Chapter 3When Her Best Friend Chose Me

Oliver’s cruelty was subtle at first.

He knew how to choreograph a scene.

During the architecture department’s midterm review, in an auditorium packed with faculty and peers, Oliver pulled a charcoal-grey cashmere scarf from his leather messenger bag and handed it toward Hannah.

"Found this while unpacking my winter coats, Hannah. You left it in my piano practice room senior year."

The entire room went quiet, followed by a ripple of suppressed murmurs.

"No way... a high school keepsake?"

"The drama is unreal."

"Hannah, were you down that bad for him?"

I was standing three feet to Hannah’s left, my fingers curling tightly into my palms.

Hannah didn't reach for it. "Throw it away, Oliver. I don't even remember it."

A faint shadow flickered across Oliver’s eyes before melting back into his polished smile. "Fair enough. It was a long time ago."

He sounded gracious, but by nightfall, the photo was pinned to the top of the campus board:

"First Love Returns Lost Memento; Current Boyfriend Glowers in the Background."

In the snapshot, my face was tight, pale, and unmistakably miserable.

The comments tore me apart:

"Adam looks ready to throw up."

"Can you blame the rebound?"

"Oliver’s psychological warfare is masterclass level."

My hands shook with rage. Hannah tracked down the forum moderator and had the post scrubbed, but for every thread deleted, three more took its place.

Oliver’s next move came during my senior gallery preview.

I had poured months of sweat and savings into that night. I bought a tailored navy-blue shirt a month in advance, accessorizing it with an intricate silver lapel pin I had hand-cast in the metal shop.

When Oliver walked into the exhibition space, he was wearing the exact same shade of navy.

The cut was slightly different—his was high-end designer cashmere, draped effortlessly over his frame—but from across the gallery, our silhouettes and palettes were nearly indistinguishable.

He stood beside my main oil triptych, smiling as patrons approached him to compliment his styling.

"Oliver looks breathtaking in that cut."

"Adam’s version looks a little stiff, doesn't it?"

"Seeing the prototype next to the knockoff is brutal."

I stood behind the program table, my stomach churning with pure, suffocating nausea.

Oliver walked up to me, his expression full of faux remorse. "I’m so sorry, Adam. I had no idea you’d be wearing navy tonight."

He knew.

I had posted the preview flyer featuring my outfit on social media three days ago. His friends had even snapped photos of me outside the studio that morning.

I had no proof, and making a scene would only make me look like an unhinged amateur.

I forced a flat smile. "No need to apologize. Nobody owns a color."

Oliver studied me, the warmth vanishing from his eyes, leaving only a cold, predatory gleam. "You really do have quite the tolerance, don't you?"

That afternoon, he sent me a brief text asking to meet by the fire stairs behind the Old Arts Building—a forgotten wing slated for renovation, where the security cameras barely caught the far edges of the corridor.

When he stepped onto the landing, the mask came completely off.

"Adam, aren't you exhausted from humiliating yourself?"

I looked at him squarely. "The only person embarrassing themselves is you. You moved back here and had to dig up high school relics just to feel relevant."

The aristocratic smirk slid off his face.

"Do you have any idea how Hannah used to look at me?" he hissed, taking a slow step forward. "She rebuilt my physical scale models when I fell behind. She waited in line for hours to get me recital tickets. She brought me warm breakfast every single morning for three years. What do you think she sees when she looks at you?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "She sees me."

The words struck like ice, but I held my ground.

"She’s with me now," I said steadily. "If you think your teenage nostalgia can beat reality, go pitch it to her. Stop cornering me in hallways like a coward."

Oliver’s gaze went pitch-black. A cold, venomous smile crept back onto his face.

"I tried to let you exit with some dignity, Adam. You threw it away."

I turned my back and walked down the stairs.

Behind me, his voice drifted down through the stairwell: "Don't regret this."

I didn't turn around. But when I stepped into the pale afternoon light, my palms were slick with cold sweat.

I had no idea that his idea of stripping my dignity meant grinding my face into the dirt.