Amy’s POV
For a few long seconds, nobody moved.
Charlie’s voice still hung in the air, heavy and broken. “She was MINE!” he had screamed like it was the most important truth in the world. But to me, it wasn’t the truth at all. It never had been.
I turned slowly to face him, still holding James’s hand. The crowd had fallen completely silent, the noise from the game and the celebration fading into a thick, tense stillness. I stepped forward, only far enough for him to hear me clearly, and met his eyes without flinching.
“No, Charlie,” I said, my voice calm but strong. “I was never yours.”
My words didn’t come from anger. They came from clarity. The kind of truth that had taken months of pain and silence and healing to uncover. He hadn’t owned me. He hadn’t loved me in the way I needed. He had held onto an image of me—something convenient, something obedient—but not me.
His expression shifted. I watched it happen, like a storm losing power. His eyebrows lifted just slightly, his mouth opening then closing, and then he looked around. He turned his head slowly, scanning the faces around him, maybe hoping someone would nod, someone would agree, someone would step forward and say she’s wrong, she’s still yours.
But no one did.
The students standing near him stayed still. His teammates had already walked away, leaving him at the edge of the field with nothing but his pride and a storm he could no longer control.
He was alone.
I turned back to James, who hadn’t said a word through any of it. He gave my hand a small squeeze as if to say you did what needed to be done, and I nodded. Together, we walked off the field, not running, not hiding, just walking—quietly and purposefully, like people who knew who they were now.
In the hallway that led to the locker rooms, the sounds of celebration echoed behind us. I could still hear cheers, the band’s music, and someone shouting James’s name over the loudspeaker. But as we stepped inside, the cold fluorescent lights hummed above us, and the hallway felt almost too quiet.
We didn’t even get three steps past the benches before she appeared.
Camilla.
She stood waiting just around the corner, arms crossed, one hip leaned against the wall. Her blonde hair was still curled, her makeup perfect, and her mouth twisted into a smirk that held no real joy.
“Well,” she said, slowly stepping forward, “I guess this is where I’m supposed to pretend to be impressed.”
I didn’t respond. I just kept walking, but she wasn’t finished.
“You really think you’ve won?” she said, louder now, blocking my path. “You think being captain and stealing my boyfriend makes you some kind of queen?”
I looked her straight in the eyes and didn’t blink.
“I didn’t steal anything,” I said, my voice low but steady. “And no, Camilla. You stole Charlie first. I didn’t win because I got James. I won because I survived you. And him. And everything else that tried to break me.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes as if my words were nothing more than background noise. But I saw it. The flicker. The moment her face twitched and the gloss of control cracked.
“I’m a survivor,” I said again. “And yes. I did win.”
Camilla didn’t reply. She simply turned and walked away, her heels clacking against the floor as she disappeared into the far hallway. I didn’t chase her. I didn’t watch her leave. I had nothing left to say to her.
James rested a hand on the small of my back as we entered the locker room, and for the first time in weeks, I exhaled fully. The weight I had been carrying for so long felt lighter.
Later that night, while curled up in bed with my legs still sore from standing too long, I got a notification. I tapped my phone, half-expecting more game photos or another cheer squad group chat update.
Instead, I saw the post.
Camilla had uploaded a new story to her gossip account. I clicked on it, already knowing what it would be.
“Amy Garcia faked her coma for attention. Open your eyes, people.”
I stared at the screen, waiting for my chest to tighten, for the sting of anxiety to settle in.
But nothing happened.
There were no angry DMs. No swarms of comments. No one cared.
In fact, I scrolled down and saw that most of the replies were laughing emojis, eye-roll gifs, or blunt comments like, “Still trying, huh?” and “You lost. Let it go.”
I set my phone down and leaned back against my pillows, letting the moment settle. Camilla had thrown her final punch—and it didn’t even land.
Then, just as I reached for my charger, another notification buzzed.
It was an email.
I clicked it, my eyes scanning the subject line, my breath catching when I read the words.
“Congratulations. You’ve been accepted to the Summer NYC Internship Program.”