Alicia POV
I don't rush it.
I never rush things that matter.
Endgames aren't about speed—they're about inevitability. You don't shove the final piece across the board. You let the other player realize there's nowhere left to move.
I sit alone in the library's upper study room, sunlight slicing across the table like a blade. My laptop is open, untouched. I'm not here to work.
I'm here to decide.
Below, through the glass railing, I can see them.
Xavier leans against the far wall, posture relaxed in a way that fools people who don't know him. He isn't relaxed. He's alert. Focused. Watching Aylia as she laughs—actually laughs—at something Camille says.
That's new.
The sound of it travels farther than it should. Even from here, I feel the disturbance ripple.
That's the crack.
I've been watching for it longer than Xavier realizes.
It started small. A pause when her name comes up. A delay when he could've ended this weeks ago and didn't. His attention drifting when she leaves a room. His irritation when others step too close.
Interest, at first.
Then concern.
Now?
Now there's restraint.
And restraint, with someone like Xavier, is the most dangerous symptom of all.
I close my eyes briefly and catalog the evidence, the way I always do.
He doesn't isolate her publicly anymore. He adjusts systems instead—pairings, proximity, access. He's stopped humiliating her. Stopped pushing openly.
Instead, he's watching her trust form.
That's not control.
That's attachment trying to disguise itself as strategy.
Unacceptable.
I pick up my phone and scroll through messages I haven't sent yet. Names. Threads. Quiet conversations that only look harmless if you don't understand leverage.
This isn't about jealousy.
It's about outcome.
The original intent was simple: pressure, reaction, collapse. Aylia was supposed to fold or fracture. Instead, she's… adapting. Growing steadier under his gaze instead of breaking beneath it.
And Xavier?
He's responding.
That's where things go wrong.
I don't hate Aylia. Hate requires investment. She's a variable. One that's begun to distort the field.
And distortions must be corrected.
I stand and move to the window overlooking the courtyard just as Xavier turns slightly—like he senses me. His eyes flick upward for half a second before returning to her.
I smile.
He knows something's shifting.
Good.
That afternoon, I don't confront him.
I prepare.
I meet with Camille first. Then Jordan. Then a girl from the debate team who owes me a favor I never collected. Each conversation is soft. Casual. Concerned.
"Have you noticed how intense it's gotten?"
"I just hope everyone's okay."
"I don't want rumors—but people are asking."
I never mention Xavier by name.
I don't have to.
By the time the bell rings, the ecosystem is primed.
Then I go where decisions become permanent.
The administration office.
I don't sit. I stand, posture calm, voice measured.
"I'm not reporting anything," I say gently. "I'm just… worried."
The counselor nods. They always do.
I talk about stress. About grief. About students carrying too much alone. I let Aylia's name slip once, like an accident.
"Her father passed, didn't he?"
The counselor's expression shifts.
Sympathy is a lever if you know where to press.
I leave with nothing on paper.
But paper isn't how things move.
That evening, I finally see Xavier.
He finds me in the parking lot, jaw tight, eyes sharp.
"You've been busy," he says.
"So have you," I reply mildly. "She's softer lately."
His expression darkens. "Don't."
"That wasn't an insult," I add. "It was an observation."
"You escalated without me."
"I stabilized without you," I correct. "You were drifting."
"I was adapting."
I step closer. "You were hesitating."
Silence.
Then, quieter: "She's opening up to you."
He doesn't deny it.
That's all I need.
I unlock my phone and show him the screen.
Not details. Not cruelty.
Just structure.
Terms.
"You don't get to do this," he says.
"I already did."
"This wasn't the plan."
"This is the plan," I say evenly. "You don't get emotionally involved and still pretend this is a game of patience."
His jaw flexes. "You're forcing an outcome."
"I'm securing it."
"For whose benefit?"
I meet his eyes. "Yours."
He looks away.
And that—that moment right there—is when I know it's over.
He doesn't shut it down.
He doesn't stop me.
He lets the endgame activate.
I smile, slow and precise.
"Careful," I murmur. "If she trusts you now, the fall will be so much cleaner."
I turn and walk away before he can decide whether to follow.
Behind me, the board locks into place.
The endgame has begun.
Chapter Two: Aylia POV — The First Real Confession
I don't mean to tell him.
That's the terrifying part.
It just… happens.
It starts with silence.
We're sitting on the steps behind the science building, the ones no one uses unless they already know they're there. The late afternoon sun turns everything amber, like the world is holding its breath.
Xavier hasn't spoken in almost five minutes.
He doesn't check his phone. Doesn't scan the courtyard. He just sits beside me, elbows on his knees, listening like there's nowhere else he needs to be.
That's new too.
I fill the quiet because that's what I always do.
"My birthday's coming up," I say lightly.
He turns his head. "Is it."
"Yeah. Next month."
"Do you care?"
I think about it. About cake I won't have. About candles I won't blow out. About the way birthdays used to feel like proof that time was doing something right.
"I used to," I admit.
"What changed?"
I swallow. "My dad."
He doesn't react immediately. No sharp inhale. No pity. Just attention.
So I keep going.
"He used to wake me up early," I say, smiling despite myself. "Before school. He'd pretend he forgot until the last second, then he'd bring out this ridiculous grocery-store cake like it was a grand reveal."
Xavier watches me like the image matters.
"He'd always say the same thing," I continue. "'Another year you survived. That's worth celebrating.'"
"That's a strange thing to say to a kid."
"He wasn't normal," I say softly. "But he tried."
The memory tightens in my chest.
"Last birthday before he died," I say, voice quieter now, "he worked a double shift. Still came home with balloons. He was exhausted. But he stayed up with me anyway. Told me I could do anything if I just didn't quit on myself."
Xavier's voice is low. "Did you believe him?"
"I did then."
"And now?"
I shrug. "Now I just try not to disappoint the version of me he believed in."
Something changes in Xavier's expression.
Not softness.
Recognition.
"I don't tell people this," I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "About him. About… any of it."
"Why me?" he asks.
The question is gentle.
Dangerously so.
"I don't know," I whisper. "You don't look at me like I'm fragile."
"That's because you're not."
The certainty in his voice almost breaks me.
I laugh quietly. "Everyone else thinks I am."
"They're wrong."
I turn to him then, really look at him. The way his focus doesn't waver. The way his attention feels like a shield instead of a spotlight.
"I feel safer when you're around," I say.
The words land between us like glass.
Xavier doesn't move.
He doesn't smile.
But his voice drops. "You shouldn't."
"I know," I say. "That's why it scares me."
Silence stretches. The sun dips lower.
"I don't trust easily," I add. "But you don't lie to me. Not about important things."
He studies me, unreadable.
"I'm not good," he says finally.
"I know."
"And you still—"
"I still feel like you see me," I interrupt. "Not what happened to me. Me."
That's the confession.
Not love.
Not need.
Trust.
Xavier exhales slowly, like he's steadying something inside himself.
"You should be careful who you give that to," he says.
"I am," I reply. "That's why this matters."
He stands, offering a hand.
I hesitate only a second before taking it.
His grip is firm. Warm.
For the first time in weeks, the world doesn't feel like it's tilting.
I don't see the trap.
I only feel the quiet relief of being held upright by someone who doesn't let go.
And somewhere else—somewhere I can't see—the terms are already set.
But right now?
Right now, all I know is that something has shifted.
And for the first time since my father died…
I let myself believe it might be good.