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AMARA'S POV
I lay on my bed like a dying potato.
Duvet over me.
Hot pad slapped on my forehead.
Hair everywhere like a wild lion.
Cute strawberry pajama set: ruined.
My dignity: also ruined.
My nose? Sneezing like my body was personally allergic to Zayden Hale.
"Achoo—ACHOO—ACHOO—UGH!"
I groaned into my pillow.
"Stupid… gum-chewing… eyebrow-raising… king-of-stupidity…"
Another sneeze.
"ACHOO! Yes, universe, I know he's cursed!"
My brain kept replaying the moment I threw water on him.
And his face—
THE. FACE.
Like someone told him Spider-Man was fake.
Like his entire royalty was questioned.
Ughhhh why did I do that?? Why am I like this?? Why did God give me a mouth and hands AND confidence??
I rolled around dramatically in my duvet burrito.
"Achoo—ACHOO—ACHOOOO—STOP!!"
I yelled at my own immune system.
Just when I thought I could die peacefully, my door opened.
"Amara?"
Oh no.
Mom-Alert Level: RED.
My mother — Serena Reyes — walked in with the authority of a queen who paid the electricity bill.
She stared at me.
At my wet hair.
At the hot pad.
At the mountain of tissues.
Then —
"AMARA REYES!"
I winced.
Here it comes.
---
MOM (SERENA REYES) — POV
My daughter… my disaster child… lying there like a soggy cat.
I crossed my arms.
"Why, Amara? Why did the maid tell me you came home COMPLETELY drenched? Why were your shoes squelching like a drowned rat? WHAT exactly happened?"
Amara blinked at me, eyes wide, fake innocence radiating off her.
"Uh… rain?"
"IT WAS SUNNY!"
"…rain in my heart?"
"AMARA."
She gave me that tiny smile — the one she uses whenever she's about to lie.
I sighed dramatically.
Every day with her is a new Netflix episode.
"Amara Reyes, I will not tolerate you getting into trouble on your FIRST DAY. Whatever nonsense you did—stop it."
"I did no nonsense!" she protested.
Lie.
I could smell it.
"You're sick now. AND drenched. AND sneezing like a malfunctioning engine."
"I'm totally fine—AACHOOOO!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Lord… give me patience.
"Come downstairs for dinner when you can sit upright without falling over," I said, stepping out. "And don't sleep with wet hair again! You'll catch pneumonia!"
I closed the door, already knowing she'd do it again.
My child will be the death of me.
---
ZAYDEN'S POV
I slammed another punch into the punching bag.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD—CRAAAACK.
The entire bag snapped off the chain and dropped to the floor.
Great. Another one dead.
My knuckles ached.
My jaw tensed.
My ego?
Still dripping from earlier.
I sneezed.
Once.
Twice.
Five times.
"Achoo—Achoo—ACHOO—dammit!"
The maid who entered with my food froze like a statue.
Her hands trembled.
The tray rattled.
I stared at her.
Wrong move.
The tray slipped.
Food clattered.
And my temper?
Gone.
"Get that out of my sight," I snapped, kicking the broken bag away.
She tried to pick up the tray, hands shaking.
I glared harder.
She dropped it again.
I swore under my breath and shoved the tray aside with a sweep of my arm — food splattering on the floor.
A steak slid across the marble like it was trying to escape the tension.
I sneezed again.
"Achoo—ugh—"
The maid whispered, "S-sorry, sir…"
I didn't answer.
I was too busy picturing a certain girl with fire in her eyes and a bucket in her hand.
That stupid stunt she pulled.
That stupid way she looked at me.
Like she refused to lose.
Like she didn't care who I was.
Like she wasn't scared.
My jaw clenched.
Another sneeze attacked me.
"ACHOO—DAMMIT!"
Why was I sneezing?
Why was she in my head?
I hated both.
I kicked the broken punching bag out of the way.
"Tomorrow," I muttered, eyes cold.
"She's not getting the last move."