Cruel Promises (Eastern High #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lola

Before my alarm goes off, Dad’s in the kitchen already slamming cupboard doors as if they owe him money.

He’s always been loud in the mornings. Sometimes he even has full-blown conversations with himself about absolutely nothing.

Other times, he’s busy butchering some old school rock song being blasted at full volume.

Off-key. Zero shame. Acting like he’s about to take the stage instead of just making breakfast.

It’s obnoxious.

But it’s home.

It’s the soundtrack of my childhood. The chaotic, comforting noise of two people who lost something important but figured out how to keep going anyway. Just us, surviving on off-key singing and stubborn love after the world handed us a shit deck of cards.

The aroma of bacon hits me before I open my bedroom door.

Which means Dad’s in a good mood. Either that, or the Knights lost last night, and he’s coping the only way he knows how—cholesterol and denial.

I walk barefoot down the hall, tugging the hem of my hoodie lower over my sleep shorts. My hair is piled into a messy knot on top of my head. It’s always messy in the morning. I don’t bother brushing it. Dad once called me his “little tumbleweed.” I think he meant it as a compliment.

“Morning, Button,” he calls without turning around.

Button. The name he gave me when I was small and everything still hurt too much to say out loud.

He’s holding a spatula in one hand and a half-full mug of coffee in the other. The mug reads “World’s Okayest Plumber,” which he claims is a lie because he considers himself at least top-tier mediocre.

“I made bacon,” he announces proudly. “And eggs. And toast. And more bacon.”

Because when Dad loves you, he feeds you until you can’t walk.

“Wow.” I slide onto the barstool and rest my chin in my hand. “You really went full chef today.”

He snorts. “You deserve it. You survived another week of high school hell.”

“It’s Tuesday, Dad.”

He shrugs, totally unfazed. “Every day’s a miracle.”

That’s my dad, Pete Bellamy—the only man I’ve ever trusted with my heart, the one constant in a life that lost its balance early.

My mother died when I was four—ovarian cancer, the quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t scream or warn you; it just creeps in and eats you from the inside until it’s too late to fight back. I don’t remember her face the way I wish I did, mostly I just remember the way she smelled.

But Dad made damn sure I never felt the absence.

Every dance recital, even the ones where I tripped over my own feet. Every scraped knee patched up with too much antiseptic and an even bigger kiss. Every stupid school presentation where I stood there explaining the water cycle with glitter and hot glue.

He was there, sitting in the front row, cheering the loudest and clapping like I’d just cured cancer instead of gluing cotton balls to cardboard.

And I know how rare that is.

He plates a full big breakfast and slides it in front of me with a dramatic flourish. “Your highness.”

I gaze down at the plate. Bacon layered high. Eggs still sizzling. Toast cut into tidy triangles. Beans pushed in the corner. “I’m not gonna finish all this.”

“Well.” He leans a hip against the counter. “What you don’t eat, take to school and give it to that….” His brows knit together. “What’s the boy’s name you take extra food for. Jax? Jack?”

“Jace,” I say. “And I haven’t really seen him lately.”

Something shifts in my chest when I say it.

I don’t poke at it. Jace hasn’t been sitting with us.

He hasn’t been slouched across from me at lunch, stealing chips off my tray, asking what I’m eating even though he knows damn well.

His seat has been empty for weeks now, and every time I look at it, something tight pulls in my chest.

“Well then,” he says, reaching for his coffee, “share it with your friends. Sam and Aubrey.”

“They don’t really…” I trail off, fork hovering midair.

What am I supposed to say? That they’re happy. That they’re wrapped up in their boyfriends, leaning in close, whispering, laughing, and touching hands like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. That for weeks now I’ve felt like a spare chair dragged up to a table that already seems crowded.

“Everything okay, Button?” he asks, without looking up from the stove.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just busy with school.”

We settle into our usual quiet, the comfortable kind built over years of shared mornings.

Dad opens the paper, flipping through pages and reading the headlines he’ll complain about later.

I scroll through my phone, thumb moving on autopilot, catching the latest gossip on Insta—who’s dating whom, who broke up, and who posted what at a party I didn’t attend.

I stab a piece of bacon and chew slowly, the noise of the kitchen wrapping around me.

I shower, letting the steam fog up the mirror while I linger there a moment longer than necessary.

I pull on jeans and a loose knit sweater, soft and worn in all the right places, then tie my hair up again with the scrunchie I stole from Sam two weeks ago.

She hasn’t noticed. Or she has and doesn’t care.

I grab my backpack and my phone, keys jingling in my hand. Dad’s already at the sink, rinsing dishes and humming softly.

I pause next to him, murmur, “Bye, Dad,” then lean in to kiss his cheek.

“Don’t forget your history notes,” he calls out as I head for the door. “And remember, if anyone breaks your heart, break their kneecaps.”

“Noted,” I shout back, swinging my bag over my shoulder and heading outside.

The door closes with a click behind me.

My car sits in the driveway, old but dependable, a hand-me-down that rattles when it idles.

The paint is chipped, the radio only works when it feels like it, but it always starts.

It always gets me where I need to go. I slide into the driver’s seat, toss my bag onto the passenger side, and turn the key. The engine coughs once, then settles.

The drive to school is quick. Just enough time for my thoughts to drift into places I don't want to acknowledge they exist.

The parking lot is already half full when I arrive, asphalt crowded with dented sedans and shiny cars purchased with parents’ guilt money. Students are everywhere, laughing too loudly, shoving each other for fun, kissing as if the world is ending and tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

I cut the engine, grab my bag, and step out into the noise. Voices overlap until they blur into a constant hum. I weave through bodies, backpacks, and clouds of perfume, dodging an almost-collision with a couple who can’t keep their hands off each other.

The moment I step inside the main building, the air shifts. Lockers slam shut. Shoes squeak against the floors. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs in a way that creeps under my skin.

And then I see him.

Jace.

Down near the end of the hall, right where the lockers dent inward, Jace leans back with one shoulder pressed against the metal.

His head is tilted downward, mouth curved into that lazy grin as he laughs at something someone says.

It’s effortless. The kind of laugh that draws people in without him even trying.

His blonde hair catches the light overhead. When he lifts his head, those blue eyes flick upward—the color of deep water that appears calm until it pulls you under and leaves you gasping.

For half a second, my chest forgets how to work.

God, he’s beautiful. Not in a soft or safe way. He’s the kind of beautiful that fucks up your focus and ruins your day without even trying, that makes you forget every promise you ever made to yourself about staying smart.

I force my feet to keep moving, even as my eyes betray me and follow him a beat too long. He doesn’t look my way. Or maybe he does, and I miss it. Either way, the damage is already done.

I miss him in ways that sneak up on me when I’m not paying attention. In the quiet moments. In the spaces he used to fill without trying. I miss the way he used to look over at me in class, lazy grin tugging at his mouth, eyes warm and wicked all at once.

I miss the way we shared my food, especially when he would eat more than he should, and I would call him an asshole for it. And most of all, I miss the way he called me Bells—soft sometimes, teasing other times, always sounding like it meant more than a nickname should.

But I know what he is.

I’ve always known.

A total fuckboy. The kind of boy you don’t fall for unless you enjoy bleeding.

No one ever changes someone like Jace. Girls don’t fix him. Feelings don’t tame him. All that happens is you convince yourself you’re different right up until you’re standing there with your chest cracked open, wondering how the hell you let it happen.

And the worst part is knowing all of that, still doesn’t stop the missing.

It just makes it hurt more.

I force myself to keep walking, eyes forward, heart tucked back where it belongs. He fades into the background noise of school, another beautiful disaster I was never meant to touch.

But the ache of missing him creeps up on me somewhere between seeing him at the lockers and the lunch bell.

God, I wish Liz was still here. At least then I’d have someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t wrapped up in someone else’s arms. Someone who still saw me.

The bell rings and my feet carry me to our usual table on autopilot. I spot them before they see me.

Sam’s perched on Reece’s lap, half-laughing, half-swearing at something he’s whispered into her ear. She smacks his chest, smiling even as she tells him to fuck off. He just grins, hands secure around her waist like she belongs there.

Aubrey is tucked under Noah’s arm, her tray barely touched. They’re arguing about song lyrics again—something silly they’ve debated a hundred times. He’s smug. She’s stubborn. They look ridiculously happy.