I told Ace on Thursday.
I'd originally planned to wait for the "perfect" moment; something cinematic and private, away from the prying eyes of the Crestwood social police. But Ace made waiting nearly impossible by cornering me at my locker between second and third period. He didn't say a word, just wordlessly extended a paper cup of machine coffee.
I took a sip. It was the exact, over-sweetened blend I'd bought on Tuesday. He hadn't just been standing near me; he'd been cataloging my habits.
"Thank you," I said, my voice cautious, layering a mental guard around my thoughts.
"You're doing that thing," he noted, shifting his weight.
"What thing?"
"The thing where your brain is three steps ahead of your mouth. You're deciding how to package something you've already decided to say."
He leaned his shoulder against the locker next to mine, his presence easy but deliberate. "You've been... 'off' since Monday. I figured I'd wait for you to get to the point."
I looked up at him, struck by the clarity in his eyes. "You waited? Instead of just asking?"
"Yeah. If I corner you, you'll give me the edited, 'scholarship-safe' version. If I wait, I get the real one. I like the real one better."
I stared at him, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation at how easily he read the room.
"That's a lot of strategy for someone who acts like they're just winging it through life."
"I wing the delivery," he said with a half-shrug that was far too charming. "I think about the rest."
I took a breath, the steam from the coffee dampening my skin. "Sienna is moving. She's using proxies. One of them sat across from me in the library on Wednesday and told me you're basically a double agent. That you find 'interesting' girls, get them to spill their lives, and then hand the files back to Bianca."
He didn't flinch. He didn't get defensive or loud or launch into a dramatic "how could you think that" performance. He just absorbed it, his expression flattening into something weary, like he'd heard this particular remix before.
"And do you believe that?" he asked.
"No," I said, and I meant it. "I believe Remi's version. That you have a habit of losing focus and drifting away once the novelty wears off.
That I can believe, because I can see it. But the informant part? It doesn't track. It doesn't fit the guy who brought me a sealed bottle at a party."
He looked at me for a long, silent beat.
His expression instantly changed into something more intimate. Something that made my heart do a slow, traitorous roll.
"Remi's right," he said softly. "The other part is garbage. I don't talk to Bianca about anything. We're not enemies, but she's... well, she's Zane's ghost, not mine."
"He'd hate you calling him that."
"I know. I say it anyway." A ghost of a grin flickered on his lips before settling back into seriousness. "So, what's the play? How are we handling Sienna?"
"I'm going to let her think the move landed. If I pull back just enough that she reports a 'confirmed kill' to Bianca, it buys me time before the next escalation."
He tilted his head, calculating. "Which means you need to be a bitch to me in public for a while."
"Yes. Visibly."
"Okay," he said. Just like that. No ego, no argument.
"That's it? 'Okay'?"
"You've thought it through. It's a solid plan."
He hoisted his bag over his shoulder. "I'll follow your lead. If you blank me in the hall, I'll look appropriately crushed. If you cut me off mid-sentence, I'll let it happen."
"You're remarkably unbothered by being publicly dumped by the scholarship kid."
"Well yeah because it's tactical, not personal," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped a fraction closer. "And because you actually told me the truth instead of just ghosting me. That matters, Mila."
We started walking toward the West Wing. The corridor was a river of noise and expensive backpacks, but we moved through it with a weird, synchronized grace, never bumping into each other once. It was that effortless physical awareness that usually takes months to build.
"The other number," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Someone texted me Wednesday night. Different number than Remi's. They told me I handled the conversation with Zane wrong. That Bianca 'knows that I know' now."
Ace went still in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Show me."
I pulled out my phone and pulled up the thread. He read it twice, his jaw tightening until a muscle leaped in his cheek. He handed it back, his eyes dark.
"That's not Sienna," he said.
"I suspected. The vibe is... different."
"It's not Bianca, either. She's a creature of action. She doesn't skulk in text threads."
"Then who is it, Ace?"
He didn't answer for a long time. Too long.
"Ace. Talk to me you're freaking me out."
"I don't know," he said, but it was the kind of 'I don't know' that sounded like a theory he was too afraid to name yet. He glanced at me sideways, a flash of genuine worry crossing his face. "I'll find out. Don't reply to it. Don't even look at it. Just let it sit."
"Why?"
"Because whoever this is, they're fishing for a reaction. Don't give them the satisfaction of a bite."
We reached the split in the corridor where our paths diverged.
He stopped, his gaze holding mine with a weight that made my feet feel like lead.
"Mila."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever this mess is... you're not in it alone. Even when we're faking the distance. Okay?"
"Okay," I whispered.
He went left, disappearing into the crowd. I went right, my mind a mess of conflicting signals.
I thought about the difference between Ace saying that and Zane saying it. They were opposites in every sense. One was warm enough to burn you if you got too close, the other cold enough to keep the world at a sharp, icy distance.
The problem was, I couldn't figure out which one was more likely to break me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
The unknown second number. One word, stark and chilling against the white background.
"Careful."