ceasefire
Chapter 42
Lorenzo
"This is legendary," Alex laughs, drawing Alisha—or whatever her name is—closer to his side. She smiles mid-kiss, her hand deliberately resting high on his thigh, dangerously close to his zipper. "I think she's just incredibly annoying.
"And I think it's way too hot out here," Matheo mutters.
He looks up from his phone, walks over to the concrete railing of our rooftop lounge, and stares down at the courtyard below. He glances back at me, holding my gaze for a heavy, knowing second, but says nothing.
"I heard she grew up on a farm," Ben chimes in, randomly shifting the topic. We all know exactly who he's talking about. There is only one girl occupying everyone's mouth today.
Two girls nearby burst into cruel, high-pitched laughter. "That explains why she slams doors like a total peasant," one of them sneers, prompting a murmur of chuckles to ripple through the rest of our circle.
"But if she's so poor, why is she even at our school?" someone else asks.
I tune them out. The mindless chatter fades into white noise.
Because the only question violently looping through my own brain right now is why the hell she hasn't accepted my follow request yet.
Annoyed by the trivial gossip, I stand up, abandoning my seat to join Matheo at the railing. I stare down into the empty courtyard.
It's been a week. A fucking week.
It's not that she hasn't seen the notification. She definitely saw it. I know she did. And ever since that registry popped up on her screen, she's been actively avoiding me, slipping through the hallways like a ghost the second my shadow falls near her.
"So, are you mature enough to talk about it now?" Matheo asks quietly, not breaking his gaze from the horizon.
I cut a sharp, venomous look at him, caught entirely off guard. "What are you talking about?"
"No, don't try that defensive shit with me," he says, finally cutting his eyes to me. He glances over his shoulder at the rest of our group, who are still laughing, before turning back to drop his voice to a low, private murmur. "Dai, amico. I saw your face the other day in the hallway."
Dammit. He's referring to Tuesday. The exact moment she walked right past me in the crowded hall, and like a complete idiot, I actually turned my head to look after her while she didn't even glance in my direction.
The reason why I did it is a frustrating mystery even to myself. Maybe I just hoped she would trip and fall or something. Anything to break that infuriating, unbothered composure of hers.
"I was annoyed seeing her," I correct him coldly, keeping my jaw locked and my eyes fixed on the distant skyline to avoid any further eye contact.
"And what about today in class?"
"What about it?"
"You checked your phone every five minutes. Were you waiting for a message from her?" A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips when he notices the muscle ticking violently in my jaw. He knows he's getting under my skin. He knows he's drawing blood.
"Shut up. I was checking my phone to make sure everything is set for the party tonight,"
I growl.
It isn't even a complete lie. I was checking my texts to see if my guy came through with the customized motorcycles for tonight's run.
And... maybe I checked to see if her username had finally appeared under my approved list.
But that definitely wasn't the main reason.
I'm not some fucking hormone-driven, lovesick teenager.
Screw her follow request. The only reason I even want access to her life is to maintain control while we plan this godforsaken centenary gala together. Nothing more.
"Oh yes, another legendary party. About time," Ben singsongs from behind us, stepping into our space.
I am immensely grateful for the distraction and immediately hijack the conversation, turning my back on Matheo's knowing stare. "Tonight, we send this Santos guy packing. Let's get him the hell out of our city."
"Hell yes," Alex agrees fiercely, momentarily breaking away from the girl on his lap.
"Fucking idiot," Matheo mutters under his breath, though whether he means Santos or me remains entirely unsaid.
"By the way, where is Vivienne?" Ben asks, looking around the crowded rooftop.
I shrug indifference. I don't know where she is, and honestly, I care even less. She's been acting out, throwing tantrums lately, and I am absolutely not in the mood to chase after her or stroke her ego. There was never anything serious between us anyway; it has always been just sex.
Lately, even that hasn't been as satisfying as it used to be. The thrill is gone, replaced by a sudden, heavy boredom. I don't give a damn what she's up to. If anything, I'm just relieved she isn't clinging to my arm twenty-four-seven.
"I gotta go," I announce abruptly.
Without waiting for a response or checking to see if they're following, I push away from the concrete railing and head straight for the exit. I storm down the heavy staircase, skipping two steps at a time, my blood boiling with a restless, chaotic energy that I can't seem to shake.
Pushing through the heavy doors into the hallway, I march toward the cafeteria. I ignore the lingering looks and whispered gossip from the students lining the halls, my eyes scanning the crowded rows of tables for one specific person.
Sophia. She isn't here.
Just as I'm about to turn on my heel, I spot Maria sitting with a group of girls from her grade, deeply engrossed in conversation. I stride over to their table, looming over them like a dark shadow.
"Where is she?" I demand, offering zero context. My voice is flat, hard, and entirely non-negotiable.
Maria blinks up at me, her fork freezing mid-air, thoroughly confused. "Sophia?"
I roll my eyes, my patience wearing dangerously thin. "Yes, Sophia. Where is she?"
"The bathroo..."
I walk away before she can even finish the word, cutting a straight, predatory line across the cafeteria toward the girls' restroom. I don't hesitate. I don't check for rules. I just push the heavy door open and step directly inside.
The room is completely empty, but a faint, shaky whimper cuts through the sterile silence.
I freeze. The sound travels from the very last stall.
Is she crying?
The sudden sound punches something raw and ugly deep inside my chest. I step onto the tile, my boots clicking heavily, and knock firmly on the stall door. I wait.
"Occupied," a hoarse, breathless voice calls out. It's definitely her.
I knock again, harder this time, the wood rattling under my knuckles. There's a final sniffle, the frantic rustle of a tissue, and then the loud, echoing flush of the toilet. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
"Sorry, I..." Sophia starts, but the words die instantly in her throat.
My eyes immediately take her in. The heavy redness rimming her eyelashes. The damp, dark water spots staining the front of her blouse. Sophia gasps in shock, her survival instincts kicking in as she tries to slam the stall door shut between us.
But my reflexes are faster. I jam my hand against the wood, forcing it open with effortless ease and stepping directly into her personal space.
"Are you crazy? This is the girls' bathroom!" she whispers furiously, her voice trembling with a chaotic mix of anger and exhaustion.
"Have you been crying again?"
"None of your business," she snaps, her jaw tightening.
She tries to duck under my extended arm to bolt for the exit, but without much effort, I catch her by the forearm. I spin her gently but firmly around, forcing her to stop, forcing her to look at me.
"What do you want?" she fangs at me.
I take a suspended second to actually think about it. I originally came down here because I wanted to demand why she was ignoring my follow request... but I hadn't known she'd be crying. She looks impossibly small under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Did something happen?" I ask instead. Internally, I kick myself for asking such a stupid, obvious question.
"As if you care.
"Fine, then don't tell me," I mutter, dropping my hand from her arm but refusing to take a single step back. "Why haven't you accepted my follower request?"
The sheer surprise on her face tells me everything. She definitely saw the notification. So why the hell did she ignore it?
"Why would I ever want you to follow me?" she asks. Her voice tries to find its defiance, but she doesn't dare break eye contact. She doesn't move away either, acutely aware of how close we are standing in the cramped, suffocating space.
A small, arrogant smirk plays on my lips. "Well, stalker, there are dozens of people out there who would die to have me follow them."
"Well, I'm not one of them. Now let me go, or I'll scream."
Is that how she wants to play?
Fine.
I can play that game too.
Without saying another word, I release her entirely. I run a hand through my hair, keeping her gaze locked with mine, then reach down to calmly unbutton the top few buttons of my uniform shirt, deliberately exposing my collarbone.
Sophia's eyes go wide, her breath hitching.
"What... what the hell are you doing?"
I step even closer, closing the final inch of distance, and reach out to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. She delivers a sharp, angry smack to my fingers.
"Hey! What is wrong with you?" she screeches.
"If you walk out of here right now, and I walk out right after you," I say, my voice dropping into a low, whisper that makes her pupils dilate, "everyone out there is going to think we just spent the last ten minutes making out in a bathroom."
A satisfied grin spreads across my face as I watch her expression turn to pure, unadulterated shock. I lean my hips back against the porcelain sink and cross my arms over my chest, watching her brain completely spin out.
"You are an idiot," she barks, utterly flustered, frantically trying to fix her hair in the mirror.
"I prefer the term creative ."
"Why do you even care if I add you as a friend anyway?" she asks, pressing her back against the furthest tile wall, putting as much physical distance between us as the room allows.
"I don't care about the social media bullshit," I say honestly, my smirk fading into something much more serious.
"But I want this nightmare to be over quickly. So accept my damn request, text me the fucking planning stuff so I can do my part, and after that, we don't ever have to speak a single word to each other again. That's the plan."
She stares at me, digesting my words, before slowly nodding her head. "But why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Why does she always have so many damn questions?
"Why do you suddenly want to help me?" Sophia demands, her voice cutting through the space between us. "What about the weeks where you could have helped me, but chose to completely ignore me instead?"
She looks up, her eyes narrowing as if she's just cracked a secret code I've been hiding from her. A small, mocking smile touches her lips as she takes a single, brave step straight back into my personal space.
"Don't tell me you actually have a guilty conscience, Calloway."
I let out a harsh, unimpressed laugh at her audacity. Poking a single finger against the center of her stubborn forehead, I gently push her back a step to reclaim my air.
"Not gonna happen, stalker."
"Under one condition," she says, refusing to back down. She squares her shoulders, turning her full, undivided attention back to me.
A condition? Wow. I stare at her, a twisted sense of amusement flaring up beneath my ribs. She really is completely different from any girl I have ever met in this city. Nobody makes conditions with a Calloway.
"You're not exactly in a position to be making conditions, Sophia."
"You treat me with respect," she demands, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and tilting her chin up.
I stare down at her, my eyes traveling slowly over her rigid stance, taking in the absolute defiance radiating off her small frame.
"Are you joking?" I murmur, my voice dropping an octave as I lean back into her space.
"No. I'm being completely serious."
I lean down, bringing my face perfectly level with hers until she can feel my breath against her lips. "Whatever you say, stalker."
"And stop calling me that!"
I straighten up, quickly fixing my collar, and walk toward the exit. "Not gonna happen." And with that, I push the door open and leave.
I have just officially declared a ceasefire with Sophia Miller.
And It's either the absolute best idea I've ever had, or the absolute dumbest.