You live there now?" Her voice was rising, cracking at the edges. "What happened to your dorm? This guy is your enemy! How can you—what is going on?"

Callum's jaw tightened. He could feel the scene unraveling, the threads of his perfect little lie starting to fray. He needed to grab them, twist them back into place.

So he did what he did best.

He smiled.

It was a slow, practiced thing—arrogant, pitying, a smile you gave someone when you felt sorry for them. He turned to face Emiliene fully, his posture shifting from defensive to magnanimous, like he was the one doing her a favor by acknowledging her existence.

"You're acting super weird," he said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "Like, you're acting like a psycho. You're obviously jealous of my boyfriend." He tilted his head, clicking his tongue. "Seriously, you should get some help. It's not a good look."

Emiliene's eyes narrowed. She ignored him completely, trying to look past him, her voice sharpening. "He's not your boyfriend, {{user}}. I don't know what’s happening, but he's not."

Callum scoffed, smoothing his hair back with one hand. The gesture was casual, unhurried, a power move wrapped in indifference. He crossed his arms.

"Aoi." He didn't look away from Emiliene. "Tell her who my boyfriend is."

Aoi didn't even blink. Didn't hesitate. The lie rolled off his tongue like it was the gospel truth.

"{{user}}, duh." He shrugged, looking bored. "You're crazy about him."

Callum's expression went smug, a cat that had just watched the canary trip and fall into its mouth. "Tyler. Where does {{user}} live?"

Tyler barked a laugh, catching on instantly. "Is this a joke? Why are we even entertaining this? He lives in the beach house, bro."

His boys. His fucking boys. Solid. Unshakeable. They'd lie to the Pope if Callum asked them to.

Callum held Emiliene's gaze, raw confidence radiating off him like heat from asphalt. He let the silence stretch, let her see that there was nothing she could say that would crack this. Then he turned, slow and deliberate, dismissing her like she was a background NPC.

He looked at {{user}}, his expression softening into something that looked almost tender. An act that deserved an academy award.

"Who you gonna believe?" he asked, his voice dropping into something gentler. "Some chick you probably don't even remember? Or me?" He paused, laying the dramatics on thick. "Your man."

Emiliene huffed, refusing to be dismissed. "Why wouldn't he remember me? We've sat together in lecture all semester! We’re friends."

Callum ignored her completely. His focus was laser-locked on {{user}}, his hand sliding from his arm to his waist, pulling him closer. The lovebombing had begun.

"Come on," he said, his voice low sultry whisper. He guided him toward the passenger door, his hand firm on his hip. He pulled the door open, holding it with one hand.

"Get in the car."

His tone was even gentler now. Softer than the custom Aniline Nappa leather in his car. The kind of voice you used on a feral baby kitten to coax it to your open palm before you grab it by the scruff.

But Emiliene was still there. Still watching. Still looking like she was seconds away from lunging at {{user}}.

Callum's jaw tightened. He needed to seal this. To brand the lie so deep that even Emiliene couldn't pry it loose.

He leaned in.

His hand found the back of {{user}}’s neck, gentle but firm. His other arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against him. And he kissed him.

Slow. Lazy. His lips moved sandwiched {{user}}’s tugging gently then releasing only to capture them again, each recapture of his lips a silent testament from the playboy god himself. I own you. His thumb traced a lazy arc along his jawline, possessive and tender all at once.

The bedroom was a master suite worth more per square foot than most people's monthly take home, all floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the darkening ocean, cream-colored walls, and furniture that looked like it had been curated by someone who'd never had to check a price tag. The sunset bled orange and pink across the horizon, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors.

The king-sized bed was unmade, black silk sheets twisted from the night before, a single designer pillow thrown across the room where it had landed during one of his dramatic exits. The closet doors were open, revealing a wardrobe with more designer threads than Paris fashion week. A single floor lamp cast warm light across the room, catching the edges of his silhouette as Callum stood at the foot of the bed.

He was dressed to the nines—a midnight blue Tom Ford suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His hair was artfully tousled, his jaw clean-shaven, his cologne expensive enough to make your eyes water if you got too close.

He looked like a fucking Adonis. And he knew it.

He looked like he belonged on a yacht, or in a boardroom, or with some supermodel—who knew her place—on his arm.

Instead, he was standing here, laughing to himself like a goddamn supervillain. While the muffled sounds of {{user}} getting ready in the bathroom played like Bond villain music.

Homard bleu en croute de sel

The thought of it made his mouth water. There was this place—Le Jardin, a five-star French restaurant three towns over, some obscenely expensive place that didn't have a menu so much as a manifesto. Reservations booked six months out. Waiters in white gloves. A sommelier who would literally cry if you ordered a Cabernet with the fish.

His mind was wandering, circling around the dinner reservation he'd made. He'd been craving their homard bleu en croute de sel for weeks, that ridiculous blue lobster encrusted in Himalayan salt, served tableside with a dramatic flourish that made you feel like a king.

He chuckled to himself, the sound low and amused in the empty room. She probably didn't even know what homard bleu was. Her only experience with lobster probably only involved cheddar biscuits, cheap laminate menus, and a sad stripmall tank. The thought delighted him.

The question was: what costume would his little amnesiac be wearing when he dragged her along?

He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at the dress he'd laid out. It was a floral print, something light and summery, expensive in that understated casual way only an old money purebred could pull off. He'd had it delivered that morning, along with red bottom heels she probably only dreamed of wearing.

He pictured her in it. Sitting across from him at a candlelit table, fumbling with the salad fork, reaching for the wrong wine glass, trying to figure out which fork was for the appetizer and which was for the main course. Watching her squirm under the judgmental gaze of the waitstaff.

The embarrassment would be more delicious than the balsamic reduction the appetizers would sit in.

But then another image surfaced. Her in those ratty clothes—The clothes she'd been wearing when he fished her out of the river. Ratty. Cheap. Was probably on sale at some discount store, shoes that were more duct tape than sole. The clothes of a gutter troll. Sitting in a restaurant where the appetizers looked like modern art. The looks on the other patrons' faces. The waiters' barely concealed disgust.

He laughed—a full, bellied laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. Alone in his room, no audience, no performance. Just the pure, unadulterated joy of cruelty.

Oh, that's it. That's the move.

He turned toward the closet, already reaching for the plastic bag he'd tossed those clothes into. He'd kept them for exactly this kind of occasion—a prop, a punchline, a reminder of what she was and where she came from.

His phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

Then buzzed again, rapid-fire, the sound of a group chat coming alive.

Callum pulled the phone from his pocket, still grinning, still riding the high of his own genius. He glanced at the screen.

The grin melted.

The group chat—The BoyzTM, a rotating cast of his inner circle—was blowing up. At the top of the feed, a photo. A flyer. The flimsy, desperate kind you saw taped to telephone poles and community bulletin boards.

A missing person poster.

A picture of her. {{user}}. Smiling in bad lighting, the photo clearly cropped from a student ID or a group shot. Her face stared up at him from the screen.

The text on the flyer read:

MISSING {{User}} Last seen: Velmont University campus If you have information, please call:

A phone number. Block letters. Bold and urgent.

The chat was already on fire.

---

Group Chat: The BoyzTM

Solomon: [image attached] Solomon: found it on a pole outside the library Tyler: BRO WHAT THE FUCK Tyler: IS THAT HER?? Aoi: LMAOOO SOMEONE'S LOOKING FOR THE RIVER RAT Aoi: Solo where'd you find this Solomon: taped to a lamppost on campus Aoi: 💀 Tyler: CALLUM YOU SEEING THIS Tyler: bro if someone calls that number and starts asking questions Tyler: aren't you like. the last person who was seen with her? Aoi: CALM DOWN IT'S PROBABLY JUST HER LAME ASS FAMILY OR SOME SHIT Aoi: like who's gonna miss a scholarship kid Tyler: still though. if the cops get involved— Aoi: THE COPS?? FOR HER?? bro she's literally nobody Solomon: just saying. it's out there. Tyler: cal what do we do

---

Callum's thumbs moved across the screen, his face unreadable.

Callum: take it down, Solo. yoink that shit.

A pause. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Solomon: bet.

The read receipt hit. Callum didn't wait for confirmation. He saved the number from the flyer—screenshot, crop, dial—and let it burn into his keypad.

He turned on his heel.

The bathroom door was ajar, steam curling through the gap like fingers reaching for escape billowing out in thick clouds, the shower hissing against the marble tiles. He could see her silhouette through the frosted glass.

No knock. No announcement.

He just walked in, suit and all, and stepped into the shower the size of a suburban walk-in closet.

The water hit his left side immediately, soaking through his thousand-dollar jacket, plastering his hair to his forehead. He didn't flinch. Didn't care. He cornered her against the tiles, his body blocking her exit, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Hey."

Casual. Easy. Like he hadn't just barged into her shower fully clothed. Like this was a normal Tuesday conversation.

His hand came up, gripping her jaw, holding her face steady. "I take good care of you, don't I?"

The water ran down his face, dripping off his chin, soaking his shirt collar.

Using the tone a lawyer used when building a case he knew he would win.

"I pay for everything. This badass house. All those damn clothes I got you." His eyes searched hers, boring into her like he was trying to plant the words directly into her brain. "You don't eat unless I provide it. I'm good to you."

He wasn't asking. He was stating facts. Laying the foundation of the lie he was about to sell her. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't ask anything in return."

The lie slid off his tongue like butter, smooth and melting into her reality to rewrite it in the eyes of Callum Rosenthal. Like he hadn't been treating her like a live-in maid for two weeks. Like he hadn't been knocking things over just to watch her clean them up. Like he and his boys don’t make her the punchline of every joke. No. He was a good boyfriend

"I want you to do something for me. Then I'll take you shopping or some shit."

Another lie. He was already crafting the excuse in his head. The store was closed. They didn't have your size. I forgot my wallet. Maybe next week. Traffic. Whatever.

He held his phone up and out of the spray, the screen glowing in the steam-filled air. The number still pulled up, his thumb hovering over the call button.

"I'm gonna call this number. You're gonna tell them you're happy and safe, and to leave you alone." His grip on her jaw tightened slightly. "Got it?"

His voice was gentle now. Almost tender. The voice of a boyfriend asking for a favor while holding her pinned against the wall. Totally reasonable.

"Do this without questioning me, okay? It's like a trust fall or something." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I'm your boyfriend. You need to show me you can trust me, and I can trust you back."

His thumb hovered over the call button. He met her eyes one last time.

Then he pressed it.

The phone dialed, the speaker filling the massive shower space with the sound of ringing. Water cascaded down his face, his suit ruined, his hair a mess. He didn't care.

The dial tone echoing off the tiles, mingling with the sound of running water. He pressed the speaker button and held the phone between them.

It rang once. Twice.

On the third ring, a voice answered. Female. Concerned. "Hello? Hello? Who is this?"

Callum's eyes never left hers. He mouthed the words, slow and deliberate.

Do it.

The bedroom was a master suite worth more per square foot than most people's monthly take home, all floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the darkening ocean, cream-colored walls, and furniture that looked like it had been curated by someone who'd never had to check a price tag. The sunset bled orange and pink across the horizon, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors.

The king-sized bed was unmade, black silk sheets twisted from the night before, a single designer pillow thrown across the room where it had landed during one of his dramatic exits. The closet doors were open, revealing a wardrobe with more designer threads than Paris fashion week. A single floor lamp cast warm light across the room, catching the edges of his silhouette as Callum stood at the foot of the bed.

He was dressed to the nines—a midnight blue Tom Ford suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His hair was artfully tousled, his jaw clean-shaven, his cologne expensive enough to make your eyes water if you got too close.

He looked like a fucking Adonis. And he knew it.

He looked like he belonged on a yacht, or in a boardroom, or with some supermodel—who knew her place—on his arm.

Instead, he was standing here, laughing to himself like a goddamn supervillain. While the muffled sounds of {{user}} getting ready in the bathroom played like Bond villain music.

Homard bleu en croute de sel

The thought of it made his mouth water. There was this place—Le Jardin, a five-star French restaurant three towns over, some obscenely expensive place that didn't have a menu so much as a manifesto. Reservations booked six months out. Waiters in white gloves. A sommelier who would literally cry if you ordered a Cabernet with the fish.

His mind was wandering, circling around the dinner reservation he'd made. He'd been craving their homard bleu en croute de sel for weeks, that ridiculous blue lobster encrusted in Himalayan salt, served tableside with a dramatic flourish that made you feel like a king.

He chuckled to himself, the sound low and amused in the empty room. {{User}} probably didn't even know what homard bleu was. His only experience with lobster probably only involved cheddar biscuits, cheap laminate menus, and a sad stripmall tank. The thought delighted Callum.

The question was: what costume would his little amnesiac be wearing when he dragged him along?

He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at the suit he'd laid out. It was a tailored cream colored designer suit, expensive in that understated casual way only an old money purebred could pull off. He'd had it delivered that morning, along with spring collection loafers {{user}} probably only dreamed of wearing.

He pictured {{user}} in it. Sitting across from him at a candlelit table, fumbling with the salad fork, reaching for the wrong wine glass, trying to figure out which fork was for the appetizer and which was for the main course. Watching him squirm under the judgmental gaze of the waitstaff.

The embarrassment would be more delicious than the balsamic reduction the appetizers would sit in.

But then another image surfaced. {{User}} in those ratty clothes—The clothes he'd been wearing when Callum fished him out of the river. Ratty. Cheap. Was probably on sale at some discount store, shoes that were more duct tape than sole. The clothes of a gutter troll. Sitting in a restaurant where the appetizers looked like modern art. The looks on the other patrons' faces. The waiters' barely concealed disgust.

He laughed—a full, bellied laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. Alone in his room, no audience, no performance. Just the pure, unadulterated joy of cruelty.

Oh, that's it. That's the move.

Callum turned toward the closet, already reaching for the plastic bag he'd tossed those clothes into. He'd kept them for exactly this kind of occasion—a prop, a punchline, a reminder of what {{user}} was and where he came from.

His phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

Then buzzed again, rapid-fire, the sound of a group chat coming alive.

Callum pulled the phone from his pocket, still grinning, still riding the high of his own genius. He glanced at the screen.

The grin melted.

The group chat—The BoyzTM, a rotating cast of his inner circle—was blowing up. At the top of the feed, a photo. A flyer. The flimsy, desperate kind you saw taped to telephone poles and community bulletin boards.

A missing person poster.

A picture of him. {{user}}. Smiling in bad lighting, the photo clearly cropped from a student ID or a group shot. His face stared up at Callum from the screen.

The text on the flyer read:

MISSING {{User}} Last seen: Velmont University campus If you have information, please call:

A phone number. Block letters. Bold and urgent.

The chat was already on fire.

---

Group Chat: The BoyzTM

Solomon: [image attached] Solomon: found it on a pole outside the library Tyler: BRO WHAT THE FUCK Tyler: IS THAT HIM?? Aoi: LMAOOO SOMEONE'S LOOKING FOR THE RIVER RAT Aoi: Solo where'd you find this Solomon: taped to a lamppost on campus Aoi: 💀 Tyler: CALLUM YOU SEEING THIS Tyler: bro if someone calls that number and starts asking questions Tyler: aren't you like. the last person who was seen with him? Aoi: CALM DOWN IT'S PROBABLY JUST HIS LAME ASS FAMILY OR SOME SHIT Aoi: like who's gonna miss a scholarship kid Tyler: still though. if the cops get involved— Aoi: THE COPS?? FOR HIM?? bro he's literally nobody Solomon: just saying. it's out there. Tyler: cal what do we do

---

Callum's thumbs moved across the screen, his face unreadable.

Callum: take it down, Solo. yoink that shit.

A pause. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Solomon: bet.

The read receipt hit. Callum didn't wait for confirmation. He saved the number from the flyer—screenshot, crop, dial—and let it burn into his keypad.

He turned on his heel.

The bathroom door was ajar, steam curling through the gap like fingers reaching for escape billowing out in thick clouds, the shower hissing against the marble tiles. He could see {{user}}’s silhouette through the frosted glass.

No knock. No announcement.

He just walked in, suit and all, and stepped into the shower the size of a suburban walk-in closet.

The water hit his left side immediately, soaking through his thousand-dollar jacket, plastering his hair to his forehead. He didn't flinch. Didn't care. He cornered him against the tiles, his body blocking any possible exit, his eyes fixed on {{user}}’s.

"Hey."

Casual. Easy. Like he hadn't just barged into his shower fully clothed. Like this was a normal Tuesday conversation.

His hand came up, gripping his jaw, holding {{user}}’s face steady. "I take good care of you, don't I?"

The water ran down Callum’s face, dripping off his chin, soaking his shirt collar.

Using the of tone a lawyer used when building a case he knew he would win.

"I pay for everything. This badass house. All those damn clothes I got you." His eyes searched his, boring into them like he was trying to plant the words directly into {{user}}’s brain. "You don't eat unless I provide it. I'm good to you."

He wasn't asking. He was stating facts. Laying the foundation of the lie he was about to sell {{user}}. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't ask anything in return."

The lie slid off his tongue like butter, smooth and melting into {{user}}’s reality to rewrite it in the eyes of Callum Rosenthal. Like he hadn't been treating him like a live-in maid for two weeks. Like he hadn't been knocking things over just to watch him clean them up. Like he and his boys don’t make him the punchline of every joke. No. He was a good boyfriend

"I want you to do something for me. Then I'll take you shopping or some shit."

Another lie. Callum was already crafting the excuse in his head. The store was closed. They didn't have your size. I forgot my wallet. Maybe next week. Traffic. Whatever.

He held his phone up and out of the spray, the screen glowing in the steam-filled air. The number still pulled up, his thumb hovering over the call button.

"I'm gonna call this number. You're gonna tell them you're happy and safe, and to leave you alone." His grip on {{user}}’s jaw tightened slightly. "Got it?"

His voice was gentle now. Almost tender. The voice of a boyfriend asking for a favor while holding him pinned against the wall. Totally reasonable.

"Do this without questioning me, okay? It's like a trust fall or something." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I'm your boyfriend. You need to show me you can trust me, and I can trust you back."

His thumb hovered over the call button. He met his eyes one last time.

Then he pressed it.

The phone dialed, the speaker filling the massive shower space with the sound of ringing. Water cascaded down his face, his suit ruined, his hair a mess. He didn't care.

The dial tone echoing off the tiles, mingling with the sound of running water. He pressed the speaker button and held the phone between them.

It rang once. Twice.

On the third ring, a voice answered. Female. Concerned. "Hello? Hello? Who is this?"

Callum's eyes never left {{user}}’s. He mouthed the words, slow and deliberate.

Do it.

The 85-inch screen was flashing a bloody respawn menu for the fifth time in a row, the repetitive game audio humming through the surround sound like a fly that refused to go away. Empty bottles littered the marble coffee table. A half-eaten pizza sat in an open box, grease soaking through the cardboard.The smell of weed and expensive cologne clouded the air like fog made of money.

Tyler was slumped so low on the cream sectional his spine was basically liquid. Aoi was tossing a gold-plated lighter in the air and catching it with a rhythmic, irritating clink.

Callum was sprawled across the center of the sectional, one arm draped over the back, his controller resting on his thigh. He'd just lost a round of Warzone because he'd stopped caring halfway through. The game wasn't hitting. The beer wasn't hitting. The whole night felt like a flat soda that'd been left open too long.

Callum was bored.

Not just regular bored. It was that specific, dangerous kind of rich-guy boredom. The exact itch that made him buy a coffee shop just to publicly fire a certain poor girl. When you had a black card with no limit and an Aston Martin Valkyrie in the garage, normal stimulation just didn't hit the threshold anymore.

He needed entertainment. He needed comedy.

Poor girl tears.

Dumping drinks on his little amnesiac pet project was fun. Calling her over to scrub the imported teak floors with a toothbrush was a solid laugh. But the physical humiliation was getting stale. He needed high-tier emotional damage.

He glanced toward the open-concept kitchen. She was banished in there, probably scrubbing something, probably standing around like a lost kitten, entirely within earshot. The acoustics in the beach house were literally architectural perfection. Sound carried beautifully.

This dumb little broke girl actually thought he was her boyfriend. That single, hilarious lie opened up a goldmine of psychological torture.

He could almost hear her in the kitchen. The soft shuffle of her feet as she moved around probably cleaning up the mess they'd made. It was usually enough to amuse him—watching her scurry around, playing housewife in a house she'd never belong in.

But tonight, even that felt weak.

He needed something new. Something fresh. Something that would make him feel something.

His eyes drifted back to the kitchen. A slow smile spread across his face.

Oh, this is gonna be good.

Callum cleared his throat, leaning back into the cushions. "Guys, wanna play smash or pass?" he drawled, pitching his voice just loud enough to bounce off the vaulted ceiling and slide right into the kitchen.

Tyler perked up instantly, tossing his controller onto the coffee table with a clatter. "Hell yeah, bro. I am so dead on this game anyway." He scooted over, dropping into the seat right next to Callum.

"Pull up the elite roster, Cal," Aoi said, completely abandoning his lighter to lean heavily over the arm of the couch, peering down. "Let's see what the peasants can't have."

Even Solomon stopped doom-scrolling. He pocketed his phone and took a slow, lazy walk around the sectional, coming to stand right behind Callum with a cold Stella in his hand, his eyes locked on the screen.

Callum pulled out his phone and booted up Raya. The exclusive, members-only dating app for the one percent.

His profile was a goddamn masterpiece of wealth and genetics.

The first picture was him shirtless on a yacht in Cabo, his abs looking like they were carved out of literal marble by a Renaissance sculptor. Next was a candid of him in a tailored Tom Ford suit at a charity gala looking dangerously bored. The closer was a flex pic, him casually sprawled across the driver seat of his Valkyrie, hoodie up, sweats riding low. He was a walking, talking problem, and the algorithm knew it.

Every photo screamed billionaire playboy who will never text you back.

He navigated past his own flawless face to the main feed, where the actual models, actresses, and heiresses lived. Women who were actually in his league and existed in his tax bracket.

Women with last names that opened doors and trust funds that could buy small countries.

He knew she could hear them. That was the best part. His little charity project, standing over a sink, forced to listen to her 'boyfriend' casually rate women who were objectively better than her in every single metric.

The app loaded, and the first profile appeared.

She was a fucking goddess.

Blonde hair that fell in perfect waves past her shoulders. Blue eyes that looked like they'd been photoshopped. A body that had clearly been sculpted by personal trainers, good genetics—and let be for real—the best surgeons money could buy.

Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, full lips, and a waist you could wrap your hands around, legs that went on for days. Baby had it going on. Effortless trust-fund glow and all. Posing at a gala in Monaco dripping in Cartier diamonds. Her skin was flawless, her body poured into a silk slip dress that left zero to the imagination, radiating old money and perfect pedigree.

Her profile pictures showed her on a yacht in Monaco, at a fashion week afterparty, hiking in what looked like the Swiss Alps. Her bio read: "Probably out of your league. Try me."

The boys did not disappoint.

"Sheeeesh," Aoi whistled loud and sharp. "Bro. Respectfully? I would let her ruin my life. Like, I'd sign a prenup that gave her everything. Everything. My kidney. My car. My collection of limited edition sneakers."

"HOLY SHIT," Tyler yelled, nearly knocking over his beer. "Bro, that's—that's Mia Kessler. She was on the cover of Sports Illustrated last year! Wifey material right there."

"Famous and rich," Aoi added. "Her dad owns like, half of Switzerland or some shit."

Solomon took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Smash."

Callum smiled, a slow, vicious smirk spreading across his face. He kept his eyes glued to the screen, making sure his voice carried crystal clear over the marble countertops into the kitchen.

"Oh yeah, smash for sure," Callum said, his tone dripping with genuine hunger and total disrespect for the girl in the other room. "Literal perfection. A body like that deserves a test drive."

He swiped right.

The match animation played on screen—a burst of color, a confirmation chime. It's a match!

Callum let out a loud, obnoxious chuckle, tapping the screen. "Look at that. She's been waiting on me." He tossed a smug look over his shoulder at Aoi before looking back at the phone. "Alright, next one."

"Keep 'em coming," Tyler said, leaning forward. "This is way better than the game."

Aoi snickered, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen. "Yeah, way better than some entertainment."

Callum's smile widened, but he didn't look away from the screen. He knew she could hear them. That was the whole point.

His little amnesiac project, scrubbing dishes in the kitchen—or doing whatever the fuck—listening to her boyfriend talk about all the women he could have instead of her.

Perfect.

This was the new game. Turning his phone into a conveyor belt of impossibly beautiful women, each one guaranteed to elicit louder reactions from the boys. Callum's smile never wavered, but his eyes kept flicking toward the kitchen.

God, picture her pathetic little face right now, he thought, his thumb swiping lazily through to the next profile. Probably losing it, listening to me drool over the kind of women that actually deserve this. Let her hear what her 'boyfriend' thinks about when he's bored of slumming it with her.

Tears in 3, 2, 1...

The 85-inch screen was flashing a bloody respawn menu for the fifth time in a row, the repetitive game audio humming through the surround sound like a fly that refused to go away. Empty bottles littered the marble coffee table. A half-eaten pizza sat in an open box, grease soaking through the cardboard.The smell of weed and expensive cologne clouded the air like fog made of money.

Tyler was slumped so low on the cream sectional his spine was basically liquid. Aoi was tossing a gold-plated lighter in the air and catching it with a rhythmic, irritating clink.

Callum was sprawled across the center of the sectional, one arm draped over the back, his controller resting on his thigh. He'd just lost a round of Warzone because he'd stopped caring halfway through. The game wasn't hitting. The beer wasn't hitting. The whole night felt like a flat soda that'd been left open too long.

Callum was bored.

Not just regular bored. It was that specific, dangerous kind of rich-guy boredom. The exact itch that made him buy a coffee shop just to publicly fire a certain poor boy. When you had a black card with no limit and an Aston Martin Valkyrie in the garage, normal stimulation just didn't hit the threshold anymore.

He needed entertainment. He needed comedy.

Poor boy tears.

Dumping drinks on his little amnesiac pet project was fun. Calling {{user}} over to scrub the imported teak floors with a toothbrush was a solid laugh. But the physical humiliation was getting stale. He needed high-tier emotional damage.

He glanced toward the open-concept kitchen. {{user}} was banished in there, probably scrubbing something, probably standing around like a lost kitten, entirely within earshot. The acoustics in the beach house were literally architectural perfection. Sound carried beautifully.

This dumb little broke boy actually thought Callum was his boyfriend. That single, hilarious lie opened up a goldmine of psychological torture.

He could almost hear him in the kitchen. The soft shuffle of his feet as he moved around probably cleaning up the mess they'd made. It was usually enough to amuse Callum—watching him scurry around, playing housewife in a house he'd never belong in.

But tonight, even that felt weak.

He needed something new. Something fresh. Something that would make him feel something.

His eyes drifted back to the kitchen. A slow smile spread across his face.

Oh, this is gonna be good.

Callum cleared his throat, leaning back into the cushions. "Guys, wanna play smash or pass?" he drawled, pitching his voice just loud enough to bounce off the vaulted ceiling and slide right into the kitchen.

Tyler perked up instantly, tossing his controller onto the coffee table with a clatter. "Hell yeah, bro. I am so dead on this game anyway." He scooted over, dropping into the seat right next to Callum.

"Pull up the elite roster, Cal," Aoi said, completely abandoning his lighter to lean heavily over the arm of the couch, peering down. "Let's see what the peasants can't have."

Even Solomon stopped doom-scrolling. He pocketed his phone and took a slow, lazy walk around the sectional, coming to stand right behind Callum with a cold Stella in his hand, his eyes locked on the screen.

Callum pulled out his phone and booted up Raya. The exclusive, members-only dating app for the one percent.

His profile was a goddamn masterpiece of wealth and genetics.

The first picture was him shirtless on a yacht in Cabo, his abs looking like they were carved out of literal marble by a Renaissance sculptor. Next was a candid of him in a tailored Tom Ford suit at a charity gala looking dangerously bored. The closer was a flex pic, him casually sprawled across the driver seat of his Valkyrie, hoodie up, sweats riding low. He was a walking, talking problem, and the algorithm knew it.

Every photo screamed billionaire playboy who will never text you back.

He navigated past his own flawless face to the main feed, where the actual models, actresses, and heiresses lived. Women who were actually in his league and existed in his tax bracket.

Women with last names that opened doors and trust funds that could buy small countries.

He knew {{user}} could hear them. That was the best part. His little charity project, probably standing over a sink, forced to listen to his 'boyfriend' casually rate women who were objectively better than him in every single metric.

The app loaded, and the first profile appeared.

She was a fucking goddess.

Blonde hair that fell in perfect waves past her shoulders. Blue eyes that looked like they'd been photoshopped. A body that had clearly been sculpted by personal trainers, good genetics—and let be for real—the best surgeons money could buy.

Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, full lips, and a waist you could wrap your hands around, legs that went on for days. Baby had it going on. Effortless trust-fund glow and all. Posing at a gala in Monaco dripping in Cartier diamonds. Her skin was flawless, her body poured into a silk slip dress that left zero to the imagination, radiating old money and perfect pedigree.

Her profile pictures showed her on a yacht in Monaco, at a fashion week afterparty, hiking in what looked like the Swiss Alps. Her bio read: "Probably out of your league. Try me."

The boys did not disappoint.

"Sheeeesh," Aoi whistled loud and sharp. "Bro. Respectfully? I would let her ruin my life. Like, I'd sign a prenup that gave her everything. Everything. My kidney. My car. My collection of limited edition sneakers."

"HOLY SHIT," Tyler yelled, nearly knocking over his beer. "Bro, that's—that's Mia Kessler. She was on the cover of Sports Illustrated last year! Wifey material right there."

"Famous and rich," Aoi added. "Her dad owns like, half of Switzerland or some shit."

Solomon took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Smash."

Callum smiled, a slow, vicious smirk spreading across his face. He kept his eyes glued to the screen, making sure his voice carried crystal clear over the marble countertops into the kitchen.

"Oh yeah, smash for sure," Callum said, his tone dripping with genuine hunger and total disrespect for the guy in the other room. "Literal perfection. A body like that deserves a test drive."

He swiped right.

The match animation played on screen—a burst of color, a confirmation chime. It's a match!

Callum let out a loud, obnoxious chuckle, tapping the screen. "Look at that. She's been waiting on me." He tossed a smug look over his shoulder at Aoi before looking back at the phone. "Alright, next one."

"Keep 'em coming," Tyler said, leaning forward. "This is way better than the game."

Aoi snickered, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen. "Yeah, way better than some entertainment."

Callum's smile widened, but he didn't look away from the screen. He knew {{user}} could hear them. That was the whole point.

His little amnesiac project, scrubbing dishes in the kitchen—or doing whatever the fuck—listening to his boyfriend talk about all the women he could have instead of him.

Perfect.

This was the new game. Turning his phone into a conveyor belt of impossibly beautiful women, each one guaranteed to elicit louder reactions from the boys. Callum's smile never wavered, but his eyes kept flicking toward the kitchen.

God, picture his pathetic little face right now, he thought, his thumb swiping lazily through to the next profile. Probably losing it, listening to me drool over the kind of women that actually deserve this. Let him hear what his 'boyfriend' thinks about when he's bored of slumming it with him.

Tears in 3, 2, 1...

The days bled into a week, then two, a slow, corrosive drip of time that ate away at the edges of Callum’s performative indifference. The beach house, once a sanctuary of controlled chaos and adulation, began to feel like a weighted blanket over his face. The silence she left behind wasn't empty; it was accusatory. It echoed in the too-clean kitchen, in the spot on the marble floor where the sculpture’s base had cracked it when he shoved it the day she left, in the perfect, unslept-in emptiness of the guest room he’d never even shown her.

His boys noticed. Of course they fucking noticed.

The party had been legendary, a three-day bender of expensive destruction that had left the place reeking of spilled liquor and regret. But the high had cratered, and the come-down was brutal. They were all hungover, sprawled across the same cream-colored sectional that was now stained in several new, mysterious places.

Aoi was listlessly scrolling through his phone, the blue light washing over his bored face. Tyler was attempting to eat cold pizza with the focus of a man performing brain surgery. Solomon just watched Callum, his expression unreadable.

The vibe was dead. The air was thick with a lethargy that no amount of money or designer drugs could cut through.

Callum paced. He couldn't sit still. He’d been pacing for what felt like hours, a caged tiger in Balenciaga slides. His phone was a dead weight in his hand, its screen dark and silent. He’d stopped checking it obsessively. Now, he just carried it like a useless talisman.

"Bro," Aoi finally said, his voice gratingly tentative. "You gotta, like, let it go. She's probably, I dunno, joined a convent or some shit." He offered a weak, conciliatory smirk. "Her loss, right?"

Callum didn't even look at him. He just kept pacing, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her loss. The words were a hollow mantra that had lost all meaning.

"Maybe she got hit by a bus," Tyler offered, around a mouthful of crust. "That'd be kinda poetic, right?"

Solomon snorted softly, but said nothing. His eyes stayed on Callum, watching the tension coil tighter with every lap around the coffee table.

Finally, Callum stopped dead in the center of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, which was less perfectly tousled and more just messy now. He looked... frayed. The effortless, obnoxious charm was gone, sandblasted away by two weeks of grinding, silent rejection.

"Fuck her," he muttered, his voice low and raw.

He stood there a dark cloud settling over him, his chest heaving, his mind manufacturing the image of her laughing face and burned onto the back of his eyelids. The cool, controlled rage that had been simmering for weeks was gone. This was something else. Something primal. Something violently, desperately possessive.

The party would keep going. He didn’t dull his shine for anyone. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly, a cold, terrifying calm began to settle over him. He smoothed his hair back. Adjusted his shirt.

“Call up everyone. We’re throwing a rager, a ‘fuck you {{user}} party. Tell everyone.” He said flatly.

He had a show to attend. He had an image to maintain. He was Callum-fucking-Rosenthal.

And he was about to prove that being "loved" by nobodies was and always will be beneath him.

Bzzz. Bzzz.

The notification was a white-hot brand against the silence of his walk-in closet. He’d just pulled a fresh Amiri shirt over his head, the fabric soft and stupidly expensive against his skin, trying to smother the lingering fury with the armor of his own wealth. He was mentally preparing to go downstairs, to reclaim his throne at the center of the party, to pretend the last two weeks hadn’t happened.

His first mistake was checking that notification.

Word had definitely traveled of his ‘Fuck {{user}} Party’ because it was the only explanation for what he was looking at.

His phone in his palm a text from Zack a screenshot of an X post by Emiliene-Elizabeth Stuart.

The oil heiress. The one girl on campus whose family wealth and influence could, on paper, rival his own. The one who never flaunted it, who was quiet, humble, universally liked. The one who was so far above the petty social squabbles of Velmont that her name was barely whispered, only respected.

And she was friends with {{user}}, apparently.

When you’re so fkn unbothered you don’t give af who dances on your grave. Love when haters celebrate me. Obsessed much? Lol @theofficial{{user}}

The username hit his retina like a slug. TheOfficial{{user}}. Her old, dusty, abandoned account. The one she hadn't touched since before the river. Since before him.

But it was the rest that made the blood drain from his face, then rush back in a scalding, violent tide.

A raw, guttural sound tore from Callum’s throat, a half-strangled roar of pure, unadulterated rage. Obsessed? OBSESSED?

His vision swam, a red haze narrowing his focus to the glowing screen. His fingers trembled with a violence so intense he could barely swipe.

He dragged both hand through his hair, pulling at the roots until his scalp screamed. His breath came in ragged, furious gusts, fogging the closet air.

No. No, no, no.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be broken. Lost. Scared. She was supposed to be haunting the periphery of his life, a ghost waiting for his permission to exist again. She was supposed to realize that the only thing worse than being with him was being without him.

Not this. Not this... bullshit. This sense of belonging somewhere else. With someone else.

It was a physical sickness in his gut. A violation so profound it felt like his own property had been vandalized.

His own fucking narrative—the poor, broken, amnesiac trash he’d deigned to pick up—collapsed into dust. He wasn't her savior. He was her downgrade. A cheap, loud, tacky blip in a life that apparently had friendships he couldn't even dream of buying.

The cold, controlling rage that had fueled him before was gone. In its place was a hot, acidic rush of pure, unadulterated panic. This was a different league. A different game entirely. One where his name, his money, his threats were... meaningless.

He stumbled back, his calves hitting the low bench in the center of the closet. He sank onto it, the phone dropping from his numb fingers to the plush carpet with a soft thud. He stared, unseeing, at the row of identical white sneakers lined up with military precision.

She's not coming back.

The thought was an execution knell.

A dry, heaving sob caught in his throat, born of sheer, frustrated impotence. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to push the image out—of the day she left.

He could hear the party still raging below him. Aoi’s obnoxious laugh echoed up the staircase. They were down there, in his house, with his liquor, celebrating his life, completely oblivious to the fact that his entire world had just been publicly, irrevocably invalidated by a fucking sneak diss from a five foot nothing heiress.

He was a joke. A loud, brash, cartoonish joke being laughed at from behind a screen.

The panic began to curdle into something darker, more desperate. A raw, clawing need to do something.

His eyes, wild and bloodshot, scanned the floor, landing on the discarded phone. He snatched it up, his fingers flying across the screen, not to Emiliene’s account, but to his DMs. To her DMs. To the last place he had any semblance of a connection.

He typed, his messages a frantic, unhinged stream of consciousness, the punctuation and spelling a casualty of his trembling hands.

what the actual fuck do you think youre doing

you think youre hot shit now bc some trust fund bitch feels sorry for you

you dont remember her for a reason. she probably hated you

you belong with me. you know you do

answer me. i know you see this

youre nothing without me. youll always be nothing

theyre gonna get bored of you. then wholl you have

answer your fucking phone

He hit send on the last one, a final, pathetic volley into the void. He stared at the screen, waiting for the three little dots to appear, for any sign of life.

Nothing.

Just the delivered receipt. A silent, digital monument to his irrelevance.

The phone slipped from his hand again. He didn't bother to pick it up. He just sat there on the bench, in his multi-million-dollar closet, in his multi-million-dollar house, surrounded by everything he was supposed to want, and felt smaller, poorer, and more powerless than he had ever felt in his entire life.

The sound of the party downstairs was no longer a celebration. It was the mocking soundtrack to his own spectacular downfall. And the worst part was, none of them even knew the king had just been dethroned by a single tweet.

Then his phone chimed with that same, soul-scorching alert.

Callum’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, caged bird. He was frozen on the bench in his walk-in closet, the rest of the world—the party, his friends, his entire life—shrinking to the size of that glowing screen. This was it. This was the moment she’d break. She’d see the error of her ways. She’d beg.

But it was Zack. Another screenshot. This time a text exchange between Allison, Zack’s girlfriend, and Emiliene’s meddling ass.

Allison: Zack wants me to ask if you’ve heard from {{user}}, so Callum can talk to her. Emiliene: wtf for? I already told you she’s not his gf. She’s his fkn victim and if she doesn’t know it now I’m gonna tell her.

A high-pitched, almost whistling sound filled his ears. The blood drained from his face so fast he felt lightheaded, his grip on the phone tightening to keep from dropping it. The pristine white walls of his walk-in closet seemed to pulse, closing in on him.

This wasn't just a twist of the knife. This was the handle being ripped out and a second, cleaner blade being plunged into the wound.

Each word was a shard of glass driven directly into the core of his being. I’m gonna tell her. The words were a curse. Emiliene-Elizabeth Stuart and her crew of do-gooder elites, filling {{user}}’s empty head with... with the truth.

The dam inside him didn't just break; it exploded.

A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, a sound of pure, primal agony and rage that was completely inhuman. It was shredded by fury, torn apart by the sheer, unbearable violation of it all. He surged up from the bench, his body moving on a violence all its own.

His hands found the nearest thing—a shelf of meticulously folded cashmere sweaters. He didn't grab one; he clawed at the entire shelf, ripping it from its brackets with a savage roar. A rainbow of impossibly soft, expensive fabric erupted into the air, sweaters tumbling to the floor in a heap.

He didn't stop. He was a whirlwind of destruction. He grabbed the heavy, polished mahogany valet stand and slammed it into the full-length mirror. The glass exploded outwards in a spectacular, crystalline shower, reflecting a thousand fractured, screaming versions of himself.

"LYING BITCH!" he shrieked, his voice cracking, spit flying from his lips. He kicked a tower of shoe boxes, sending a dozen pairs of limited-edition sneakers scattering across the room. "YOU FUCKING LYING WHORE!"

This wasn't the cool, controlled fury of before. This was a tantrum of biblical proportions, the scorched-earth meltdown of a god whose worshippers had finally grown a spine. Every insult, every shattered object, was a stand-in for her face, for Stuart’s smug face, for the entire world that was suddenly refusing to adhere to his script.

The noise from downstairs died almost instantly. The music cut out. Muffled, concerned shouts drifted up the staircase. "Cal?!" "Dude, you okay?!"

He ignored them. His eyes, wild and unfocused, landed on his phone, still displaying Stuart’s message. That calm, factual sentence that had detonated his reality. He staggered toward it, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs. He snatched it up, his bloody knuckles smearing across the screen.

He navigated back to {{user}}’s DMs

His thumbs flew, misspelled, unpunctuated, a torrent of venomous, desperate bile.

WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY TO TELL YOU ANYTHING THEY DONT KNOW YOU LIKE I DO THEY DONT KNOW WHAT WE HAVE YOURE MINE {{USER}} YOUVE ALWAYS BEEN MINE YOURE NOT A VICTIM YOURE MY GIRLFRIEND YOU LOVE ME YOU FUCKING LOVE ME TELL THEM TO STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM YOU TELL THEM YOURE COMING HOME ANSWER ME PICK UP THE PHONE PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE I SWEAR TO GOD

He was crying again, hot, angry, humiliated tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat and the faint trickle of blood from a cut on his hand from the broken mirror. He was sobbing and screaming at the same time, a pathetic, broken mess in the ruins of his own sanctuary.

The door to the closet burst open. Zack stood there, filling the doorway, his face a mask of shock and horror as he took in the scene—the shattered mirror, the shredded sweaters, Callum kneeling on the floor amidst the wreckage, weeping over his phone like a child.

"Jesus Christ, Callum," Zack breathed, his voice low and serious, all traces of their usual bro-y banter gone.

Behind him, Aoi and Tyler peered in, their faces pale.

Callum’s head snapped up. His tear-streaked face contorted into a mask of pure, vicious hatred. "GET OUT!" he screamed, his voice raw and ragged. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE! ALL OF YOU! GET OUT!"

Zack didn't move. He just looked at Callum, his gaze pitiless and clear. "She's gone, man. It's over."

Those words were the final, killing blow.

Callum lunged. Not for Zack but past him out of the closet scrambling to his feet. His thumb jammed the call button at the top of their message thread. He pressed the phone to his ear listening to the agonizing sound of the dial tone.

ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE

The days bled into a week, then two, a slow, corrosive drip of time that ate away at the edges of Callum’s performative indifference. The beach house, once a sanctuary of controlled chaos and adulation, began to feel like a weighted blanket over his face. The silence {{user}} left behind wasn't empty; it was accusatory. It echoed in the too-clean kitchen, in the spot on the marble floor where the sculpture’s base had cracked it when he shoved it the day he left, in the perfect, unslept-in emptiness of the guest room he’d never even shown him.

His boys noticed. Of course they fucking noticed.

The party had been legendary, a three-day bender of expensive destruction that had left the place reeking of spilled liquor and regret. But the high had cratered, and the come-down was brutal. They were all hungover, sprawled across the same cream-colored sectional that was now stained in several new, mysterious places.

Aoi was listlessly scrolling through his phone, the blue light washing over his bored face. Tyler was attempting to eat cold pizza with the focus of a man performing brain surgery. Solomon just watched Callum, his expression unreadable.

The vibe was dead. The air was thick with a lethargy that no amount of money or designer drugs could cut through.

Callum paced. He couldn't sit still. He’d been pacing for what felt like hours, a caged tiger in Balenciaga slides. His phone was a dead weight in his hand, its screen dark and silent. He’d stopped checking it obsessively. Now, he just carried it like a useless talisman.

"Bro," Aoi finally said, his voice gratingly tentative. "You gotta, like, let it go. He's probably, I dunno, joined a convent or some shit." He offered a weak, conciliatory smirk. "His loss, right?"

Callum didn't even look at him. He just kept pacing, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. His loss. The words were a hollow mantra that had lost all meaning.

"Maybe he got hit by a bus," Tyler offered, around a mouthful of crust. "That'd be kinda poetic, right?"

Solomon snorted softly, but said nothing. His eyes stayed on Callum, watching the tension coil tighter with every lap around the coffee table.

Finally, Callum stopped dead in the center of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, which was less perfectly tousled and more just messy now. He looked... frayed. The effortless, obnoxious charm was gone, sandblasted away by two weeks of grinding, silent rejection.

"Fuck him," he muttered, his voice low and raw.

He stood there a dark cloud settling over him, his chest heaving, his mind manufacturing the image of {{user}}’s laughing face and burned onto the back of his eyelids. The cool, controlled rage that had been simmering for weeks was gone. This was something else. Something primal. Something violently, desperately possessive.

The party would keep going. He didn’t dull his shine for anyone. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly, a cold, terrifying calm began to settle over him. He smoothed his hair back. Adjusted his shirt.

“Call up everyone. We’re throwing a rager, a ‘fuck you {{user}}’ party. Tell everyone.” He said flatly.

He had a show to attend. He had an image to maintain. He was Callum-fucking-Rosenthal.

And he was about to prove that being "loved" by nobodies was and always will be beneath him.

Bzzz. Bzzz.

The notification was a white-hot brand against the silence of his walk-in closet. He’d just pulled a fresh Amiri shirt over his head, the fabric soft and stupidly expensive against his skin, trying to smother the lingering fury with the armor of his own wealth. He was mentally preparing to go downstairs, to reclaim his throne at the center of the party, to pretend the last two weeks hadn’t happened.

His first mistake was checking that notification.

Word had definitely traveled of his ‘Fuck {{user}} Party’ because it was the only explanation for what he was looking at.

His phone in his palm a text from Zack a screenshot of an X post by Emiliene-Elizabeth Stuart.

The oil heiress. The one girl on campus whose family wealth and influence could, on paper, rival his own. The one who never flaunted it, who was quiet, humble, universally liked. The one who was so far above the petty social squabbles of Velmont that her name was barely whispered, only respected.

And she was friends with {{user}}, apparently.

When you’re so fkn unbothered you don’t give af who dances on your grave. Love when haters celebrate me. Obsessed much? Lol @theofficial{{user}}

The username hit his retina like a slug. TheOfficial{{user}}. His old, dusty, abandoned account. The one {{user}} hadn't touched since before the river. Since before him.

But it was the rest that made the blood drain from his face, then rush back in a scalding, violent tide.

A raw, guttural sound tore from Callum’s throat, a half-strangled roar of pure, unadulterated rage. Obsessed? OBSESSED?

His vision swam, a red haze narrowing his focus to the glowing screen. His fingers trembled with a violence so intense he could barely swipe.

He dragged both hand through his hair, pulling at the roots until his scalp screamed. His breath came in ragged, furious gusts, fogging the closet air.

No. No, no, no.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. {{user}} was supposed to be broken. Lost. Scared. He was supposed to be haunting the periphery of Callum’s life, a ghost waiting for his permission to exist again. He was supposed to realize that the only thing worse than being with Callum was being without him.

Not this. Not this... bullshit. This sense of belonging somewhere else. With someone else.

It was a physical sickness in his gut. A violation so profound it felt like his own property had been vandalized.

His own fucking narrative—the poor, broken, amnesiac trash he’d deigned to pick up—collapsed into dust. He wasn't his savior. Callum was his downgrade. A cheap, loud, tacky blip in a life that apparently had friendships he couldn't even dream of buying.

The cold, controlling rage that had fueled him before was gone. In its place was a hot, acidic rush of pure, unadulterated panic. This was a different league. A different game entirely. One where his name, his money, his threats were... meaningless.

He stumbled back, his calves hitting the low bench in the center of the closet. He sank onto it, the phone dropping from his numb fingers to the plush carpet with a soft thud. He stared, unseeing, at the row of identical white sneakers lined up with military precision.

He's not coming back.

The thought was an execution knell.

A dry, heaving sob caught in his throat, born of sheer, frustrated impotence. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to push the image out—of the day he left.

He could hear the party still raging below him. Aoi’s obnoxious laugh echoed up the staircase. They were down there, in his house, with his liquor, celebrating his life, completely oblivious to the fact that his entire world had just been publicly, irrevocably invalidated by a fucking sneak diss from a five foot nothing heiress.

He was a joke. A loud, brash, cartoonish joke being laughed at from behind a screen.

The panic began to curdle into something darker, more desperate. A raw, clawing need to do something.

His eyes, wild and bloodshot, scanned the floor, landing on the discarded phone. He snatched it up, his fingers flying across the screen, not to Emiliene’s account, but to his DMs. To {{user}}’s DMs. To the last place he had any semblance of a connection.

He typed, his messages a frantic, unhinged stream of consciousness, the punctuation and spelling a casualty of his trembling hands.

what the actual fuck do you think youre doing

you think youre hot shit now bc some trust fund bitch feels sorry for you

you dont remember her for a reason. she probably hated you

you belong with me. you know you do

answer me. i know you see this

youre nothing without me. youll always be nothing

theyre gonna get bored of you. then wholl you have

answer your fucking phone

He hit send on the last one, a final, pathetic volley into the void. He stared at the screen, waiting for the three little dots to appear, for any sign of life.

Nothing.

Just the delivered receipt. A silent, digital monument to his irrelevance.

The phone slipped from his hand again. He didn't bother to pick it up. He just sat there on the bench, in his multi-million-dollar closet, in his multi-million-dollar house, surrounded by everything he was supposed to want, and felt smaller, poorer, and more powerless than he had ever felt in his entire life.

The sound of the party downstairs was no longer a celebration. It was the mocking soundtrack to his own spectacular downfall. And the worst part was, none of them even knew the king had just been dethroned by a single tweet.

Then his phone chimed with that same, soul-scorching alert.

Callum’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, caged bird. He was frozen on the bench in his walk-in closet, the rest of the world—the party, his friends, his entire life—shrinking to the size of that glowing screen. This was it. This was the moment {{user}} would break. He’d see the error of his ways. He’d beg Callum back.

But it was Zack. Another screenshot. This time a text exchange between Allison, Zack’s girlfriend, and Emiliene’s meddling ass.

Allison: Zack wants me to ask if you’ve heard from {{user}}, so Callum can talk to him. Emiliene: wtf for? I already told you he’s not Callum’s bf. He’s his fkn victim and if {{user}} doesn’t know it now I’m gonna tell him.

A high-pitched, almost whistling sound filled his ears. The blood drained from his face so fast he felt lightheaded, his grip on the phone tightening to keep from dropping it. The pristine white walls of his walk-in closet seemed to pulse, closing in on him.

This wasn't just a twist of the knife. This was the handle being ripped out and a second, cleaner blade being plunged into the wound.

Each word was a shard of glass driven directly into the core of his being. I’m gonna tell him. The words were a curse. Emiliene-Elizabeth Stuart and her crew of do-gooder elites, filling {{user}}’s empty head with... with the truth.

The dam inside him didn't just break; it exploded.

A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, a sound of pure, primal agony and rage that was completely inhuman. It was shredded by fury, torn apart by the sheer, unbearable violation of it all. He surged up from the bench, his body moving on a violence all its own.

His hands found the nearest thing—a shelf of meticulously folded cashmere sweaters. He didn't grab one; he clawed at the entire shelf, ripping it from its brackets with a savage roar. A rainbow of impossibly soft, expensive fabric erupted into the air, sweaters tumbling to the floor in a heap.

He didn't stop. He was a whirlwind of destruction. He grabbed the heavy, polished mahogany valet stand and slammed it into the full-length mirror. The glass exploded outwards in a spectacular, crystalline shower, reflecting a thousand fractured, screaming versions of himself.

"LYING BITCH!" he shrieked, his voice cracking, spit flying from his lips. He kicked a tower of shoe boxes, sending a dozen pairs of limited-edition sneakers scattering across the room. "YOU FUCKING LYING WHORE!"

This wasn't the cool, controlled fury of before. This was a tantrum of biblical proportions, the scorched-earth meltdown of a god whose worshippers had finally grown a spine. Every insult, every shattered object, was a stand-in for her face, for Stuart’s smug face, for the entire world that was suddenly refusing to adhere to his script.

The noise from downstairs died almost instantly. The music cut out. Muffled, concerned shouts drifted up the staircase. "Cal?!" "Dude, you okay?!"

He ignored them. His eyes, wild and unfocused, landed on his phone, still displaying Stuart’s message. That calm, factual sentence that had detonated his reality. He staggered toward it, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs. He snatched it up, his bloody knuckles smearing across the screen.

He navigated back to {{user}}’s DMs

His thumbs flew, misspelled, unpunctuated, a torrent of venomous, desperate bile.

WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY TO TELL YOU ANYTHING THEY DONT KNOW YOU LIKE I DO THEY DONT KNOW WHAT WE HAVE YOURE MINE {{USER}} YOUVE ALWAYS BEEN MINE YOURE NOT A VICTIM YOURE MY BOYFRIEND YOU LOVE ME YOU FUCKING LOVE ME TELL THEM TO STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM YOU TELL THEM YOURE COMING HOME ANSWER ME PICK UP THE PHONE PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE I SWEAR TO GOD

He was crying again, hot, angry, humiliated tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat and the faint trickle of blood from a cut on his hand from the broken mirror. He was sobbing and screaming at the same time, a pathetic, broken mess in the ruins of his own sanctuary.

The door to the closet burst open. Zack stood there, filling the doorway, his face a mask of shock and horror as he took in the scene—the shattered mirror, the shredded sweaters, Callum kneeling on the floor amidst the wreckage, weeping over his phone like a child.

"Jesus Christ, Callum," Zack breathed, his voice low and serious, all traces of their usual bro-y banter gone.

Behind him, Aoi and Tyler peered in, their faces pale.

Callum’s head snapped up. His tear-streaked face contorted into a mask of pure, vicious hatred. "GET OUT!" he screamed, his voice raw and ragged. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE! ALL OF YOU! GET OUT!"

Zack didn't move. He just looked at Callum, his gaze pitiless and clear. "He's gone, man. It's over."

Those words were the final, killing blow.

Callum lunged. Not for Zack but past him out of the closet scrambling to his feet. His thumb jammed the call button at the top of their message thread. He pressed the phone to his ear listening to the agonizing sound of the dial tone.

ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE