Novel-46 Facebook ad: “Don't Mess with the Sister: The Most Satisfying Reality…”

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###Chapter 1 The entire campus thought I was the ultimate simp for Asher Reed, the undisputed king of our high school. If he had a 6 AM track workout, I was there with an iced oat latte and a breakfast sandwich. If he had a varsity basketball game, I was waiting on the bleachers with a fresh towel and electrolyte water. If he texted "hungry" at 11:45 PM, I would literally throw on a hoodie and brave a blizzard to walk three blocks to his favorite late-night taco truck. The looks I got in the hallways ranged from sheer disgust to tragic pity. "She's out here acting like a tradwife and he hasn't even claimed her. The stamina is insane." My "simping" was just background noise until Grace Jennings, the reigning queen bee of the senior class, decided she was in love with Asher. That's when my existence became an actual problem. While Asher was out of state for a debate tournament, Grace and her clique cornered me by the lockers. I had just bought a venti iced caramel latte for myself. Grace “accidentally” kicked it right out of my hand. Sweet, sticky coffee splashed all over my favorite white sneakers. Grace slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with fake shock. "Oops. My bad." "I thought it was just more garbage you were delivering to Asher." She whipped out her iPhone and air-dropped a screenshot to the classroom's smartboard. It was Asher's contact card for me. The name? [Annoying Pest] The entire classroom erupted into ruthless, echoing laughter. Grace leaned in, looking victorious. "See? He literally thinks you're a pest." "Don't you feel pathetic? Stalking him, buying him food like a desperate little groupie?" Her lapdog, Chris, snickered from the back row. Grace slapped a piece of notebook paper down on my desk. It was a handwritten contract. [I, Delilah Park, voluntarily renounce any claim to Asher Reed. Effective immediately, I will cease all deliveries of food and beverages, and I will stop following, texting, or harassing him.] "You don't have to sign it," she said, waving her phone with a lethal, sugary smile. "I'll just post this photo of you stealing Asher's underwear to the school's gossip page. Let everyone see what a creep you are." I stared at the photo on her screen. It was me, holding a pair of gray Calvin Klein boxers, standing on the balcony of my own apartment. I stared at it for a long time. Wait. Since when was doing my own brother's laundry considered a felony? *** Asher took my dad's last name. I took my mom's. For now, absolutely no one at school knew we were related. It wasn't because we were hiding some dark, twisted family secret. It was because on the very first day of freshman year, Asher cornered me by the bike racks and laid down the law. "Do not call me ‘brother' at school. Ever." "Why not?" "Because having a weird freshman sister will ruin my aesthetic." I looked him up and down. "You have an aesthetic?" We got into a screaming match. From that day on, we treated each other like complete strangers in the hallways. So why the food, the water, and the late-night tacos? That was 100% my mom. She claimed Asher was a stressed-out senior heading into college application season, and as his sister, it was my civic duty to make sure he didn't starve. Twenty bucks a pop. Plus a monthly cash bonus for perfect attendance. For that kind of bag, I endured the humiliation. But now? Grace was literally offering me a paid vacation. Was this a dream? I snatched a gel pen from my backpack and signed my name on the contract with a dramatic flourish. Grace blinked, completely thrown off. She clearly hadn't expected me to fold faster than a cheap lawn chair. She narrowed her eyes. "You're not going to break this, are you?" "Are you kidding?" I handed the paper back to her with both hands, like it was a sacred scroll. "No take-backs. You made the deal." A smug, triumphant smile finally spread across Grace's face. She handed the paper to Chris, told him to pin it to the main bulletin board, and then immediately blasted a picture of it on her Instagram story. The caption: [Some people finally learned their place. Even stalkers need boundaries. ✨] I liked the story. Then I slid into the comments: [Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness. I'm out. ✌️] Ten minutes later, my comment had over three hundred skull emojis. Grace, probably thinking I was coping with extreme heartbreak, walked over and patted my shoulder condescendingly. "It's okay if you need to cry, Delilah. No one's judging you." I looked up at her, dead serious. "I'm not sad." My mom had already Venmoed me six hundred dollars for Asher's meal prep this month. It was only the fifth. Since a third party had legally mandated a work stoppage, I didn't have to refund the remaining balance... right? I was deep in thought about family labor laws when Ms. Davison, our AP Gov teacher, walked in. She saw the puddle of matcha on the floor and scowled. Grace's eyes instantly filled with tears. "Ms. Davison! Delilah got jealous because I like Asher, so she threw her drink on herself to try and frame me!" My head snapped up. Wow. The speed of that Uno Reverse card was almost as impressive as my brother's ability to steal the last slice of pizza. But Ms. Davison didn't even question it. She glared right at me. "Delilah, your obsession with Asher has gone on long enough. This behavior stops today." "Tomorrow night is the Founder's Day Gala. Grace and Asher are co-hosting. You are banned from backstage, and you are not to go near them during rehearsal." Grace bit her lip, looking fragile. "Ms. Davison, I'm just scared she'll try to steal more of Asher's clothes." Ms. Davison's jaw tightened. She confiscated my backstage lanyard, told me to grab some paper towels, and ordered me to stop playing the victim. I looked down at the sticky green mess on my sneakers. Apparently, "Oops, my bad" came with a magical reset button that bypassed all logic. I pulled out my phone and texted my mom. [Mom, I was legally forced to sign a contract to stop feeding Asher.] [If I break it, I will bring shame upon my bloodline.] [This is a critical situation. I suggest we let him forage for his own survival starting tomorrow.] Just as the three gray typing dots appeared on screen, the bell rang. Ms. Davison marched over, snatched my phone, and dropped it into her desk drawer. "Confiscated until Monday morning. You can pick it up after announcements." Right before the screen went black, I caught the first word of my mom's text. [Approved...] I sat back in my chair. Perfect. Official maternal authorization secured. Asher had zero clue. When his bus rolled in from the debate tournament tomorrow night, not only would there be no Chipotle waiting for him, but he'd also be hit with a "breakup contract" signed by his own sister. I really hoped he had the emotional bandwidth for this. Being dumped by your sister is rough. ###Chapter 2 During lunch, Ms. Davison got pulled into an emergency faculty meeting about the Gala. The second the door clicked shut, Grace slid into the desk next to mine. "Delilah. Before Asher left for his tournament, did he give you anything?" I didn't look up from my AP Calc worksheet. "No." Technically, he didn't "give" me anything. He dumped his garbage on me. Yesterday afternoon, right before boarding the charter bus, Asher had shoved two heavy AP textbooks, his sweaty practice jersey, and his debit card into my hands. His excuse? "My pockets are full." I still didn't understand the physics. How did things weigh a ton in his hands, but lose all gravitational pull the second they entered my backpack? Grace clearly thought I was lying. The moment I stood up to turn in my worksheet, she reached over and unzipped my North Face backpack. Notebooks, highlighters, and a half-eaten bag of Takis spilled onto the linoleum. A balled-up, black Nike basketball jersey rolled out. Grace's eyes practically glowed. "What is this?" I knelt down to pick up my Takis. "You have eyes. Use them." "Why do you have Asher's jersey?" "He told me to wash it." The entire classroom went dead silent. Grace's face shifted through three different shades of red. In her delusional reality, washing Asher's jersey wasn't a basic household chore. It was the final initiation ritual to become his wife. She quickly grabbed a Ziploc bag from her lunchbox and sealed the jersey inside. "You already signed the contract. You're done harassing him. I'll return this to him myself." I stared at her, filled with profound respect. That jersey had survived a two-hour scrimmage where Asher had literally face-planted into a puddle of sweat and dirt. When I unzipped my bag yesterday, every mosquito in a ten-mile radius had packed its bags and evacuated. If Grace wanted to handle biological warfare, she had my blessing. Then, she dug into the front pocket of my bag and pulled out a matte black Chase debit card. "You stole his credit card, too?!" "That's his allowance card." "You're already tracking his finances?" she scoffed, holding it up like a trophy. "Delilah, are you literally hallucinating a marriage with him?" I paused, calculating how to explain this. "Is it possible that when I say ‘allowance,' I just mean… normal family economics?" The class burst out laughing again. Chris snatched the card from Grace and puffed out his chest. "This is stolen property. The student council is confiscating it for safekeeping." I held out my hand. "My allowance is on that card too. Give it back." "Liar," Grace snapped. "Why would Asher ever give a creep like you his debit card?" I gave her the honest truth. "Because he's too lazy to carry a wallet." Whenever Asher wanted to buy something, he'd just tell me to swipe the card. He did the spending; I did the swiping. My mom called it "sibling synergy." I called it "financial parasitism." Grace wasn't buying a word of it. Then, she dug deeper and pulled out a set of keys on a carabiner. "Let me guess. Are these for Asher's house?" "They're for my house." She ignored me, marching straight to the open window. "Since you obviously have a pathological need to break into the Reed house, I'm doing you a favor." My stomach dropped. "Grace, do not do anything stupid." She flicked her wrist. The keys sailed through the air in a flawless arc and landed with a sickening plunk into the decorative koi pond in the courtyard. They sank into the murky green water. Gone. I sprinted to the window and stared at the ripples. "Grace, are you insane?!" She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Oops. My hand slipped." "Your hand slipped thirty feet out a second-story window?" "It's super windy today." I looked at the oak trees outside. Not a single leaf was moving. The only wind was whistling through the empty space between her ears. I marched straight to Ms. Davison's office. She didn't even look up from her grading. She told me the debit card and jersey would be personally returned to Asher when he got back. As for the keys? I should just call a locksmith. "Grace was acting in the best interest of a fellow student to protect his property," Ms. Davison said flatly. "You shouldn't always assume the worst in your peers, Delilah." I almost laughed out loud. Throwing my house keys into a swamp was "protecting property," but me asking for my own debit card back was "assuming the worst." Apparently, the school code of conduct auto-updated based on how much a student's parents donated to the booster club. By the time I walked out of her office, there was a new post blowing up on the school's gossip page. [BREAKING: Campus stalker refuses to return varsity star's jersey, debit card, and house keys. Suspected of long-term illegal entry into the Reed estate.] The photo attached was Grace, clutching the Ziploc bag with Asher's jersey against her chest like it was a sacred artifact. She walked up to me in the hall and leaned in close. "At the Gala tomorrow, I'm handing all of this back to Asher on stage. And I'm going to make sure he knows exactly how psychotic you are." I glanced down at the Ziploc bag. "You might want to double-seal that." "Why?" "It's fermenting." Her smug smile froze. A second later, the seal on the bag popped slightly, and the toxic, three-day-old stench of fermented teenage sweat hit her right in the face. Grace turned an alarming shade of green. She sprinted to the nearest trash can and violently threw up her lunch. I stood next to her, helpfully patting her back. "No need to thank me. You fought hard for that prize." ###Chapter 3 Founder's Day Gala. The second I stepped onto campus, it felt like walking onto the set of a true-crime documentary. The stares were wild. Some people looked at me with deep pity. Others looked disgusted. One girl actually clutched her Prada backpack to her chest when I walked by, as if I wasn't just a panty-raider, but a notorious kleptomaniac. It didn't take long to figure out why. Grace had dropped the underwear photo. But she didn't stop there. She created an entire nine-grid photo collage. There was a picture of me leaving my own front door in the morning. A picture of me wearing a vintage varsity jacket Asher outgrew two years ago. A picture of me walking into his bedroom at 11 PM. The caption was a masterpiece in character assassination: [From morning food deliveries to midnight breaking and entering. How far will a stalker go? #ProtectAsher] The comment section was a goldmine of unhinged conspiracy theories. One guy suggested Asher needed to sweep his room for hidden AirTags. Another girl claimed I was probably collecting his dead skin cells to brew a love potion. Someone actually theorized I was trying to steal his DNA to clone him. I was honestly impressed. If these kids put this much imagination into their AP Lit essays, our school would have a 100% Ivy League acceptance rate. The photos were all 100% real. But the context was criminally altered. The first photo? Me leaving my own house to go to school. The second? Me wearing his old jacket because the heater in my room was broken. The third? Me walking into his room because my mom threatened to ground me if I didn't wake him up after he slept through his seventh alarm. And the underwear photo? I took that on our shared apartment balcony. Asher had washed a red sock with all his white dress shirts and accidentally created a capsule collection of Pepto-Bismol pink tragicomedy. I had posted it to my private finsta with the caption: [The Reed bloodline ends here. Man has zero life skills. Plz recommend a factory reset. 💀] Grace had cropped out the caption. Cropped out the pink shirts. All that was left was me, holding a pair of men's boxers, looking like a total freak. Honestly? Her talent was wasted in high school. She could be running a massive disinformation campaign for a foreign government. I marched straight into Ms. Davison's office and demanded she force Grace to delete the post. Ms. Davison was aggressively highlighting a script for the Gala. She didn't even blink. "We will discuss this after the event, Delilah." "The post has a thousand likes. The entire school thinks I'm a criminal." "Grace is co-hosting the Gala tonight, and she is accepting the valedictorian scholarship. If you start drama now, you will ruin her focus." I stared at her. So Grace's "focus" was sacred, but my entire reputation was collateral damage? I reached over her desk to grab my confiscated phone from the drawer. Ms. Davison slammed it shut, almost catching my fingers. "I said Monday. If you had just maintained appropriate boundaries with the male students, you wouldn't be in this situation." I was speechless. Apparently, my fatal flaw was failing to maintain a six-foot social distance from my own brother while in the womb. I stormed out of the office. Grace was waiting for me by the water fountain. She was holding a stack of glossy flyers. My face was plastered on them in black and white, under blood-red font. [STOP CAMPUS STALKING. END THE HARASSMENT.] "A lot of wealthy alumni and parents are coming tonight," she said, shoving the stack into my chest. "You should pass these out at the front doors. Consider it your public apology to Asher." I let the flyers drop to the floor. "Absolutely not." She didn't even get mad. Her smile just got sharper. "Then you're banned from the Gala." She snapped her fingers. Chris and two other guys from the student council grabbed my arms and dragged me down the hall toward the backstage area. Grace pushed open the door to a dark, windowless storage closet filled with dusty stage curtains and the terrifying, moth-eaten school mascot costume. "You can chill in here until the Gala is over," Grace said smoothly. "That way, you won't be tempted to run on stage and embarrass yourself again." They shoved me hard. I stumbled backward over a box of cables. The heavy metal door slammed shut, pitching the room into total darkness. Click. The deadbolt locked. I slammed my fists against the metal. "Grace! This is literally a felony! You can't lock me in here!" Chris laughed through the heavy steel door. "Stop being dramatic, psycho. We'll let you out when the afterparty starts." I was about to scream again when a violent itch started in the back of my throat. I looked around. The room was coated in a thick, gray layer of dust. I have severe, anaphylactic-level dust allergies. Within sixty seconds, my eyes were swelling shut. My chest tightened like a vice. I hammered on the door, panic setting in. "Hey! Open the door! I'm having an allergic reaction! I can't breathe!" Dead silence. Then, Grace's voice drifted through the metal, airy and bored. "Stop faking it, Delilah. Asher's bus isn't even here yet. Save the performance for him." The click of her Louboutins faded down the hall. The bass from the auditorium speakers kicked in, rattling the floorboards. The MC's voice boomed over the mic, announcing that the debate team's charter bus was pulling onto campus. I slid down the cold metal door and curled into a ball on the floor, gasping for air. Fine. If they didn't open this door in the next ten minutes, Asher's first activity back on campus wouldn't be hosting a Gala. It would be identifying my body. ###Chapter 4 I dragged myself through the dark closet until I found a heavy metal mic stand. I didn't manage to smash the lock, but I did leave a massive dent in the steel doorframe. As I collapsed onto the floor, wheezing and fighting for air, I mentally calculated the property damage. If the school tried to bill me, I was forwarding the invoice to Grace. If she refused to pay, I'd bill her parents. Someone was paying for this. Suddenly, footsteps echoed in the hallway. I dragged myself up and hammered on the door again. "Help! Open the door! I literally can't breathe!" It was Chris. "Record a video promising you'll get on stage and publicly apologize to Grace, and I'll unlock it." "Fine," I gasped, barely able to speak. "Just open the damn door." He wasn't totally brain-dead. An iPhone slid under the gap beneath the door. The screen was lit up with a pre-written Notes app apology. I picked it up, hit record on the camera, and stared into the lens with my swollen, bloodshot eyes. "Hey guys, it's Delilah Park. I am currently being held hostage in the backstage prop closet by Grace Jennings and Chris Miller. If I die of anaphylactic shock tonight, I want the NYPD to focus all their attention on the brain-dead frat boy standing outside this door." The phone was violently yanked back under the gap. Chris kicked the heavy door in a rage. "Fine! Choke in there, psycho!" I curled up on the floor, covering my mouth with my shirt, praying my lungs wouldn't completely close. About twenty minutes later, a custodian pushing a trash bin heard me wheezing. She frantically dug through her master keys and ripped the door open. When she saw my face—swollen, red, and covered in hives—she gasped. "Oh my god, honey! We need to get you to the nurse right now!" The school nurse jammed an EpiPen into my thigh and told me to sit in a sterile room for thirty minutes. I really wanted to listen, but the opening overture for the Gala was already blasting through the walls. My debit card and that toxic biohazard jersey were still in Grace's hands. My house keys were rusting at the bottom of a koi pond. And tonight, Grace was about to tell five hundred people that the door I was "breaking into" belonged to her fantasy boyfriend, when it literally belonged to my parents. By the time I pushed through the double doors of the auditorium, Grace was standing dead center on the main stage. She was wearing a white silk slip dress, holding a bouquet of red roses, bathed in a soft pink spotlight. If you didn't know better, you'd think it was the season finale of The Bachelorette. The fifty-foot LED screen behind her was cycling through a slideshow of her and Asher. If you looked closely, eight of the ten photos were cropped from debate team group shots. In one of them, you could literally see Ms. Davison's shoulder awkwardly floating in the background. The student MC grabbed the mic, practically vibrating with excitement. "And now, our valedictorian, Grace Jennings, has a very special announcement for a certain someone she's loved since freshman year!" The crowd went absolutely feral. Applause thundered through the room. Chris spotted me in the aisle. He signaled two other guys, and they shoved me through the crowd and literally pushed me up the stage stairs. "Since you broke out, you can finish your apology right now." A micro-expression of pure rage flashed across Grace's face when she saw me, but she instantly flipped the switch, looking back at the audience with glossy, tear-filled eyes. "Delilah," she spoke softly into the mic, her voice echoing perfectly. "I know you have a severe obsession with Asher. But true love isn't about stalking. Tonight, in front of everyone, you need to accept reality." The LED screen behind her switched. Me handing him a coffee. Me holding his jersey. Me walking into his front door. Me holding his underwear. And finally... a deeply cropped photo of me and Asher. The original was a family photo from Thanksgiving. Grace had surgically cropped out my parents and the turkey. All that was left was me, standing next to Asher. The crowd started booing me. Parents were whispering. Grace shoved the microphone into my chest. "Admit that you've been harassing him. Promise you will never stalk his house again, and I won't call the police about the debit card and keys you stole." I gripped the mic. My voice was raspy from the allergic reaction, but it was loud. "The debit card is mine. The keys are mine." Grace let out a tragic, theatrical sigh. "You're still lying. Fine. We'll just wait for Asher to reject you to your face." At that exact moment, a massive roar went up from the back doors of the auditorium. The debate team had just walked in. Asher was leading the pack. He was still wearing his varsity letterman jacket, dragging a Rimowa suitcase behind him. Grace's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. She hiked up her silk dress and sprinted down the stage stairs toward him. "Asher! You're back! You don't have to worry about Delilah stalking you anymore! I confiscated the debit card and the house keys she stole from you. She signed a contract promising she'll never go to your house, never touch your stuff, and never pretend to be close to you again!" Asher stopped dead in his tracks. He looked past Grace's desperate face and stared up at the massive LED screen. He saw the cropped photos. The "stalker" headline. Then he looked at me. He saw my swollen eyes, the hives on my neck, and the dirt on my clothes from being locked in a closet. The casual, arrogant look on his face instantly vanished. His jaw locked. His eyes went pitch black. Grace was still talking a mile a minute, trying to secure the bag. "She actually had the psycho audacity to tell people she's your sister! Can you believe how delusional she is?" Asher stared at her in total silence for three agonizing seconds. "She's not delusional." The flawless, pageant smile on Grace's face shattered. Asher walked past her, climbed the stage stairs, and snatched the microphone right out of my hand. He turned to the crowd, his voice dropping an octave, radiating pure, freezing rage. "Delilah is my sister. Same mom. Same dad." He slowly turned his head to look down at Grace. "You forced my little sister to sign a contract to cut ties with me? Did you get my parents' legal consent for that?"

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