Tristan grinned. “Once it goes live, there’ll be so much smoke, even the Board of Ed in Ohio will choke on it.”
I tried to picture it. Headlines. Panic. Admins scrambling. Parents calling lawyers. Jade finally being cleared in the court of public opinion. Her name finally free.
“You sure this won’t come back to her?” I asked quietly.
Xavier shook his head. “We scrubbed her name. All the posts refer to her as a minor from a sealed district. No photos. No identifiers. Just the facts. The abusers take the spotlight. Not her.”
Relief punched me in the ribs so hard I had to exhale.
Then Tristan, of course, ruined the silence with a smirk.
“Now, we doing this drop at nine so I have time to get laid before the storm hits?”
I glared. “You better not be talking about Jade.”
He held up both hands. “Relax, man. I’m just saying—she’s cool. Funny. Doesn’t flinch when girls call her names in the hall. And she looked hot trying on that green satin dress she bought in Boston.”
My jaw clenched.
He noticed.
“I’m not touching her,” he said quickly. “Dude code. I’m not that guy.”
“You better not be,” I muttered.
Tristan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You still love her?”
I didn’t answer.
He alreadyknew.
“She thinks you don’t. That you used her.”
“I know.”
Xavier’s eyes flicked between us. “So fix it.”
“I will,” I said, voice like gravel. “But not until this storm hits. Not until I can stand in front of her and say, ‘We ended it.’”
They both nodded.
This wasn’t about high school games anymore.
This was war.
And tomorrow, the world was going to see the truth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
JADE
It started like a fairytale.
Tristan pulled up in a classic black limousine, the kind you only ever saw in movies or on red carpets, and stepped out like he owned the night. His tuxedo was flawless, sharp lapels, a deep navy that set off his eyes. He grinned the second he saw me.
“Well damn,” he said, whistling low. “Guess I’m not the best-dressed one tonight after all.”
I blushed, smoothing my hand down the silk of my dress—floor-length, ice blue with delicate beadwork that shimmered like frost. Susan had cried when I walked down the stairs, insisting on taking a million photos under the porch light while her cats circled my heels. She had done my hair too, curling it and pinning one side with antique rhinestones. For a moment, I’d felt beautiful. More than that—hopeful.
