Chapter 3
1368words
I wanted to retrieve that drawing, but ultimately didn't. Because I knew Leo wasn't throwing away paper—he was throwing away whatever emotion he'd developed for me. He was reminding himself to keep his distance.
But his vigilance proved he cared.
This discovery kept me awake all night.
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Ryder Kang's band blew up after an off-campus performance, news that ripped through Mountain View High School. Overnight, he transformed from controversial underground vocalist to undisputed rock god.
The hallway filled with students wearing his band's T-shirts, emblazoned with the slanted Gothic letters "Scorched Earth." When girls talked about him, their voices dropped instinctively, like they were sharing some dangerous secret.
When he walked into the cafeteria at lunch, the crowd parted automatically to make way. His silver-gray hair gleamed in California's harsh sunlight, that lazy yet defiant smile perpetually playing at the corner of his mouth.
He stood there embodying power—raw, sexually charged power completely unbound by rules.
But when his gaze cut through the crowd and landed on Leo Vance sitting across from me, all charm instantly vanished from his face. Not simple dismissal—profound, venomous hostility, naked and undisguised.
Leo didn't even look up, just quietly ate his salad like the world had nothing to do with him. But Ryder's gaze was an invisible dagger, stabbing straight at him.
I felt the silent, suffocating tension between them. Not an ordinary clash of teenage egos, but something deeper—like a scabbed-over wound never truly healed, now torn open by Ryder's newfound glory, bleeding freely.
"Look, the king has returned," the girl beside me whispered. "Wonder what Vance is thinking."
I didn't know either. But I could see Leo's hand gripping his fork, knuckles white from pressure.
I'd pieced together fragments about their past.
Some said they were once best friends, inseparable, the two most brilliant yet reclusive talents at school—one in music, the other in painting.
A name called Alex occasionally appeared in these whispers. Alex Tran, a musical prodigy who could make a guitar weep and roar. He had been the core of their trio.
Then tragedy struck.
Images float through my mind, nightmares pieced together from overheard conversations and old social media posts. Leo's washed-up action star father, trying to revive his career, released a "new song."
That song was later proven to be Alex's work.
What followed was hell. Accusations, abuse, and mockery flooded in from across the internet. They called Alex a fraud, a parasite trying to leech off Leo's family fame. Those once crazy about his music turned on him with vicious attacks.
"He's just an Asian kid, how could he possibly write such a melody?"
"Must have stolen it. Desperate for fame, huh?"
Finally, Alex chose the quietest way to end the noise. A bottle of pills, a letter never sent.
I once saw Alex's photo on an old forum. Black-framed glasses, shy smile, holding an old Fender guitar. He looked so ordinary, so fragile—impossible to connect with the malice he'd endured.
After that day, the friendship between Ryder and Leo died. Ryder blamed everything on Leo—blamed his cold, dream-stealing family. And Leo completely shut down.
Now Ryder had returned, carrying the flames of revenge, with Leo as his only target.
I never expected I'd become a weapon in this war.
It all began when Ryder noticed Leo's "special" attention toward me.
It was a special kind of attention only I could detect. When I searched for special effects makeup materials in the library, he'd silently sit nearby, pretending to read while watching me from the corner of his eye. When Savannah Pierce subtly mocked me, he'd interrupt with a cool tone.
Our "academic tutoring" sessions continued, resembling more of a silent power struggle. He used my secret to pressure me, while I noticed small cracks in his hardened exterior.
Ryder obviously saw it too. He was a natural hunter with razor-sharp instinct for others' weaknesses. Leo's weakness, at this moment, happened to be me.
"Jules."
That afternoon, I was organizing my locker when Ryder's voice suddenly came from behind. I turned to see him leaning against the opposite locker, arms crossed, looking at me with that ambiguous smile.
"Your name, Juliet," he said slowly, each syllable carrying a magnetic pull, "who's your Romeo? Please don't tell me it's that brooding prince who's always thinking about dying."
Who he meant was obvious.
"I don't have a Romeo," I replied coldly, trying to close my locker.
He extended a hand, blocking the door. "Don't be so quick to reject," his smile widened. "Maybe he just hasn't found you yet."
He began pursuing me intensely, openly, and with great charm.
He'd suddenly appear on my way to class, handing me a perfectly temperatured latte with a hastily drawn musical note in the foam.
He'd pull out his guitar in the courtyard during lunch, in front of everyone, and play a song specifically written for "a mysterious girl with deep eyes." All eyes would turn to me, my cheeks burning beneath carefully applied blush.
The most embarrassing moment came in Art History class.
That day we were discussing Caravaggio. Leo rarely participated in class, but his insights on light and shadow were precise and profound, even catching Professor Davis's attention.
Just then, the classroom door swung open. Ryder Kang swaggered in, holding a beautifully wrapped bouquet of black roses.
"Sorry to interrupt," he flashed a perfect apologetic smile at the dumbfounded professor. "I'm looking for Jules Lim."
The entire class, including Leo, instantly focused on me. Leo's expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
Ryder walked up to me, dropped to one knee, and presented the black roses, his movements so exaggerated he might as well have been performing Shakespeare.
"To make up for my rudeness at the party," he announced loudly, voice full of dramatic sincerity, "I guess you, like Caravaggio, appreciate things where darkness, drama and beauty coexist."
I froze, feeling like a butterfly pinned to a display case. I could feel Leo's gaze piercing my back like an ice pick.
"Take it," Ryder whispered, so only we could hear. "Let him see you're not a secret he can hide away."
He knew. He knew everything. He knew Leo was "protecting" me—or more accurately, "controlling" me. And what he wanted now was to seize that control for himself.
I had become the flag on their battlefield.
Ryder's open pursuit and Leo's secret possessiveness, like two massive tornadoes, had swept me into the eye of the storm.
Rumors about the three of us intensified at school. I'd become the legendary girl who "simultaneously captivated the two hottest guys in school." They admired me, envied me, analyzed my every move.
Savannah Pierce's eyes filled with undisguised venom whenever she looked at me. She tried befriending me at parties while spreading rumors behind my back about my "using improper means."
I felt like I was suffocating. This perfect fake face, once my strongest armor, had become my heaviest shackle.
One day after school, as I was leaving, Ryder stopped me in the parking lot.
"Want to go for a ride?" he leaned against his flashy vintage motorcycle, raising his eyebrows at me.
Before I could answer, another figure appeared beside me.
It was Leo.
"She's going to the library with me." Leo's voice didn't have a trace of warmth. He didn't even look at Ryder, just stared at me.
Ryder laughed, his smile full of provocation. "Did you ask her, Vance? Or do you think she's your property, that you can make decisions for her?"
"Get lost, Kang." Leo's voice dropped low, filled with warning.
Ryder completely ignored his warning, stepped forward, and grabbed my wrist. His palm was hot, with undeniable force.
"She's coming with me," Ryder said, his gaze challenging Leo.
Leo didn't move, but in those unfathomable deep eyes, a destructive storm brewed like I'd never seen before. He stared at Ryder's hand gripping mine for a long time.
Then he spoke slowly, his voice cold as ice: "Eight o'clock tonight, parking lot."
That wasn't an invitation.
That was a declaration of war.
