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Anya groaned as she sat at her vanity. Why, why, why did she have to do this?
Tonight was Eden College’s annual spring prom, an event traditionally organized by the 11th graders for the 12th graders. Thanks to Becky, Anya had found herself roped into the prom planning committee. Anyone who knew Becky Blackbell knew her party planning style was nothing short of extravagant.
Becky’s initial ideas were over the top—renting out an entire ski resort for an après-ski theme or hiring a luxury super yacht for a boat party. Thankfully, those plans were vetoed, but Becky still managed to secure the old Eden College ballroom, deciding on a fairy tale theme. Anya was cast, much to her dismay, as Sleeping Beauty.
“Oh my god, Anya, you’d make the perfect Sleeping Beauty!” Becky had squealed, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“I would?” Anya asked skeptically.
“She would?” chimed in Sarina, one of their classmates who used to treat Anya like an outsider but had since softened. “Wouldn’t she make a better Cinderella? You know, rags to riches and all that.”
“No! You’ll be Cinderella since you’re blonde, and I’ll be Snow White because, hello—brunette,” Becky declared, pointing at her own hair.
Anya grimaced. “Pretty sure Sleeping Beauty doesn’t have pink hair.”
“Grace can be Rapunzel since her hair’s so long! And we’ll greet people and serve drinks!” Becky was already knee-deep in her delusional planning.
Anya frowned. “But if I’m Sleeping Beauty… I just lie there, right?”
Becky’s eyes lit up with triumph. “Exactly! You said you didn’t want to be involved, so you get to just lay there!”
And that’s how Anya ended up sitting in front of her mirror, regretting every decision that had led her to this moment. She didn’t want to attend prom, let alone be a prop in it.
Later that night, the seldom-used ballroom had transformed into a sparkling gothic castle, complete with vines, a green smoke machine, and a scent that mixed warm vanilla with woodsy notes. It was beautiful yet haunting, a reflection of Becky’s ambitious vision. But Anya, in her modernized princess dress of black and dark green embellishments and a delicate head chain adorned with lavender gems, could see none of it. She lay on a platform, eyes shut, playing the part of a glorified punchbowl decoration.
Her hair cascaded in perfect curls beneath the head chain that glimmered under the ballroom lights, and her makeup was impeccable, though her eyes remained shut. Could she have actually slept? No, the music was too loud for that.
“What am I supposed to do, exactly?” Anya had asked Becky suspiciously earlier.
“You’ll be asleep on this platform I’ve made, decorated with dark blue and red roses and thorns,” Becky had gushed.
Anya sighed. “Okay, but what happens after? Do I wake up and serve drinks?”
“No, no, you just lay there. It’ll be perfect!” Becky assured her, too swept up in her fantasy to notice Anya’s lack of enthusiasm.
As Anya lay there, she expected to be mocked or worse, but to her surprise, she mostly heard compliments about her dress, her head chain, her hair. And somehow, no one dared touch her, perhaps out of respect for the elaborate setup—or out of fear of Becky’s wrath.
Anya resigned herself to her fate, following Becky’s instructions with the same discipline she used on one of her father’s missions. Maybe the real Sleeping Beauty was also awake and lamenting her role in her story, she mused.
Then, just as she was beginning to relax, a loud pop echoed through the room.
“Oy, Desmond, what the hell!” a voice shouted.
Anya recognized the voice instantly: Logan Ludemann, the senior class heartthrob who had made her tennis practices miserable with his constant, lewd comments. His smugness was as obnoxious as ever.
“Don’t go near her, Ludemann,” came Damian’s voice, sharp and angry.
“How much have you had to drink, Desmond? Playing guard dog by the punchbowl all night?” Logan taunted, stepping closer.
Anya could feel Logan’s presence, his hand hovering near her cheek. The sickly sweet scent of his cologne filled her senses. Just as Logan leaned closer, ready to pull a stunt, Damian snapped.
In an instant, Damian lunged, knocking Logan back. Chaos erupted as Emile and Ewen struggled to pull Damian off Logan, who was now sporting a bloody nose.
“Desmond, if you broke my nose, you’ll pay for this!” Logan hollered, as Bill Watkins dragged him away.
“No surgeon could fix your ugly face, Ludemann!” Damian shot back, still seething as Emile and Ewen released him.
“Sy-on boy?” Anya’s voice broke through the commotion, her eyes now open as she took in the scene. She was the centerpiece of the prom’s decor, literally and figuratively.
Damian turned, his face flushed. He looked sharp in a sleek tuxedo reminiscent of their childhood, but with a more mature edge. His bow tie was askew, and his expression was caught between anger and embarrassment.
“Y-yeah,” Damian muttered, his face reddening as Anya’s concerned gaze met his.
“What happened?” Anya asked, her head still fuzzy from lying down for so long.
“N-nothing! I gotta go!” Damian stammered, turning on his heel and stumbling off in true Damian fashion.
Anya looked to Emile and Ewen for answers.
“Bossman’s been guarding you all night,” Ewen explained simply.
“What? Really? I thought he wasn’t going to come. He called it dumb kiddy stuff,” Anya said, recalling Damian’s usual disdain for anything he deemed beneath him.
“Yeah, but he was the first one here,” Emile said, shrugging.
“And the drinking?” Anya asked, bewildered.
“Becky gave him whiskey shots to relax because he was scaring people off,” Ewen said. “Though I think it just made him more intense.”
Anya sighed, stepping off her platform. “I’ll go find him.”
Eden’s courtyard was quiet, moonlight spilling over the cobblestones as Anya wandered through, her dress sweeping the ground. “Sy-on boy?” she called, searching the familiar corners of the academy.
She found him slumped on a bench in the alcove where they used to play cards as kids. His bow tie was crumpled in his hand, and his posture was one of defeat.
“Damian,” she said softly, sitting beside him. “You don’t always have to come to my rescue, you know.”
Damian huffed, his voice tight. “Yes, I do. Anyone could have done anything to you up there.” He glanced away, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what you and Blackbell were thinking.”
Anya smiled, realizing just how much he had been looking out for her. “I can tell you what I’m thinking now if that helps?”
Damian turned, expecting a witty retort, but instead, Anya cupped his face with her hands, pulling him close.
“A-Anya, wh—” he started, but Anya silenced him with a kiss. It was soft, warm, and perfect—a gesture that spoke louder than any words could.
“Thank you,” Anya whispered when they parted, her hand still resting against his jaw. “Seriously, thank you. I know you didn’t want to be here any more than I did.”
Damian groaned, then dipped his head to kiss her again, losing himself in the moment.
An hour later, they returned to the ballroom, hand in hand. The room still sparkled with Becky’s vision, though the atmosphere had mellowed.
“Oh look who it is!” Becky grinned, her eyes gleaming as she noticed their clasped hands. “Are Sleeping Beauty and Prince Not-So-Charming finally together?”
Before Damian could retort, Anya squeezed his hand. “Yes, I think so.”
Damian blushed, squeezing back. “Yeah, anything for you, Stubby Legs,” he said with a grin, unable to hide his happiness.
“Whoo hoo!” Emile cheered.
“Let’s go dance!” Ewen announced, pushing Anya and Damian toward the dance floor, Becky and Emile flanking them.
“Guess we don’t have a choice?” Damian glanced at Anya, sheepish.
Anya laughed. “Guess not. Maybe prom isn’t so bad after all.”
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