Marcus
I didn’t plan to say it like that. I didn’t walk into the cafeteria thinking, Today’s the day I blow everything up. But the second I saw her—Betty—sitting there with her shoulders slumped, hands shaking, and Stacey across the table with that smug little grin, it was like something cracked open in me.
“Stacey,” I said, loud enough for the whole damn room to hear. “Fuck off.”
She turned like I was interrupting a casual conversation, like she hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes cutting Betty open in front of a crowd.
She raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching into that same condescending smile. “Oh? You’re really playing this long game?”
Her tone was so smug I wanted to scream. I didn’t say anything to her. Not yet.
Instead, I looked around the room—at the kids watching, whispering, waiting for the next punchline. Then I turned back to Betty. Her eyes were wide. She looked like she wasn’t sure if she was awake or still stuck in some kind of humiliation dream.
“I’m taking Betty to the university gala,” I said clearly.
Silence.
Then a ripple of whispers. A few scoffs. Someone laughed. But no one spoke loud enough to challenge it.
Except Vel.
He was sitting on the edge of the table, grinning like this was a new form of entertainment. “You serious about that?” he asked. “Taking her?”
I didn’t blink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Vel raised both eyebrows. “You could do a hundred better. Whatever, man. Your funeral.”
He laughed. So did a few others.
I felt the pressure in my chest rise.
They didn’t know.
They didn’t know that Betty’s dad was Richard Branson. That he had more NBA connections than anyone in the country. That getting on his radar could change my whole life.
I didn’t tell them that the night my dad found out Betty’s last name, he started laying out a plan like he was managing my entire future on a whiteboard.
I didn’t tell them that originally, this was a strategy.
But I also didn’t tell them how it felt to watch Betty sit there, shrinking under Stacey’s words, trying so hard not to cry. Or how angry it made me to see her act like she deserved it. Like she believed it.
The thing was… I didn’t know when the game stopped feeling like a game.
And I hated that I didn’t have an answer.
Then Betty stood up. Her eyes were glassy. She didn’t say a word.
And she ran.
No dramatic exit. No slammed tray. Just a quiet retreat, like she was trying to disappear before anyone noticed the damage.
But everyone noticed.
Everyone always noticed Betty now.
“Betty, wait,” I called, stepping forward.
She didn’t turn around.
I hesitated. My chest tightened. For a second, I wanted to go after her. Grab her hand. Tell her I was sorry. That I meant what I said. That I wasn’t playing her anymore.
But then I felt eyes on me again. Dozens of them. Waiting to see what I’d do next. If I’d follow the girl they all called a joke. If I’d risk my reputation—what little I hadn’t already burned—for someone like her.
Stacey was watching too, her arms crossed, looking satisfied. Like she’d won.
I looked at her and hated her.
“You think I’m pretending?” I said quietly.
She smirked. “Aren’t you?”
I stared at her for a second. Then I turned and walked out, following Betty’s path down the hall.
By the time I made it out the doors, she was gone.