Page 118 of Damsel in Disguise

“Come on,” he says, elbowing me. “I’m not just your elder brother but also someone who helped you out to those—” he motions at the tank full of piranhas, “—fish. I deserve to know, kiddo.”

“Don’t kiddo me.”

We both stare at the blood-washed pool in silence.

The water still faintly rippling from what’s left of them—tiny torn pieces of flesh floating mindlessly in the blood-red water.

I can feel his eyes shift like he’s trying to see something beneath the surface of it. Of me.

“You’re not leaving until I tell you, yeah?”

“Yup.”

One thing I’m sure of is that Asher is a pesky and stubborn motherfucker.

With a deep breath, I give up, starting from the beginning.

I tell him how I opened up to them—stupidly, vulnerably—about why I don’t date for preferring a very specific type of man. That I’m saving myself for him.

And he says it’s okay to wait for the right one rather than give in to the wrong one and regret it for the rest of your life.

I don’t go into full details—the British one with a rich voice and crisp accent, who’s at least ten years older and over a foot taller than me, big enough to manhandle me without trying.

Now, some people might kinkshame me for pedophilia, but once I’m an adult, which will be in two years, it won’t be a concern anymore.

My friends asked if I’d let him in my pants the first time we met, considering how long I’ve been dying to find my fantasy man in real life. I remember joking I might.

I didn’t know they’d take that joke seriously, sharpen it into a blade to backstab me, and make a fake account so realistic it was impossible to tell the man behind the screen wasn’t real, but my best friends. Even during video calls, voice messages, and whatnot.

I cringe, bile rising, thinking about every flirty moment.

All that swooning.

All that softness.

All of it was wasted on girls who laughed behind the screen at how naïve I was.

Being honest doesn’t help. I’m shocked I didn’t throw up recalling those messages. Even if they weren’t sexual, the thought alone makes my stomach flip.

It wasn’t until Refayla called me one day, telling me she needed to confess something urgent. She told me to meet her at our usual spot.

When I got there, Sadie was with her. Athena joined soon after with drinks, saying we’d need them for the upcoming drama.

Refayla spilled the secret and apologized first. Said she couldn’t handle the guilt anymore—that she felt sick being part of it and keeping it from me.

Athena and Sadie tore into Refayla for apologizing to me—claiming I should be the one grateful since they “still hadn’t leaked the conversations.”

They mocked me for being a Keinston. “What good was it to be born into a tech-genie bloodline if you couldn’t even tell what was real and what was fake behind the screens?”

The memory alone makes my throat burn with newfound rage. Tears threaten to spill again. And they do.

I wish I could bring them back to life and do it all over again at least a thousand times.

Athena was my bestie. My ride or die. Or so I thought.

I used to take her punishments in class, hand over my homework so the teachers wouldn’t humiliate her or call her parents.

People think being in a posh school means getting away with everything. It’s the total opposite. The punishments are worse, the scrutiny suffocating.