The chosen ones.

Chapter 17 (thin ice)

I just wanna screeeeaaamm...- me.
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Dracon stared at Maynard, his gaze one of utter disbelief, as if he had suddenly lost his mind. The words that had just escaped Maynard’s lips were too absurd to process.

“You’re joking, right?” Dracon’s voice was laced with incredulity, and a storm of frustration brewed beneath the surface.

But Maynard only shook his head, his expression serious, almost unnervingly so.

“No, of course not,” he replied, his voice steady, and in that moment, Dracon felt the surge of anger within him, ready to boil over. He opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of fury when he felt a soft pressure against his hand under the table. His breath stilled for a moment. Tiberah, ever the calming presence, had reached out to him. Her fingers wrapped around his, a silent plea for patience.

He glanced at her. She wasn’t looking at him, but her gesture alone grounded him. She ate her meal in silence, her demeanor composed and graceful, a stark contrast to the storm swirling inside him.

Desdemona, still in the throes of shock, blinked as tears welled up in her eyes. “Uh… erm… she’s your girlfriend?” Her voice trembled, and by now, the others at the table had long since dispersed, leaving only Tiberah and Desdemona, an awkward and tense silence hanging between them.

Maynard nodded without hesitation.

“Yup.”

Cleopatra, seated next to Desdemona, gave her a look laden with subtle malice, and that was all it took. Desdemona’s tears began to fall in earnest, streaking down her cheeks as she struggled to come to terms with the crushing weight of betrayal. Maynard’s breath caught in his throat at the sight, his own discomfort rising, and he quickly turned his attention to Cleopatra. He offered her a piece of strawberry, an attempt to calm the growing tension, and she smiled, the sweetness of the gesture seemingly softening her icy demeanor.

“Maynard you know I loved you, I always have. Why did you go ahead and—” Maynard began, his voice genuine but faltering.

Desdemona, unable to contain her heartbreak, broke down.

Cleopatra stretched forward her hand wielding a handkerchief in mock.

The sharp sound of a slap echoed through the room, jarring everyone. Desdemona’s open palm had collided with Cleopatra’s face, her fury boiling over.

“Don’t you dare try to act all innocent, you wench! I know you had this all planned. You know I loved him, Cleopatra. How could you?” Desdemona’s voice was a mixture of anguish and rage, the betrayal carving deep into her chest.

Cleopatra stood, her expression shifting into one of cold disdain. Her voice was sharp as she shot back, “Because you are a fat, ugly b*tch!” The venom in her words was palpable, each syllable laced with contempt.

Before Desdemona could react, Cleopatra raised her hand, preparing to slap her back, but this time, someone intervened.

Tiberah appeared seemingly out of nowhere, her presence commanding attention. With a dangerous glint in her eyes, she seized Cleopatra’s wrist, halting the blow in midair. Her grip was firm, and she fixed Cleopatra with a steely glare that sent a shiver down the other girl's spine.

“You’d better take a hold of your dog, Maynard,” Tiberah’s voice was cold, her warning clear. “Before I take care of her myself.”

She pushed Cleopatra backward with surprising strength and took hold of Desdemona’s trembling hand, guiding her away from the scene.

Cleopatra stood there, fuming, her anger simmering beneath the surface. And yet, in the blink of an eye, she turned on the tears, letting them flow freely as she clutched at her chest.