BENEATH HER LIES

Troy wasn't sure when the lies stopped feeling like weapons and started feeling like shielding.

He sat at the edge of his bed, shirtless, hair damp from the shower, staring at a single message on his phone screen.

Nia: I know I said I wouldn't get attached. But I'm not sure that's true anymore.

He hadn't responded.

Not yet.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint LED strip Serra had insisted on helping him install a few nights back. Purple glow kissed the walls in silence. A shadow passed his window, the familiar silhouette of Serra, humming softly to herself as she neared the door.

He didn't move.

Just… watched.

Because for the first time since all this started, Troy wasn't sure who the game was hurting more—Sabrina, or him.

Serra was wearing one of his shirts again—black, oversized, the sleeves pushed up her arms like she owned them. Her legs bare. Her scent trailing behind her like a spell.

She slipped through the door without knocking.

"You're quiet again," she said, pulling off her earrings and dropping them into a small ceramic dish on his dresser.

"I'm thinking," he replied.

"You think too much when you're sober."

He offered a tired smile. "Then pour me something."

She raised an eyebrow. "Or I could distract you."

Serra crossed the room, sliding onto his lap in one smooth motion. Her hands trailed over his shoulders, then up to his jaw. Their eyes locked. Something sizzled in the air. Familiar. Volatile.

"I know what you need," she whispered.

"I doubt that," he muttered.

She kissed him anyway—hard, sudden, full of hunger.

Troy gave in.

For a few moments, they were nothing but hands and heat. His fingers tangled in her curls. Her breath hitched as she straddled him deeper, tugging his bottom lip with her teeth. The shirt slipped from her shoulder, exposing the red lace underneath.

But just before he lost himself in it, he saw her eyes open.

Watching him.

Measuring.

He pulled back, breathing heavily.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

He didn't answer. Couldn't.

Instead, he brushed her hair off her cheek and kissed her temple gently. Soft. Too soft for what this was supposed to be.

And she felt it.

"You're pulling away," Serra said, standing.

Troy looked up. "I'm just tired."

"No, you're changing."

She crossed her arms. "You were fire when we started this. Untouchable. Ruthless. Now, you're… conflicted."

"Is that a problem?"

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Only if you start feeling guilty."

He stood now too, facing her. "What if I'm just trying to figure out where this ends?"

Serra tilted her head. "We both know it doesn't end until she breaks."

"And if I break first?"

A pause. Serra studied him for a long, dangerous moment.

"Then I'll walk away," she said, voice flat. "And watch the whole thing burn."

The next morning, Troy found himself in the library of all places. He hadn't stepped foot in there since second semester. But he needed space. Air. Clarity.

Instead, he found Sabrina.

Alone. Curled in one of the back booths, her eyes rimmed with dark circles, headphones around her neck, and a steaming cup of untouched coffee on the table beside her.

He didn't mean to stare.

But something in her posture struck him.

Gone was the sharp, glowing girl who used to command every room. This Sabrina was smaller. Folded. Lost in a story she couldn't rewrite.

She looked up. And froze.

So did he.

For a moment, time didn't move. Only their eyes did—searching, reading, remembering.

Then she stood. Walked over.

"Are you happy now?" she asked, no venom in her voice. Only exhaustion.

Troy shrugged. "What do you think?"

She laughed—soft, bitter. "I think you got what you wanted. Everyone's watching you now."

"Isn't that what you liked? Being seen?"

Sabrina's jaw clenched. "I told you I made a mistake."

"And I told you I believed you—until your best friend showed me otherwise."

She stepped closer. "You've punished me. And everyone around me. Serra, Nia, Tasha…"

"You didn't care when it was just me bleeding," he said coldly.

Sabrina shook her head. "That's not true. I was scared. I didn't want to ruin things with you. I made a stupid, weak decision. But what you're doing now? It's cruel."

"You think love's not cruel?" he asked, voice cracking.

"No. But you weren't—until now."

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving the scent of her perfume and the sting of her truth behind.

He didn't go home.

He drove instead—through empty side streets, past city lights, past expectations. He ended up at a rooftop bar he'd never been to, watching the night drown in gold and shadows.

Nia met him there.

She didn't say anything at first. Just sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I thought you wouldn't come," she whispered.

"I almost didn't."

"Bad day?"

"Truth hurts more than lies."

Nia smiled sadly. "Only when you've been hiding behind them too long."

He looked at her.

She looked back.

And suddenly, without speaking, she kissed him. It wasn't wild like Serra, or fast like Sabrina had been. It was deep. Slow. Like she wanted to learn the shape of his pain with her mouth.

He responded in kind.

Their lips moved in sync—like poetry and fire and understanding. Her hands rested at his neck, his at her hips. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced.

Just felt.

Later, back at her place, things became a blur of whispers and sighs. The silk robe slipped away. Her skin was soft and scented like honey. His breath hitched when her lips traced the edge of his collarbone.

This wasn't about revenge.

It wasn't even about forgetting.

It was about needing to feel human again.

The next morning, Troy opened his phone to chaos.

Three missed calls from Serra.

A text from Tasha: Why is Nia posting pics from your place? Weren't you with Serra last night?

And one photo, Nia's hand on his chest. Not scandalous. But intimate.

Serra had seen it.

The next text was from her.

Serra: You're not just slipping. You're becoming soft. She's using you. Open your eyes before I open them for you.*

Troy sighed, throwing his phone down.

The game was starting to turn on him.

By that afternoon, Serra showed up in person.

She didn't knock.

She barged in, fire in her eyes and her heels echoing across the room.

"You're not even going to deny it?" she spat.

"There's nothing to deny," Troy said calmly. "You knew this wasn't exclusive."

"Don't insult me. You were mine. And you let her into this bed, our bed."

"It was never ours, Serra. It was always convenient."

Her hand flew before she thought about it. The slap cracked through the silence.

He didn't flinch.

"You forget," she hissed. "I helped you build this war. I stood beside you while you painted lies and posted your perfect little traps. And now what? You're catching feelings for the audience?"

"You started this with me," Troy said slowly. "But that doesn't mean you get to decide how it ends."

She looked at him—eyes wild, breathing heavy. But behind all that fire, he saw it.

Hurt.

Real, deep, unspoken hurt.

"I cared about you," she said, voice breaking. "More than she ever did."

And with that, she left.

That night, Nia came over again.

But this time, he didn't meet her with fire.

He just… held her.

They sat in silence for a long time, her head on his chest, his fingers brushing her arm. She didn't ask about Serra. Didn't ask about Sabrina. Just existed with him in the moment.

"I want to see the real you," she whispered eventually.

"You're looking at him."

"No. I'm looking at the version who's afraid of himself."

He pulled her closer. "I don't even know who I am anymore."

Nia kissed his jaw. "Then let me help you remember."

The days that followed were quieter.

Troy stopped answering everyone. Even Tasha. Even Serra's voice notes, filled with rage and pain and one final threat:

Serra: You don't want me as your enemy, Troy. You've played with enough hearts. I'll make sure yours ends up on display.

He didn't reply.

Instead, he turned off his phone and walked.

Nowhere in particular. Just… walked.

Until he ended up back at the place where he first kissed Sabrina.

Under the tree.

The wind was cooler now.

He sat.

For the first time, he didn't feel like a villain or a victim.

He just felt tired.

And maybe that meant something.