"Are you insane?" she shrieks. "What was that? You sat with him?!"

Shaiza nods behind her, wide-eyed. "Girl, we thought you were kidnapped or dead or—"

"Why the hell didn't you wake me up?" I snap, stepping back. "You saw that whole vulture hive staring at me like I licked his neck."

Ruby looks sheepish. "He said not to."

I stare at her. "Who?"

They all point.

"Him," they say in perfect fucking harmony, like a chorus of regret.

I blink. Hard.

"He told you not to wake me up?"

Ruby nods. "He said—exact words—'Don't touch her. She sleeps like a bomb waiting for a reason. Let her rest. I'll sit with her.'"

"What the actual fresh hell," I mutter, dragging my hands down my face. "This man's a psycho."

Ifrah leans in. "...A hot psycho."

"I will staple your mouth shut."

My mind spirals.

He's being weird. Not just casually-flirty weird. But full-on, intentional, premeditated weird. Like he's got a plan I'm not allowed to see yet. And I don't trust shit I can't see.

I glare toward the hallway he disappeared into.

Rich. Cocky. Stupidly gorgeous. And apparently allergic to emotional distance.

I don't like it.

I don't like him.

And I sure as fuck don't like how my heart's beating like I almost died.

Because I didn't.

But I will if that blonde girl runs me over in her Porsche.

And that idiot will probably flirt with me while I'm dying.

The second we step out of the auditorium building, I regret it.

Not because of the stale air or the crowd's murmur or the faint leftover perfume of that fake-ass princess, but because of them—my disaster-prone, never-shut-the-fuck-up crew—already buzzing with gossip like they've been bottling it up since forever.

"Bitch," Ruby says, swiveling toward me the moment the door clicks shut behind us, voice dripping with that knowing kind of tease, "you two look perfect. Like, why the hell don't you just fucking date already?"

"Literally," Ifrah chimes in, clutching her chest like she just watched the saddest love story on Netflix. "He's the kind of man every girl drools over—rich as fuck, looks like he stepped out of a damn catalog, confidence oozing out of every pore—and here you are, acting like some Disney Channel best friend. What the actual fuck?"

"We're not best friends," I say flat, voice thick with boredom. "We're friends. Nothing more."

Shaiza smirks, flicking her hair back like she's on some soap opera set. "Sure, and we're the fucking queens of this country."

"Ifrah can be the Minister of Dumbassery," Ruby tosses in, all sweetness and venom.

"Excuse me—" Ifrah gasps, clutching her pearls.

"And you," Shaiza gestures at Ruby like she's handing her a crown, "you're queen of broken hearts and shitty report cards."

"Shut the hell up," Ruby groans. "That was one time."

"Two times," Ifrah corrects with mock solemnity.

I roll my eyes so hard they almost get stuck, brushing past them down the steps while they trail behind like vultures circling fresh meat.

Then Shaiza, never one to miss a chance to steal the scene, tosses her hair like it's a script she's memorized. "You guys can be queens or whatever. I'm the prince's wife."

I freeze mid-step. "Your what?"

"Prince's. Wife." She grins like she just won the lottery of delusions.

I squint at her like she's an alien specimen. "You and your damn prince obsession—what the hell does that man even have that's got you hooked?"

Shaiza's mouth drops open like I just said God is a lie. "Did you see him?"

"No," I mumble.

And that. That’s the damn line.

They all stop dead in sync like I committed sacrilege.

"What?" Ruby's voice is a whisper.

"You didn't see our damn prince?" Ifrah's louder now, clutching her head like it might explode. "What the actual fuck?"

Shaiza grabs my arm, eyes wide. "How the hell do you even live here? On this soil? Breathing the same air? With those eyes? And you've never seen him?"

I shrug, trying not to care. "Sorry I'm not stalking royalty on a Tuesday."

"You don't deserve this country," Ifrah declares, waving her hands like she's casting me out. "Go. Leave. Anywhere else. Immediately. We'll even mail your passport and a sandwich."

"You're being dramatic."

"No," Ruby says with a straight face. "You're the dramatic one. Pretending to know only one man."

"She's right." Shaiza nods sharply. "You only know your Shadin. No one else exists. No prince, no model, no actor. Just Shadin this, Shadin that."

Ifrah adds, "If it were up to her, we wouldn't even look at him. Like he's some magical 'off-limits' contract."

"Oh my fucking god—" I snap, turning on them with fire in my veins. "You think I'm possessive?"

"Yes," all three say at once.

I throw my hands up, voice thick with frustration. "Bitches, we're friends! FRIENDS. Y’all know how we became friends!"

Ruby grins like she’s savoring the memory. "Yeah. Like fate."

Ifrah sighs, dreamy. "Like chaos destiny."

Shaiza smirks, eyes sharp. "Like a unique little path to friendship."

They drag that last word like it’s a goddamn knife twisting in my chest.

And yeah, okay—maybe that was the start...

---

[Flashback]

First year of college.

The canteen is a fucking mess. Loud, bright, chaotic—the kind of place where conversations bleed into each other and trays slam too hard against tabletops.

There's the usual crowd of half-awake students and over-energetic extroverts buzzing around like someone spiked the fries. The air smells like burnt oil and syrupy desserts trying too hard to be edible.

I'm at our table, the usual spot. Right under the broken fan that hums louder than Ifrah when she's panicking before a test.

Ruby's in the middle of some rant about a professor who apparently thinks "humans don't need sleep," and Shaiza keeps interrupting with curses and middle fingers. I should be laughing. I should at least be listening.

But I'm not.

I'm just staring into my juice like it'll give me answers. My straw moves in slow, distracted circles, the orange liquid swirling into tired ripples. I lean back, legs crossed, the sticky edge of the table pressed against my thigh.

Something feels off.

And then—

Cold.

Sticky. Sharp. Sudden.

I blink. My breath catches.

The juice is all over me. Bright orange soaking through the fabric of my dress, dripping down my stomach, into my lap, sliding against skin like an unwanted caress.

For a second, I just sit there. Frozen.

My fingers still wrapped around the now-empty cup like I’m trying to convince myself I’m dreaming.

My friends go quiet. I don't hear Ruby anymore. Not Shaiza. Not even Ifrah's gasp.

All I hear is the rush in my ears.

Then—my eyes lift.

He’s standing right there.

Shadin.

He’s holding a half-empty juice box, the corner crushed where his hand had probably squeezed it too hard. His fingers are still around it, loose, like he hadn’t even noticed what he just did. His expression is blank. Too blank. That infuriating type of calm that makes you feel like you’re the crazy one.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shrug. Doesn’t twitch.

He just looks at me. One second. Two.

Then turns away.

Sips the rest of his juice.

Walks.

Like I’m not covered in fucking juice.

Like I’m not humiliated in front of the whole damn canteen.

Like I’m nothing.

My chair scrapes against the floor.

Ifrah’s voice is thin. “Arshilaah…”

Shaiza’s already up. Ruby’s whispering something, but I can’t hear them. Can’t even feel the wet stickiness on my skin anymore.

All I feel is heat—roaring, raw, wild.

I snatch Ruby’s juice off the table. Cold. Heavy. Perfect.

I walk.

Each step deliberate. Loud in my ears.

He’s at the counter now, looking at the menu like he gives a shit.

Maybe he knows I’m behind him.

Maybe he’s pretending not to.

That’s worse.

I don’t hesitate.

SPLASH.

It hits him across the back.

His white shirt darkens instantly, liquid bleeding into the fabric like war paint.

Someone gasps.

He freezes.

Then turns. Slowly.

There are droplets on his collar. One slides down his neck.

His expression doesn’t change. That same infuriating stillness.

We stare at each other.

Then—his lips twitch.

A smirk. Barely there. Cruel. Condescending. Beautiful.

I want to claw it off his face.

“Oops,” I say, voice like a fucking blade.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just turns.

Picks up a napkin. Wipes his hands like I’m an inconvenience.

And walks.

Again.

Like nothing.

---

Next day.

I’m walking to class. Hoodie on. Head down.

BUMP.

His shoulder slams into mine. Hard. On purpose.

I jerk back, glaring over my shoulder.

He’s already walking. Doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t pretend it was an accident.

Just keeps moving like I’m the one in his way.

---

Next day? Again.

Next week? Again.

Each time harder.

Colder.

Until one day he slams into me so hard I fall.

Skin my palm on the ground.

Pain flares.

Blood.

I snap. “WHAT the fuck is your problem?!”

He doesn’t even stop.

Just walks like I’m invisible.

That night I’m fuming.

Replay it over and over. My scraped hand. His silence. His smug face.

Next morning, I find a bandage on my desk.

One strip. A scribbled “sorry” on the wrapper.

I stare at it.

Next day? Another bandage.

No note.

The next?

Another.

Every damn day.

Same brand. Same silence.

Never a word.

But I know it’s him.

And it’s driving me mad.

---

One afternoon, I see him in the library.

It’s empty except for us.

He’s in the corner, flipping pages like he’s a scholar.

I slam my hands down on the table. “You think this is funny?”

He looks up. Calm. Bored. Beautiful.

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” he says, voice smooth.

“What the hell is your issue with me?” I hiss. “You shove me. Then play nurse with bandages like that’s supposed to make it okay?”

His jaw ticks. Eyes narrow. He leans back. “If I told you,” he says, “would you even give a fuck?”

The air shifts.

He’s not smirking. Not flirting.

Just watching.

Waiting.

I stare, breath caught in my throat.

He looks away first.

Flips the page.

Says nothing.

And I leave.

Not because I want to.

But because I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I stay.

---

The war isn’t over.

It’s just begun.

---

[End Flashback – Present]

The memory fades, but the heat stays—sharp, fierce, impossible to ignore.

I glance at my friends. Their faces expectant. Hungry.

But all I feel is this weird twist inside me.

That damn juice splash. The silence. The bandages.

It wasn’t just hate.

It was something raw. Something real. Something I still don’t understand.

Maybe Shadin wasn’t the enemy I thought.

Maybe he’s just... complicated.

A part of me even wants to admit it. That maybe, despite everything, that moment changed something.

I smirk. Shake my head.

“Fine,” I say, voice low but laced with satisfaction. “Maybe I didn’t see your damn prince. But I’ve got a story with my enemy that’s better than your fairy tale.”

Ruby laughs, loud and sharp. “About damn time.”

Ifrah nudges me. “See? There’s hope for you yet.”

Shaiza smirks. “Who knew a juice box could start a war—and maybe a truce.”

I roll my eyes but I can’t stop the smile.

Maybe the past is chaos.

But even enemies give you the best memories.

And I’m okay with that.

For now.