You'd think after the locker glitter bomb, the talent show remix sabotage, and the rhinestoned crucifix incident, Bianca Prescott would've finally figured out that picking fights with me—Aria Wren—was about as smart as wearing white to a color run.
But no.
Bianca's brain, powered by pure ego and a limited edition highlighter palette, clearly works on a delay. Because she came back swinging—literally, with her fake designer bag—and this time, she didn't go after me.
She went after my art.
My. Art.
Let me paint you a picture—pun fully intended. I had been working on this massive mural in the art room for two weeks straight. It was a 6-foot-tall portrait of an angel wrapped in smoke, wings made from shattered glass, light pouring from the cracks.
It was vulnerable. It was symbolic. It was me on a wall, basically.
And she destroyed it.
Spray-painted across the angel's face—fluorescent green letters dripping with malice—were the words: "DEVIL IN DISGUISE."
Cute, huh?
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't throw paint. No. I smiled, walked out of the room, and made a little list titled:
Operation Reputation Ruination.
---
Phase One: Weaponize the Spotlight
Bianca's entire existence at St. Agatha's revolves around being adored. She thrives on whispers, curated smiles, and that gross little wink she gives the head boy during chapel announcements.
So I hit her where it hurts—her public image.
First, I posted anonymous flyers all over campus. They read:
> "Come join Bianca's Divine Beauty Circle — Learn how to pray AND slay! Skincare routines blessed by holy water! Sundays at 6PM, Chapel Hall."
I even signed it: Saint B. xoxo
Naturally, half the school showed up. And who did they find at the front? Not Bianca—she didn't even know about it.
She walked in late, phone in hand, fully expecting to slay the hallway runway. Instead, she got a confused Sister Joan, an expecting crowd of girls holding Bibles and jade rollers, and me—wearing a halo headband and a smirk.
"Bianca," I said sweetly, "they're waiting on your sermon-slash-mascara tutorial."
Bianca turned a color I didn't know human skin could achieve—somewhere between fuchsia and shame.
She fled.
Round One: Wren.
---
Phase Two: Wi-Fi Whispers
With a little help from Phoenix (who may or may not have the hacking skills of a Bond villain), I set up a redirect filter on the school's Wi-Fi.
Now, whenever someone Googled Bianca Prescott, they got rerouted to a very convincing, very fake blog titled:
> THE SECRET SINS OF A ST. AGATHA'S SAINT
The blog contained entries like:
"Bianca secretly baptizes her foundation brushes in holy water."
"Caught re-blessing her Gucci purse during Lent."
"Is she really fasting… or just dodging carbs?"
Every student with a smartphone was cackling by lunch.
Phoenix high-fived me. Jade tried to pretend she wasn't impressed.
Bianca reported it to the principal and ended up getting her phone temporarily confiscated—for "feeding the drama."
Round Two: Wren, still undefeated.
---
Phase Three: Holy Hijack
Bianca loved being the voice of the school—literally. She volunteered for every announcement, newsletter edit, and morning prayer.
So I gave her the remix treatment.
With Phoenix's help, I intercepted the school speaker system.
Instead of her usual chirpy morning greeting, we played a remixed, autotuned version of her actual talent show song, chopped up to sound like:
> 🎵 "I'm blessed… but MESS-ED! Glitter sins and confessions, y'all!" 🎵
Even Sister Joan tried not to laugh.
Bianca nearly combusted when she stomped into the principal's office screaming defamation. But since no one could prove who did it… nothing happened.
Round Three: You already know.
---
Here's the thing: I don't do this for fun.
Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly, I do it because girls like Bianca don't stop unless someone stops them. And if the grown-ups at this academy won't, then I guess I'll just keep being the chaos this place desperately needs.
Call it vigilante vengeance. Call it divine justice. Call it Aria Wren with a purpose.
---
Later that week…
I was lying on the roof of the west wing with Phoenix. It had become our unofficial hideout—a place above it all, where rules felt like suggestions and the world didn't quite suck as much.
Phoenix passed me half a stolen granola bar. "You're scary when you're focused."
"Scary-hot or scary-unhinged?" I asked, taking a bite.
He tilted his head. "Somewhere between Harley Quinn and Maleficent."
"Perfect."
We watched the clouds roll past. There was a peace to it. And under that peace, a quiet hum of partnership. Phoenix got me in ways I didn't expect. He didn't flinch at the chaos. He encouraged it. He was chaos adjacent.
"You ever think maybe you're not supposed to be reformed?" he asked suddenly.
"Every day."
He smiled. "Good."
---
The Calm Before the Slap
The next morning, I was feeling generous. I even skipped a prank. No glitter, no bombs, no announcements.
Just vibes.
So when Bianca shoved me in the hallway and hissed, "I know it's you, Wren. And I swear, I'll ruin you," I just smiled.
"That's cute," I replied. "You think I haven't already ruined myself."
Jade overheard, of course. And for a second, she looked at me like maybe I wasn't a total sociopath. I couldn't tell if it was pity or respect.
Later that afternoon, I found a note in my locker. No name. Just neat handwriting and four words:
> You've gone too far.
I stared at it for a long time.
Not because I was scared. But because finally—finally—someone was starting to play dirty.
Good.
Let the real games begin.