Cruel Intentions: Chapter 11

This morning’s bullshit with Tia burns like acid under my skin. Her humiliating stunt in front of everyone, leaves me raw, exposed. Sam eventually dragged me out of the bathroom, her steady presence the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

I wanted to ditch, flip the entire goddamn day off, and walk out.

But when the first bell rang, Sam nudged me toward class, promising that I’m not alone.

I don’t hide. At least, that’s the lie I’ve been clinging to.

Turns out, I’ve been hiding my whole fucking life—ducking out when my parents’ screaming matches got too loud, disappearing because it was easier than fighting back. And that Instagram account Tia waved around? It shoved me right back into that scared little kid I thought I’d left behind.

But not anymore. Fuck that. I’m not the girl who shrinks while people like Tia get their kicks. Not again.

Sam’s the only reason I didn’t completely lose my shit. She’s been my rock, standing by me when I wanted to shatter. Without her I’m not sure I’d have made it through Tia’s crap with my head still held high. But you better believe this isn’t over. Not by a long fucking shot.

All morning, it’s been the same relentless shit—guys throwing sleazy comments my way, their crude jokes sticking to me like filth I can’t scrub off. Every taunt, every smirk stripping away the parts of me that want to fight back.

During breaks, Sam, Lola, Liz, and I huddle in the library, desperate to escape the constant barrage of sexual comments and offers. But even there, it feels like I can’t breathe, like their disgusting demands follow me everywhere.

All I want to do is scream—to tear into every one of them and tell them to back the fuck off. But Tia lit this match, and now I’m standing in the inferno she started.

The worst part? I don’t even know why she hates me so goddamn much.

But breaking down isn’t an option. So, I do what I’ve always done: grit my teeth, bury the frustration until it burns a hole in my gut, and pretend their cruel, degrading bullshit doesn’t affect me. It’s the only way to survive. For now.

By lunchtime, things hit a new low. Liz hands me her phone, her face pale, her hands shaking. I didn’t want to look, but I had to. There it was—the Instagram page: my supposed “sexual services” profile.

Scrolling through the posts, my stomach churned. The comments—God, the fucking comments—made me want to vomit. Guys bragging about their supposed “great time” with me, leaving vile reviews like I was some fucking product they ordered online. It’s disgusting, humiliating, infuriating.

Then I see it.

The section about anal services. My stomach drops as my eyes catch the comments—those two assholes from class, the ones always tossing a football around, leaving their vile, smirking remarks. Bragging about “tag-teaming” me, about how much I supposedly enjoyed their cocks. My skin crawls, my hands shake, and my vision blurs.

If it weren’t Liz’s phone, I’d hurl it at the wall, just to hear the sickening crack of it breaking apart.

Tia has gone too far. This isn’t a prank or some petty high school bullshit. This is cruelty on a scale I never thought possible. Bile rises in my throat, but I force myself to keep scrolling. I need to see it all—every disgusting detail, every post, every lie.

Twenty vile entries, all crafted over two days. She’s been building this grotesque fantasy piece by piece, curating it since the day Noah kissed her and their public blowup became the hottest gossip in school.

And why? Was it because she saw me with Noah? Because we slipped into the equipment room together? Was that enough to set her off, to drive her to ruin me like this?

I don’t know.

But one thing is crystal fucking clear—Tia isn’t walking away from this unscathed. Not this time.

Each photo I scroll past is another slap in the face. The images are laughably fake—so poorly doctored they’re almost pathetic. Almost. But the damage they’re doing isn’t.

‘You shouldn’t be looking at it,’ Sam says, her voice low but firm. Her pen is poised in her hand like she’s ready to stab anyone who so much as looks at me the wrong way.

I ignore her, my finger trembling over the screen. ‘I think Tia started this shit after Noah and I talked in the equipment room,’ I say, holding the phone out for her to see. My voice wavers, anger and hurt bleeding through every word. ‘Look. Most of these were posted yesterday. The last two… They went up this morning.’

Sam doesn’t bother looking at the phone. Her gaze is fixed on me instead, sharp and unwavering.

‘Getting hung up on it won’t change a damn thing,’ she says, bluntly.

I grit my teeth, swallowing the lump in my throat before returning the phone back to Liz. ‘I know,’ I mutter, my voice heavy and raw. ‘It’s just… I can’t understand why someone who used to be my friend would do this to me. I haven’t done a goddamn thing to deserve it.’

Sam leans back, crossing her arms. ‘It’s because her perfect little world with Noah is falling apart, and she can’t fucking stand it. She’s been obsessed with him forever, but let’s face it, he’s never given a damn about her. That kiss. It only happened because you were there. Period.’

I shake my head, unsure. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I say, doubt lacing my voice.

Liz scoffs, her tone sharp. ‘Oh, believe it. You might not see it, but the rest of us… We do. And just wait—when Tia finds out Noah went into the girls’ bathroom to check on you, she’s gonna lose her shit. Hell, the gossip’s probably already spreading. So, yeah, watch your back.’

‘God, could this get any worse?’ I groan, the frustration twists into a knot in my chest.

Sam’s voice is steady but hard. ‘Yeah. It could. But you’re not going through this alone. Got it?’

I nod, but the ache doesn’t ease. Tia may have lit this fire, but I’ll be damned if I let her burn me to the ground.

Our attention shifts to Lola as she slides into a chair, her books landing on the desk with a casual thud. She settles in like it’s just another day, completely unfazed by the storm raging around me.

‘How are you holding up with everything?’ Lola asks, her voice light, like she’s testing the waters.

‘I’m fine,’ I reply, the lie bitter on my tongue.

‘God, you’re handling it better than I ever did,’ she says, unwrapping a chocolate bar and setting it in front of me. The gesture feels ironic—something sweet offered in the middle of all this fucking bitterness. ‘The cruelest thing Tia ever did to me was pour chocolate milk over my head in front of everyone.’

I glance at the chocolate bar but don’t touch it. It sits there, mocking me with its normalcy.

‘Layla mentioned Noah was in a fight earlier,’ Lola continues, as casually as if she were discussing the weather.

My stomach clenches, but I force my expression to stay neutral. I didn’t want to talk to him when he burst into the restroom earlier—didn’t want to see his face while I felt so humiliated by that damn Instagram page. I knew if I looked into his eyes for even a second, I’d fall apart.

‘Who was it with this time?’ Sam asks, her tone edged with curiosity.

‘Apparently, he punched Luke and Tory,’ Lola says, setting a water bottle beside her books like this is just another piece of gossip to dissect.

‘What for?’ Sam presses.

‘Something about the comments on Aubrey’s Instagram page,’ Lola says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

‘It’s not my page,’ I mutter, the words sharp enough to sting.

‘Well, on that slutty Instagram page then,’ she corrects, unbothered.

My gaze flicks to Sam, silently pleading for her to dig deeper because I can’t bring myself to ask. I can’t let them see how much I need to know what Noah did.

‘So, what exactly did Layla hear?’ Liz cuts in.

“Layla overheard Tia’s crew gossiping by her locker. And let me tell you, Tia is pissed,’ Lola says, flipping open her book with the kind of detached interest that makes it clear she lives for this kind of drama.

Lola’s tone is too casual, too rehearsed, like she’s narrating the latest episode of a trashy reality show. Not knowing her as well as Sam, I can’t shake the feeling that staying in the loop is her lifeline.

‘From what Layla pieced together; it all went down in the gym earlier. Noah straight-up threatened the entire football team—told them to delete their comments or else. Apparently, everyone in the gym saw it. Surprised it didn’t end up as a live stream.’

Her words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on me. I can’t stop the flicker of something—hope… Anger… I don’t know. But it burns all the same.

My fingers tremble as I grab my phone and pull up the fake Instagram page. The cruel, fucked-up comments I saw earlier—most of them are gone now. My eyes zero in on the post that had my stomach in knots—the one with the disgusting ‘anal’ caption. The two worst comments? Deleted.

Noah.

His moods are a goddamn rollercoaster, throwing me into loops I can’t escape. One minute, he’s distant, like I don’t exist, and the next, he’s pulling shit like this. Threatening the entire football team. Clearing out the girls’ bathroom just to talk to me. Who does that?

And yet, beneath the whirlwind of anger and confusion, there’s a part of me—a traitorous, pathetic part—that still aches for him. That still wants to believe he’s the Noah I used to know.

The Noah who looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. The Noah who had the right words to cut through all the bullshit.

But he’s not. Not anymore.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but his words from the equipment room creep back in, venomous and unshakable:

You don’t mean anything to me anymore.

Like I was a game to him. A body. A quick fuck.

The sting of it sits heavy in my chest, sharp and unrelenting. Maybe I should’ve swallowed my pride earlier, should’ve said something when he barged into the girls’ bathroom. But then what?

What would it change? I’m just another mistake to him. Another name he probably wishes he could forget.

And yet, here I am. Still hoping. Still stuck.

I shove thoughts of Noah into a mental box and lock it tight, forcing myself to focus on the conversation around me.

The girls are talking about today’s English assignment, something I know I should be paying attention to—God knows I wasn’t during class. I was too rattled, my mind consumed by that fake Instagram page and the fallout. Now I need to catch up, to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do.

But my concentration wavers. My thoughts keep dragging me back to the chaos I’m trying so hard to ignore.

Get your shit together, Aubrey.

I can’t afford to spiral. Academic excellence is non-negotiable if I want to keep my arts college scholarship. It’s my ticket out of this mess. If I let my grades slip, if I let this bullshit consume me, it could all fall apart. And I can’t let that happen.

The bell signaling the start of the final lesson blares through the halls. Great—another class, another room full of whispers, another round of shitty remarks. I brace myself for it, even though every part of me wants to run and hide.

As we walk down the long, crowded corridor, the onslaught begins.

The loiterers don’t hold back, their shitty comments slicing through the air like daggers—snide remarks dripping with innuendo, laughter biting at my heels.

Each word chips away at me, but I keep my head high, my steps steady.

At my locker, I fumble with the lock, my fingers stiff and uncooperative.

Sam and Liz linger nearby, their presence a small comfort against the hostility that fills the hallway.

Finally, with a sigh of relief, the lock clicks open. I shove my books inside, grab what I need, and slam the door shut. The sound echoes, louder than I intended, and a few heads turn in my direction. I ignore them.

A voice startles me.

‘Been a tough one, huh?’

Jace leans casually against the locker next to mine, his tone light, almost friendly. He’s always had this annoying ability to make his presence feel like it’s no big deal, even when it is.

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ I reply flatly, not even sparing him a glance.

He falls into step beside me as I move down the hallway. His proximity grates on me, and I quicken my pace, leaving him behind without a backward glance.

He’s the last person I want to be seen with in this hallway. I’ve got enough shit to deal with already and Jace’s reputation doesn’t need to be thrown into the mix.

Sam and I enter the classroom, Liz peeling off toward her usual spot at the front. We slide into seats halfway down, the safest zone to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.

My eyes catch on Luke and Tory as they shuffle in. Their bruises are impossible to miss—Luke’s cheek is an angry shade of purple, and Tory’s lip looks freshly split. They catch my eye as they pass, and I brace myself for the usual barrage of crude jokes, the sexual comments, the arrogant smirks that make me feel less than human.

But to my surprise, they keep quiet.

They keep walking, silent, their heads low, their energy subdued. It’s jarring, almost unsettling, like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe.

Sam leans over, her lips twitching into a knowing smirk. ‘Guess Noah really did scare the shit out of them,’ she whispers.

I barely have time to process her words before the atmosphere in the room shifts.

Tia strides in like she owns the place, her mere presence sucking the oxygen out of the room. Conversations stutter to a halt, the tension palpable. Every pair of eyes, mine included, follows her as she makes her grand entrance.

She locks eyes with me, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. I can feel the heat of it, like a spotlight pinning me in place.

I brace myself. This is Tia, after all. She doesn’t just thrive on theatrics and humiliation—she breathes it in, feeds on it.

She drops her bag onto her desk with an exaggerated flip of her long brown hair, a movement so practiced it’s almost theatrical. Then she turns, her smirk curling like smoke, and I know it’s coming before she even opens her mouth.

‘I would’ve thought you’d be too busy with all your blowjobs and anal bookings to bother showing up to this class,’ she sneers, her voice carrying just loud enough to command attention.

A few muffled laughs ripple through the room, cutting into the silence like glass shards.

I feel the weight of every gaze on me, expectant and hungry. They’re waiting for my reaction, for me to crumble under the weight of her words.

But I don’t.

I meet her gaze head-on, my jaw tight, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

‘Oh, Tia, don’t be so bitter. Just because the only bookings you get are from your therapist doesn’t mean you need to take it out on me.’

The silence that follows is deafening. Her smirk falters—just for a second—before she recovers, flipping her hair again like it’s some kind of shield.

I turn back to Sam, dismissing Tia’s existence as if she’s already slipped from my mind. Waiting for her retort, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Noah’s voice slices through the charged air like a whip. ‘Sit your ass down and shut the fuck up, Tia.’

The room collectively inhales as he strides into the room, his tone low, firm, and commanding. Every pair of eyes snaps to him, the tension ratcheting higher.

Tia spins on her heels, her irritation flaring into full blown anger as she glares at him. ‘I don’t have to listen to you, asshole. Go fuck yourself,’ she snaps, her voice biting but trembling at the edges.

The air grows thick, the room transforming into a silent battleground. No one dares to move, their gazes bouncing between the two of them like spectators in a high-stakes match.

Noah doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. He strides past her to his desk, his voice cold, sharp, and deliberate. ‘From what I remember, my hand does a better job than that sorry excuse of a fuck we had. So yeah, I’ll stick with that rather than waste my time on a lifeless corpse.’

A collective gasp ripples through the room, sharp and stunned.

Tia’s face drains of color. Her confident posture crumbles, and her lips part as if to retaliate, but no words come. Tears brim in her eyes, the defiance giving way to vulnerability.

She glances around the room, her gaze darting desperately from face to face, searching for an ally, for someone to step in.

No one does.

For the first time, karma feels tangible, a weight settling on her shoulders that she can’t shrug off.

The door creaks open, and the teacher walks in. The sudden flurry of movement—students scrambling to their seats, shoving books onto desks—shatters the moment.

Tia sinks into her chair, her hands trembling as she adjusts her hair and tries to straighten her posture. But her gaze never leaves Noah. It’s fixed on him, burning with a mix of anger, shame, and something darker, something raw.

Noah, on the other hand, is calm, composed, his focus entirely on his books as though nothing happened.

Her death glare could probably set the room on fire, but he doesn’t even notice—or doesn’t care.

Noah’s ability to shrug off others’ judgments like they’re nothing has always been something I’ve envied. He wears it like armor, an impenetrable shield I’ve never managed to forge for myself. Every whisper, every stare, every word still cuts me in ways I wish it didn’t.

I tighten my grip on my pen and force myself to focus on the lesson. This is what matters—my grades, my future—not this bullshit.

But even as I try to concentrate, my thoughts drift back to him.

Noah, with his infuriating confidence and sharp tongue.

Noah, who’s a whirlwind I can’t seem to escape.

And, God help me, part of me doesn’t want to.

In the days following Noah’s takedown of Tia, the tension in the air shifts—but not enough to call it peace.

More guys shuffle through the hallways sporting fresh bruises and battered egos, their cocky attitudes deflated. The whispers and shit-talking doesn’t vanish entirely, but they quiet down when Noah’s within earshot. No one’s stupid enough to tempt fate twice.

But Tia, though. Fuck. She’s relentless.

It’s like she feeds off her own cruelty, throwing taunts my way every chance she gets. Her little pack of hyenas laugh on cue, their sharp cackles echoing down the halls. She wears her twisted satisfaction like a crown, her eyes glinting with malice every time she lands a jab.

Thankfully, I’m not alone in this.

Sam, Lola, and Liz stand firm, forming an unspoken barrier against her constant attacks. They’ve had Lola’s back, deflecting Tia’s venom, and now they extend that same loyalty to me. It’s a lifeline I cling to, especially on the worst days when the weight of it all feels unbearable.

At home, I bury myself in homework, avoiding my dad like it’s a survival instinct.

Most nights, I’m holed up in my room, textbooks open but barely touched, my thoughts miles away. When I can’t focus on studying, I turn to my sketchbook. Having some money from a few shifts, I finally treated myself to new charcoal pencils.

Each night, I lose myself in my drawings, letting the dark strokes and shadows carry away the weight of everything pressing down on me. Drawing is the only thing that keeps me sane, the only time I feel like I can breathe freely.

But no matter how busy I try to keep myself; my gaze always drifts toward Noah’s window.

The curtains are always drawn shut, and every time, disappointment hits like a cold wave. Since the day he stormed into the girls’ bathroom and then obliterated Tia in class, he hasn’t said a single word to me. It’s like I’ve been erased from his world, and yet I can’t stop looking, hoping, waiting.

Things should feel like they’re improving—I’ve got a job now, a small taste of independence. But the silence from my mom cuts deeper than Tia’s words ever could. Every ignored call, every unanswered message feels like another knife, twisting further in the same wound.

Today, though, I try to push it all aside. The sun is out for the first time in what feels like forever, and I’m stretched out on the grass with Sam and Lola.

The warmth on my skin, the sound of their laughter—it’s almost enough to convince me that things might be okay. But even as I close my eyes and try to soak in the calm, there’s a part of me that can’t quite relax. A part that knows the storm isn’t really over, just waiting to strike again when I least expect it.

Lola shifts beside me and suddenly pops up. “Hey, can you guys watch my bag? I’ll be right back,” she chirps.

“Sure,” I say with a small smile.

She flashes one back before bounding toward the school building, her energy light and carefree.

I glance over at Sam, noticing how quiet she’s been. Her fiery red hair glows in the sunlight, but her expression is distant, her attention locked on something—or someone.

I follow her gaze.

Under the shade of a tree, Reece leans in close to one of Tia’s bitchy minions, a girl with perfectly styled hair and a smug smile. Her back is pressed against the tree, her face tilted up toward him as he whispers something in her ear.

She laughs softly, and he reaches out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear with practiced ease. Reece knows how to play the part of a romantic, but there’s something about it that feels hollow, calculated.

I glance back at Sam. Her jaw is tight, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clenched into fists. There’s a flicker of something raw in her eyes, something she’s desperately trying to hide.

Something has definitely gone on between them. I don’t push, though. The rawness in Sam’s expression screams for space, and I know better than to pry. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me.

It’s only when Reece leans in and kisses Tia’s minion that Sam finally looks away, her jaw tight as she turns her head.

I quickly avert my gaze too, not wanting her to catch me watching her pain unfold. Instead, I focus on the grass, plucking blades one by one, letting the silence stretch between us.

By the time the final bell rings, Sam is back to her usual self—or at least, the version she wants us to see. She’s laughing, cracking jokes, and talking like nothing happened. It’s convincing, but I’ve seen it enough lately to spot the cracks in her armor.

As I stride down the corridor, I head straight for my locker. Sam and Lola are already near the front doors, waiting for me. I grab the homework I need for tonight, determined not to procrastinate like I did two weeks ago. Nearly failing that assessment was a wake-up call I don’t plan to ignore. Tonight, it’s just going to be me, my notes, and a strong cup of coffee. Tomorrow’s work shift will leave me too drained to even think about schoolwork, so I need to knock it out now.

With my bag slung over my shoulder, I walk toward Sam and Lola. They’re deep in conversation, but I catch the unmistakable whispers and stares from a nearby cluster of Tia’s crew. My steps don’t falter.

Instead, I meet their stares head-on, refusing to blink, refusing to give them even the smallest win.

Then Nicole steps forward, her voice dripping with mockery.

“Hey, look who’s rocking the bargain bin finds!” she sneers. “Raiding the clearance racks again, huh? It really shows!”

The others snicker, their laughter like nails on a chalkboard.

I stop in my tracks and turn slowly to face them. My gaze locks onto Nicole, sharp and unyielding. A sweet smile spreads across my face, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Wow, Nicole,” I say, loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. “For someone who spends so much time up Tia’s ass, you’d think you’d pick up a better sense of style.”

The laughter dies instantly, replaced by stunned silence.

Nicole’s smirk falters, her cheeks flushing as she glances around, realizing the attention has shifted.

I step closer, my voice dropping to something softer.

“But hey, thanks for noticing my outfit. At least I know someone’s paying attention.”

Nicole’s face reddens, and her mouth opens like she’s about to retort, but nothing comes out.

Satisfied, I pivot and keep walking, my head held high. Sam and Lola glance back at me, their eyes wide. Then Sam grins, breaking the tension.

“That was savage,” Sam whispers as I catch up to them.

We push through the school gates, the buzz of another day left behind, and head toward Sam’s car. She’s giving me a lift home, like always. It’s routine, comforting even, but the air shifts when Sam casually throws out a question.

‘Hey, you going to Chris’s party this weekend?’

Before I can even process the idea, Lola jumps in, her voice sharp and decisive. ‘No way. Not after the shitshow last time.’

Sam and I both look at her, surprised. Lola crosses her arms, her expression hardening. ‘Someone spread this fucked-up rumor that I was gonna give Luke and Tory blow jobs. They hounded me all night about it. I just went home after that.’

‘Ugh, those assholes,’ I mutter, shaking my head.

Sam stays hopeful, her tone softening. ‘But you’ll still swing by with us, right? It’ll be a blast.’

Lola hesitates, her eyes narrowing in thought, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’ll think about it,” she finally says. “Not sure yet.”

Her tone is guarded, the wariness lingering beneath her casual shrug. But she flashes a small smile before heading across the car park toward her beat-up car. The thing’s a patchwork of faded paint and a mismatched grey panel, held together more by luck than mechanics. It suits Lola perfectly—scrappy, resilient, impossible to knock down for long.

“See ya tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder before climbing in, the door creaking loudly as it swings shut.

Sam turns to me, pressing the button to unlock her car doors. “What about you, Aubrey? You going to Chris’s party?”

‘When is it?’ I ask, stalling.

“This Friday night.” She swings open the door and slides into the driver’s seat, the late-afternoon sun catching the strands of her fiery red hair. “It’s gonna be a blast.”

I climb into the passenger side, the leather warm against my legs, sticking slightly from the heat. “I’ll think about it,” I mutter, knowing full well that I’m leaning towards no.

The truth is, the thought of walking into a room filled with the same people who make my life hell on a daily basis doesn’t exactly scream fun. I get enough bullshit during the day; I don’t need to volunteer for more.

Sam tosses her bag onto the backseat. “Oh, by the way,” she says, starting the engine. “My mom text me. She wants me to pick up my brother’s birthday cake, so I’ve gotta make a quick stop before I drop you off.”

“No problem,” I reply, fiddling with the strap of my bag. “I need to grab a few things anyway.”

“Cool,” Sam says, pulling out of the car park. She adjusts her sunglasses, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.