Sweet Like Revenge

48 - Ceasefire

"You're nothing. You're worthless. And frankly, no one would notice if you were gone. Not even if you dropped dead."

I paused the footage on a close-up of Sienna's young face—her sweet, angelic face seething with hatred and arrogance. A shiver ran up my spine as repressed emotions sprung to the surface, but I forced myself to take it all in. To remember why I was doing this, and to feel some sense of victory at the knowledge that I was about to serve justice on the devil in the most glorious way possible.

Sienna tainted my past. Now, I was going to destroy her future.

I sliced up the five-year-old footage, adding a few transitions to the project on my video editing software. The Presentation Gala was still a few days away, but I didn't have much to do aside from getting my final serving of revenge ready. I'd misplaced my external hard drive and some of my lists after stashing them in Richie's car before my eighteenth, and most of my other leads had turned cold.

I still had that video of Nate, of course, but I couldn't bring myself to add it to the project. Not just because I knew that his dad was going to be at the gala, and not just because using it would prove something to whoever sent it to me. The truth was, I knew deep down that I was never going to use that footage. Nate's secret was different from everyone else's. He wasn't hurting anyone. Not intentionally, at least.

My fingers were hovering over the space bar, just about to play the video from the beginning, when a melodic voice wafted into my room from the hall outside. The door burst open, an elegant figure slinking in and strutting over the threshold to my bed.

Sienna Hawthorne was in my room.

I slammed my MacBook shut, springing up from my bedhead.

"Woah," she clucked, her face growing coy before she threw me a wink. "What the hell are you watching over there?"

I felt as though I was going to be sick. Actually, physically sick.

"You're back," was all I could ground out. Like it wasn't obvious. Like Sienna Fucking Hawthorne wasn't standing at the foot of my bed while I was preparing a video that could ruin her life.

"And you're not ready to leave." She waved a hand at my outfit—an oversized jumper and sweats—before spinning on her heel and sauntering over to my closet. "We have to be at the hospital in twenty. Get that perky butt up and into something a little less depressing."

I jumped off my bed to trail her to my closet, watching as she reached for a fitted pink dress dotted with tiny pastel flowers.

"The hospital?" I repeated, brow threaded with confusion.

She reached for my platform Converse before thrusting the ensemble into my arms. "You said at the dance that you'd help out with my last lot of community service."

Shoot. I did say that. In between playing queen, building an army, and planning a high school revolution, I'd completely, totally forgotten.

Sienna took a seat on my bed, reaching for one of the magazines I'd bought for style inspiration. My laptop hovered literal inches behind her, evidence of who I was and what I was doing taunting me from behind the closed screen.

I needed her out of my room. And it looked like there was only one way of making that happen.

I took a deep, steady breath before appraising her selections critically. "You don't think this is a little... fancy for a hospital?"

"Trust me, it's perfect."

Sure enough, she was just as dressed up for the occasion—her slender figure was on display in a long-sleeved turtleneck and red tartan skirt, while her polished pointed boots reflected the light from my lamp. Satisfied, I turned to start changing.