Sophie's POV
She was supposed to choke.
On her pride, on her crown, on that fifth glass of sweet little poison I served her with a smile.
But no—of course not.
Of course, Arthur Gray had to play savior like some brooding hero in a worn-out fairytale.
I paced the length of my bedroom, heels echoing against marble, fingers itching to throw something—anything.
The night had been perfect. My plan flawless. The crowd was in my palm, chanting her ridiculous nickname like she was some kind of royal.
Queen of Daggers. What a joke.
And she drank. She drank every last glass. Five. Back to back. Like she was invincible.
And for a moment, I believed I'd done it. I watched her sway. Watched her pupils dilate. I saw her lips part, searching for air. Victory was seconds away.
Then he came.
Arthur.
My Arthur.
Storming through the crowd like he owned it. Not even hiding it. He didn't look at me once.
He walked straight to her, grabbed her wrist like it belonged to him, and ripped her from the moment like she hadn't just been falling.
And everyone saw.
The room had gone so quiet, I could hear my breath slice through it.
He didn't just ruin the plan.
He humiliated me.
Now the whispers would start. They always did.
Did you see Arthur?
He left with her.
I thought Sophie was the one?
Guess not anymore.
I clenched my jaw and turned toward the mirror.
Black silk. Flawless makeup. The perfect host.
I should've looked like a goddess.
But all I saw was rage burning through gold-lined eyes.
This was supposed to be the beginning of Isla's downfall. Her final taste of glory before it all went to ashes. But somehow, she'd walked out in the arms of the boy who was supposed to be mine.
I grabbed the edge of the dresser and stared hard at my reflection.
"No more games," I whispered to the girl in the glass.
If she wanted to play Queen…
Then I'd become the one to burn her kingdom down.
Isla's POV
The headache wasn't so loud anymore.
It had faded into a dull throb behind my eyes, nothing a strong coffee and two slices of toast couldn't distract me from. Though, I didn't make either.
Arthur did.
He'd kept the music low—something old and jazzy playing through his speaker system—and the windows open just enough to let the breeze in. Everything in his place screamed clean control, neat edges, carefully placed shadows.
It was annoying how well it suited him.
I sat on the edge of his kitchen stool in one of his oversized black T-shirts—my skirt folded over the back of a chair—eating the most perfect slice of cinnamon toast I'd ever tasted.
He didn't say much.
Neither did I.
We kept dancing around the night before like it hadn't happened. Like I hadn't called him Arty and held his face like some lovesick idiot.
"Feeling human again?" he asked, eyes on the skillet, pretending he wasn't checking on me for the twentieth time.
I nodded, mouth full. "Barely. You make a mean toast."
"I cook," he said simply, flipping something in the pan. "It's what normal people do."
"Oh, right. Because you're just so normal, Gray."
A corner of his mouth lifted.
We were quiet again.
My eyes wandered—his place was a mix of modern and lived-in. Dark tones, steel finishes, and warm lights. No photos. No unnecessary things. Just… space. Like he needed distance even in his own home.
It made me wonder.
"Do you bring a lot of girls here?" I asked, mostly to provoke him.
He turned, eyebrow arched. "Why? Jealous?"
I rolled my eyes. "Just curious."
"No," he said after a pause. "I don't."
I blinked.
"Why not?"
He hesitated. Like the answer came with weight. "This is my place. Not the school's. Not my father's. Just… mine. I don't like people ruining it."
There was something honest in that. Unfiltered.
I let it hang between us.
He placed the plate on the counter beside me—more toast, more of that stupid cinnamon that made it impossible to stay mad at him.
Then he sat across from me, arms folded, watching.
"I can't believe you drank all five," he said after a while.
"I can't believe you dragged me out like some knight with a complex."
"You were about to face-plant on a mob of teenagers."
"I would've landed gracefully," I said with mock pride, taking another bite.
"You called me Arty."
I stopped chewing.
His voice was soft but wickedly amused.
"I hate you," I muttered, mouth full.
"I know," he said. "You also said I was handsome."
"I take it back."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming. "Too late."
I looked away, trying not to smile.
But deep down, under the ache and confusion and whatever twisted fate had shoved us into this mess—part of me didn't want to leave.
Part of me wondered what it meant that he didn't let me fall.
And part of me hated that I wanted to know.