She stayed where she was.
Then she turned and walked. Didn’t stop until the noise of the crowd thinned, until the field was only light behind her.
For the past ten days, she’d watched Kian, afraid of what her mistake was making of him.
Tonight, though, she feared something else:
who she was becoming.
Chapter 17
On Monday, Riya dragged herself back to the library, pried open her laptop, and braced herself. Two more comments had appeared on her anonymous peri message board.
The first suggested she return to the cemetery where she’d cast the curse—“And drink a vial of his love-cursed tears,totake in his heartache and make it your own.”
When Riya imagined casually taking a swig of Kian’s fresh tears like a shot of wheatgrass juice, she nearly Frisbee’d her laptop across the table.
The second was spam: fifteen percent off some erectile dysfunction pills.
“I give up,” she muttered, slamming the laptop shut. Expecting real help from an anonymous board had been foolish. Half the commenters probably weren’t even peris—just trolls cosplaying as experts.
But she couldn’t afford to give up. Not after Kian had sung her name to a stadium of five thousand people like a man possessed. And thanks to his little stunt, the halls of Abbersett High buzzed with whispers. From students. Teachers. Even Mr. Petrov, the janitor whose keys she borrowed.
“Aw, come on, Riya!” another student pleaded, bouncing into step beside her.
Lauren Ashburn. Riya had once caught her recording a “How to Curl Your Hair” tutorial in the school bathroomduring an assembly about phone addiction.
“You can tell us!”
Riya tightened her grip on her backpack strap.
“Tell you what?” she asked, deadpan. But her tone only made Lauren giggle, as if they were sharing a private joke.
Before she could brush her off, Peter Chen materialized like a shark smelling blood. He was a senior editor for theAbbersettPost, and apparently now a tabloid reporter.
“We’re just curious,” he said, too casually, as if they were old friends instead of classmates who’d exchanged maybe five words in four years. “You and Kian Kho—are you guys even in any classes together? Is he, like, secretly a sweetheart? Because I’ve heard he’s—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Riya cut in.
But the hallway had already shifted around her. Heads turning. Air sharpening. A collective, unspoken watching.
She spotted salvation: a group near the cafeteria, posing for yearbook photos.
“Oh look,” she said brightly, “the Yearbook Committee’s here.”
Lauren and Peter spun toward the commotion.
“Where?!” Lauren gasped, standing on tiptoe.
Peter groaned, “Ugh, I look like shit today.”
Riya didn’t wait. She speed-walked toward her AP US History class like it was a bunker in a war zone.
Now, back in the library, Riya flipped open a textbook and tried to lose herself in research.
Focus, she ordered herself.Focus.
But her mind kept sliding backward—to the guitar, the crackling speakers, the way the crowd had laughed and cheered.
