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Chapter 1 Liam posted to his Instagram story while we were mid-freeze-out: "100 likes and we're done." Within an hour, ninety-nine likes filled the screen, and I knew he was waiting—nine times now he'd dangled the same sword, expecting me to crawl back with apologies and promises, the ninth just like the eight before. I stared until my eyes burned, then double-tapped: one hundred. I didn't text, didn't call, just blocked his number and went back to packing my life into cardboard boxes. Ten days later, Liam's best friend Mason slid into my DMs: "Liam's waiting for you to fold. Tomorrow's his birthday—show up with a gift and this all blows over." I typed back two words: "I'm booked." It was true—my flight to Stanford took off at 7 AM. Liam got his wish. But my hundredth like wasn't surrender; it was a declaration of war. Let him wait for a call that would never come. The game had changed, and for the first time in ten years, I was finally holding the cards. The reason our relationship had iced over? Liam had permitted Melissa Miller—the charity project his family bankrolled—to sabotage my Early Decision application. When I discovered betrayal, I detonated. He, however, couldn't fathom the offense. In fact, he'd dismissed my fury as hysterics. "It's just a prank, Scarlett. Not like she can't reverse it. Melissa was having a bad day; I was merely trying to cheer her up." "Now that she's not angry anymore, you can simply switch it back. Problem solved." My voice trembled—with rage at his casual cruelty, his complete indifference. "So her foul mood grants her license to sabotage my future? Do you realize this constitutes deliberate sabotage? I could take her to court!" "I told her to do it, so direct your outrage at me! Go ahead—file your goddamn lawsuit!" "It's not some catastrophic disaster. You caught it, you'll fix it. Stop manufacturing drama, Scarlett. Keep pushing this, and I'll have to seriously reconsider our relationship." Liam knew I couldn't leave. He always wielded our relationship as a weapon during arguments. The truth was, we'd been unshakeable before Melissa insinuated herself into our lives. Ever since her arrival, she'd become the perpetual wedge driving us apart. This marked our ninth explosive confrontation over her, and in the previous eight, he'd deployed the breakup threat. Each time, I'd collapsed completely, crawling back with my tail between my legs. This instance would be no different—or so Liam believed. After delivering his ultimatum, he settled back, awaiting my inevitable apology, the contrition he considered his due. But I didn't break. Not this time. Because in that moment, as he berated me without glancing up from his phone—typing some flirtatious reply to Melissa, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips—I simply... went numb. I felt nothing, no impulse to grovel, just a cold, dead weight settling in my chest. Liam waited. When I didn't crack, didn't beg, didn't perform my scripted role— He scoffed, shoved his phone in his pocket, and stalked out. I sat alone, frozen, staring at my laptop until my vision blurred—how long, I couldn't say. Then my phone lit up with voice messages. I hit play. Melissa's saccharine voice curled through the speaker: "Is Scarlett upset about my little joke? Should I call her over so I can apologize in person?" Liam, irritated: "Forget it. Let her sulk. I'm not her father; I don't have to coddle her." "Oh, Liam, don't be like that. Girls need to be sweet-talked. You'll only drive her further away." "I don't have time for that nonsense. She can handle it. Thinks she's so exceptionally precious. If my grandfather hadn't forced the arrangement, I would've never agreed to babysit Scarlett. She's clingy, she's a crybaby—I've been exhausted by it for years." "True," Melissa cooed. "Scarlett's like a walking fountain of tears. Never encountered someone so high-maintenance." "Right? All theatrics, no spine. Wave the breakup threat and she comes running with apologies and waterworks. I'm sick of it. Maybe if she actually develops some backbone and ignores me for once, I can finally be free." Mason Black—Liam's obnoxious sidekick—chimed in with a laugh: "Free from Scarlett? Not a chance. The girl's like industrial-strength adhesive. I'll wager anything she'll be weeping on your doorstep by tomorrow, begging forgiveness." "You're on. Loser buys dinner." That night, Liam didn't come home. And for the first time, I didn't bombard his phone demanding explanations. After my parents died, Grandpa Mercer took me in. I grew up under his roof, alongside Liam. He'd defended me when schoolmates turned cruel. We'd been inseparable since I was eight—ten years of shared history, shared secrets, shared dreams. Liam had memorized my cycles, brought me heating pads and hot chocolate when cramps seized me, purchased tampons without a flinch. We were that couple—joined at the hip, two halves of a whole. Everyone referred to me as the Mercer family's promised girl. Liam never corrected them. Ten years. He'd become my oxygen. I couldn't breathe without him. I'd envisioned it all—college together, graduation, the wedding, the entire life. I believed we were unbreakable. Then Melissa happened. She appeared sophomore year, begging on her knees for her mother's million-dollar surgery. The Mercers possessed wealth to spare, so Grandpa Mercer, softhearted as ever, wrote the check. Then he went further—enrolled her in our elite academy, installed them in a luxury townhouse rent-free. We felt for her. We visited the hospital together. We tutored her after school. It was fine. Until it wasn't. Until I overheard her conversation with her mother—standing outside that hospital room with a thermos of homemade chicken soup. "Any progress with Liam?" her mother asked. "Definitely. He's interested, but Scarlett's attached to him like a leech. Can't shake her loose yet." "Work harder. The Mercers are DC royalty. Bag that boy and we're set for life—mansions, cars, never scraping by again." "Don't worry, Mom. I'll land him." My breath caught. I stumbled back—loud enough. They saw me. Chapter 2 The fear on both their faces should've been satisfying. It wasn't. I felt sick to my stomach, torn between rage and disbelief. Should I tell Liam? Expose Melissa and her mother to the grifters they were? But before I could even decide, Melissa made her move. She showed up at the park, eyes red, voice trembling. Claimed it was all her mom's idea—that dying woman's last wish to secure her daughter's future. Said she'd only played along to give her mother peace. Then she dropped to her knees, begging me not to tell Liam. Stupidly, I believed her. Reached down to help her up. She grabbed my wrist and yanked. Hard. We both went crashing into the lake. I fought my way to the surface, swimming for my life, then scrambled onto the bank screaming for help. Melissa couldn't swim. By the time they fished her out, her lungs were full of water. She spent days in the ICU. When she finally woke up, she pointed the finger straight at me. Said I pushed her. Tried to murder her out of jealousy because Liam cared about her. I told Liam the truth—Melissa pulled me in. I thought he'd have my back. God, I was so fucking wrong. Liam just looked at me, disappointment etched into every line of his face. "Scarlett, just tell me what really happened. No lies." "I'm not lying! She dragged me in on purpose!" "Scarlett, Melissa can't swim. You can." That was his logic. His entire basis for trust. Because she was the drowning victim and I was the swimmer, she couldn't possibly be framing me. "She knew I'd get help, Liam. Her and her mom have been planning this—plotting to sink their hooks into you—" Desperate, I spilled everything I'd overheard. Liam sighed like I was a child throwing a tantrum. "Scarlett, I get that you're into me, but you can't just ruin another girl's reputation because you're jealous. I don't like this side of you." He didn't believe a single word. And then he hit me with the knockout punch: Melissa had already come to him days ago, crying about how much I hated her. How I'd been making her life hell. Her mother, saint that she was, had already asked Grandpa Mercer if they could move out of the townhouse. Said she didn't want to cause trouble between Liam and me. They'd already found some shithole apartment nearby. When Grandpa pressed Molly Miller about why, she hemmed and hawed, implying—without quite saying—that I was bullying Melissa behind everyone's back. Their "voluntary" move became proof of their innocence. My accusation became proof of my jealousy. Liam didn't just take Melissa's side. He moved them back into the townhouse. Called it "compensation for the trauma I'd caused." I was trapped, twisted into the villain while Melissa played the victim. And the worst part? She was just getting started. They cornered Melissa in the bathroom? Somehow that was my fault. She got food poisoning before a big exam? Must've been the laxatives I supposedly spiked her milk with. I couldn't keep up. I was playing checkers while she played chess, and every move I made buried me deeper. Then she stole the last photo I had of my parents—my only copy—and ripped it to shreds right in front of me. I slapped her. Hard. Liam walked in right then. That was it. The final nail. To him, it proved I'd been the bully all along. He started pulling the breakup card every other week. And every single time, I came crawling back. Pathetic. Desperate. Willing to do anything to prove Melissa was a lying, manipulative bitch. She found out about my plans. Knew how much they meant to me. So she stole my admission ticket. Snuck into my room while Liam was over and destroyed it. I managed to get a replacement in time, but the message was clear: she could burn my entire future to the ground, and Liam would hand her the matches. I didn't know if Liam actually had feelings for her or just pitied her. Didn't matter. Every time he chose her side, another piece of me died. Ten years of memories—of Liam bringing me a heating pad and hot chocolate when cramps hit, defending me from school bullies, being my whole world—kept me holding on. The thought of tearing him out of my life felt like tearing out my own heart. So I groveled. I apologized. I swallowed every ounce of pride until there was nothing left. But this time, listening to Melissa's voice message—hearing the boredom in Liam's voice, the utter indifference— I finally saw the truth. It wasn't that Melissa was some genius manipulator. It was that Liam was done with me. He'd been done for a while. Using her as an excuse to push me away. Well, fine. If that's what he wanted, I'd give it to him. I wasn't crawling back this time. And I sure as hell wasn't fixing the application he let her fuck with. Chapter 3 I didn't change my application back to Liam's school. Instead, I called the Stanford recruiter who'd been hounding me since junior year and told her I was ready to accept. The relief in her voice was immediate. "That's the smartest decision you'll make. We'll fast-track your scholarship—full ride, no more tuition worries." Only after I'd locked down my future did I finally let myself sleep, deep and dreamless for the first time in months. I woke up without checking my phone, without that familiar dread coiling in my stomach, without wondering which corner of the city Liam had crashed in. The freedom was almost disorienting—until I saw Melissa's story. "Taking care of my drunk prince all night! Exhausted but worth it 💕" The photo showed Liam shirtless and sprawled across Melissa's bed in the townhouse my grandfather paid for, his arm draped over his eyes like he belonged there. The punch to my chest was still there, but duller now—more ache than agony, more exhaustion than heartbreak. I got up, got dressed, left the house without leaving a note. When I came back loaded down with shopping bags for my new dorm, that saccharine laugh hit me like nails on a chalkboard. They were on the couch, heads bent over a tablet like some Hallmark postcard, and Liam barely glanced up before looking away. Melissa bounded over with that fake-sweet smile. "Scarlett! Let me help with those—" I sidestepped her outstretched hands, and she crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Liam was there in two strides, hauling her up and glaring at me with pure contempt. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why'd you push her?" "I didn't touch her." "Bullshit. She didn't just fall." "Mad I took her out last night? Mad I crashed at her place? Take it up with me, not her." "I didn't. Check the security footage if you don't believe me." At the word "footage," Melissa—who'd been playing wounded bird—finally piped up with her practiced tremor. "It's not her fault. I slipped. My ankle just gave out—" Liam's jaw tightened, but he didn't apologize. Instead, his voice softened with concern as he examined her scraped palm. "Let me get you a bandage." I caught the smug, glittering flash in Melissa's eyes before I turned for the stairs, and I knew exactly what she was thinking: she'd expected hysterics, tears, a scene that would prove I was the crazy one. That was the old Scarlett. The one who hadn't heard Melissa's voice messages, who hadn't seen Liam naked in her bed, who still believed ten years meant something. That girl was dead. I stayed in my room, silent and done, until the housekeeper called me down for dinner and I found Melissa still there, helping serve like she owned the place. She carried a steaming bowl of soup toward me, and I instinctively shifted away, but she anticipated it, stepping into my path with perfect timing. Her scream was Oscar-worthy as most of the scalding liquid splashed down her front. "Scarlett," she sobbed, "I was just trying to be nice—" She'd learned from her earlier failure. This time, she'd manufactured actual physical contact, and Liam shoved past me without a glance, already pulling Melissa toward the sink. He didn't see the soup soaking through my sleeve, didn't see the way he'd thrown me into the wall hard enough to tear skin from my knees and back. The burns and scrapes throbbed, but they were nothing next to the ice spreading through my chest. Finally, Liam emerged with Melissa, her arm slathered in ointment, and he zeroed in on me like I was something he'd scrape off his shoe. "Apologize." I met his eyes, searching for even a flicker of the boy who'd once brought me heating pads and defended me from bullies, but all I saw was disgust. "Melissa's being generous. You apologize, this goes away." "What if I don't?" "Scarlett," his voice dropped to a warning that used to make me tremble, "don't test me." "You want to stay together? Say sorry." He'd promised me forever once. Now he wielded our relationship like a blackjack, and he was so certain I'd fold, so sure I'd crawl back like I always had. He was wrong. I held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it became a wall between us, and finally I gave him the only answer I had left. "No." His face hardened into something cruel. "Fine. Have it your way." He stormed out with Melissa clinging to him like a trophy, and I left too, my burns screaming loud enough to drown out everything else. The clinic doctor cleaned the wounds, prescribed cream, gave me the lecture I'd heard a hundred times. I nodded through it all. On the ride home, my phone rang with a friend on the line. "Scarlett, you and Liam fighting again? He just took Melissa and the crew to the resort. Fireworks and everything — some big apology gesture." "Oh," she added, "and you should see his latest post. '100 likes and we're done.' He's at ninety-nine." I hung up and pulled up his profile. Ninety-nine likes. One away. My thumb itched, but not to beg—to finish it. To be the one who ended this. I had a plane to catch, a new life waiting, boxes of his guilt gifts sealed and ready to return. Let him wait for call number one hundred. Let him have his birthday with his new girl. He'd be waiting forever.

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