Pretend You Love Me

Harley’s POV

The iced latte hits my chest like a declaration of war.

Cold seeps through the thin cotton of my blouse—the same blouse I spent two hours altering last night, carefully stitching a hidden tear so no one would notice it came from the secondhand bin at Goodwill.

Now it's ruined, brown liquid spreading across white fabric like a stain I'll never scrub out.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Sloane's voice drips with false concern, her manicured hand pressed to her collarbone in mock horror. "I didn't even see you there. You just blend right into the background, don't you?"

A crowd materializes the way crowds always do at Wentworth Academy—phones raised, hungry for content, ready to watch the scholarship girl get put in her place.

"Southside trash," someone mutters. The words echo off marble walls, and a ripple of laughter follows.

My hands shake. Not from fear—never from fear. From the effort of keeping them at my sides instead of wrapped around Sloane's spray-tanned throat.

I could end this. One phone call to Mateo, one whispered threat about what happens to rich girls who target his baby sister, and Sloane Whitmore would never so much as glance in my direction again.

The Southside Wolves have a reputation for a reason.

But that's exactly what they expect, isn't it? The gang member's sister, the criminal's daughter, proving every stereotype they've already written across my forehead.

So instead, I smile—ice-cold, razor-sharp.

I take a step toward Sloane, watching her confidence flicker. My eyes sweep deliberately over her—the obvious extensions, the logo-covered bag, the spray tan that ends in an orange line at her wrist.

"You know what I love about you, Sloane?" I keep my voice light, almost friendly, as I close the distance between us. Her smile falters. I tilt my head, letting my gaze linger on her roots before meeting her eyes again. "You try so hard to be memorable."

Another step closer. She doesn't retreat, but I see her swallow.

"The hair extensions." I gesture lazily toward her head, and a few people in the crowd snicker. "The designer bags." My eyes drop to the monogrammed leather hanging from her shoulder. "Daddy's credit card paying for all of it."

I'm close enough now to smell her perfume—something expensive and cloying. I lean in slightly, dropping my voice just enough that the phones will have to strain to pick it up.

"All that effort, all that money, and what do you have to show for it?" I pause, letting the silence stretch. "Just another carbon copy of every bleached blonde at this school. You're not memorable, Sloane. You're a knockoff."

The laughter dies and Sloane's perfectly contoured face goes pale beneath her bronzer.

"I heard your father's company is under investigation for tax fraud, by the way," I add, tilting my head like I'm sharing gossip between friends. "Must be stressful. Is that why you're acting out? Do you need someone to talk to about your feelings?"

Her mouth opens, closes, opens again.

I don't wait for whatever weak response she's scrambling to form. I turn on my heel and walk away, spine straight, chin high, coffee soaking through to my skin with every step. The crowd parts for me like I'm the one wearing designer labels.

The bathroom is empty when I reach it. Thank God.

I lock myself in a stall and press my forehead against the cool metal door, letting myself feel it—the exhaustion, the isolation, the crushing weight of fighting the same battle every single day.

My eyes burn, but I don't cry. I learned a long time ago that tears are a luxury I can't afford.

At the sink, I scrub at the stain with wet paper towels, watching brown water swirl down the drain. The blouse is destroyed. Another thing I'll have to fix, replace, or explain away.

My reflection stares back at me—same warm brown skin, same black hair slicked back into a practical ponytail, same exhausted dark brown eyes. The thin gold chain around my neck catches the fluorescent light.

My father's gift, given to me the day before police took him away.

Make me proud, mija.

His voice echoes in my head, steady and sure the way it always is during our monthly phone calls in the prison through the thick plastic wall.

He doesn't know about the coffee incidents or the usual slurs or the way I eat lunch alone in the library because the cafeteria feels like walking into enemy territory. He thinks I'm thriving in a prestigious private high school—I let him believe it.

And I’ll make him proud.

I pull my planner from my bag and flip to the campaign strategy pages. Student council president. The election is six weeks away, and I need this win more than I need air.

It's not about the title—it's about proving that I belong here, that I earned my place, that no amount of spilled lattes or insults can push me out and cut me off from my future.

I always think about my mother's hands, cracked and raw from bleach, from double shifts at the convenience store and the packaging factory. She works herself to the bone so I can stand in these marble hallways and pretend I'm one of them.

I won't let that sacrifice mean nothing.

The student council room is on the second floor, and I'm almost there when I stop dead. Mr. Patterson, our faculty advisor, stands near the entrance with someone at his side.

Sandy blond hair falling carelessly across his forehead, familiar sharp jaw and blue eyes that have charmed him out of every consequence he's ever earned.

Tate fucking Mercer.

His hands rest lazily in his uniform pockets, his posture radiating the casual arrogance of someone who's never been told no. The world arranges itself around boys like him—always has, always will.

"Ah, Miss Valdez," Mr. Patterson says, checking his watch. "Perfect timing, I have an important announcement for the student council. Let's head inside."

He disappears through the door, leaving me alone in the hallway with my worst nightmare wearing a smirk. The moment Patterson is gone, I feel Tate’s hand before I process what's happening.

Fingers hooking under the hem of my skirt, lifting it from behind.

Exposing me.

"The most boring panties I’ve ever seen," he says, his voice low and amused. "I expected something different, honestly. A girl from the hood with an ass like yours? Figured you'd be wearing leopard print. Some trashy thong, maybe. Such a disappointment, Valdez. Truly."

I spin so fast my vision blurs, slapping his hand away with enough force to make his palm sting for a while. "Touch me again, Mercer, and you'll lose that hand. I know people who'd consider it a favor."

His smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it deepens.

"See, that's your problem. A girl from the Southside like you shouldn't make scenes. It's your word against mine, and we both know whose carries weight around here. So maybe think twice before you threaten the governor's son, yeah? It's not a good look."