Danger in Soft Focus

He woke up to the taste of ash in his mouth. His head throbbed like someone had driven a nail through his temple. Clothes from last night still clung to his body, rumpled and stained. The apartment stank of spilled liquor and stale regret. Light bled through the windows—too bright, too cruel.

He didn't remember getting home.

But he remembered her.

"You were just a pastime," Maya had said. And the way she looked at him—like he was beneath her, like all those nights, all those secrets, were a joke—that memory refused to blur.

He sat up, palms over his face, bile rising in the back of his throat. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

A crash from the living room jolted him.

His father's voice, furious and cracking: "From Thompson royalty to a goddamn doormat!"

Eddie pushed himself to his feet, body aching like it had been through a war. He staggered into the living room.

Nathaniel Thompson stood in front of the wide TV screen, jabbing at it like it had personally betrayed him.

The headline stared back:

THOMPSON DYNASTY HUMILIATED: FROM KING TO CLUB CLOWN.

Subhead: Scandalous photos of heir Eddie Thompson surface after nightclub disaster. Once a legacy, now a liability.

Nathaniel turned on him. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

"I didn't leak the photos."

"You put yourself in the position! You let that girl drag you into her circus!"

"She didn't—" Eddie's voice caught in his throat. "I trusted her."

"She's a stain. Everyone knows Maya Sinclair's a walking disaster—"

"You mean she's bad for your image," Eddie snapped, voice raw. "That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"You're the heir! Your image is the business!"

"Yeah? Then maybe you should've made Damien your heir."

The silence after that was suffocating.

And then his father said it—slow, deliberate, like a knife pushed in without flinching. "At least Damien understands what's at stake. You think I built this empire so you could throw it away over some girl?"

Something inside Eddie cracked.

"Damien likes her too."

Nathaniel's expression didn't flicker.

"He's smarter than you. Knows how to handle people. Knows how to keep personal distractions personal."

Eddie's fists clenched at his sides.

"I'm not him," he whispered. "I'm not Damien. No matter what I do, I'll never be him. You don't want a son. You want a clone."

"You think life's fair?" his father shot back. "You think I wanted two sons and only one worth passing the crown to?"

The words hit like a slap. He didn't even flinch. Just stared at his father, heart bleeding behind his ribs.

"I've spent my whole life trying to be what you wanted. The grades. The suits. The meetings. And still—still—I'm not enough."

He felt it now. All of it. The bitterness. The exhaustion. The goddamn futility of chasing approval that never came.

"I could burn myself alive just to keep you warm and you'd still complain about the smoke."

His father said nothing.

Eddie pulled out his phone and opened the message.

He held it up.

Vic's name. The text.

Hope you like the headlines. Should've kept your bitch on a leash, bro.

Nathaniel read it. His jaw tensed.

"You're telling me he did this?"

"He sold the photos. Laughed about it."

Nathaniel swore under his breath, storming across the room. "His father was about to finalize a deal with us."

"Was."

Eddie's voice was flat. Hollow. He was too tired to feel satisfaction.

The phone was slammed down. The deal was terminated. And just like that, something shifted in the room. The power. The blame.

But Eddie didn't feel like he'd won.

He felt empty.

His mother lingered in the hallway, silent. Watching. Like she always did.

Meanwhile—across town—the tension was just as thick, but colder. Quieter.

Maya sat across from Luna and Sally in a booth at their favorite little café, the kind with chipped pastel paint and sugar packets tossed across the table like confetti.

Luna hadn't spoken a word since sitting down.

Sally sipped her drink. "So. You gonna explain why we're being nice to you again?"

Maya didn't flinch. She placed her phone on the table and opened her gallery.

Photos. Messages. A few pixelated screenshots of a younger woman—her mother—and a familiar predator's smirk stamped across Vic's face.

"He's been threatening me with these," she said quietly. "Nudes of my mom, maybe she slept with him , and he's been using them to control me."

Sally's lips parted. "Wait—that's why—?"

"I never wanted any of this. But I can't take it anymore. So if you're in, I need help."

Luna finally broke her silence. "What's the plan?"

Maya straightened. "We give him a taste of his own poison. Vic's father—he's powerful, well-connected, and worse than his son. But he's also got a weak spot."

"And you think you're it," Sally said with a slow grin.

"Not me," Maya said, lips curling with just the right hint of poison. "The girl he thinks I am."

Luna leaned in. "So what do we do?"

"We stage a casual meeting. One of his favorite restaurants. I charm him, subtly. Just enough to get his attention".

"You're playing a dangerous game," Luna warned.

Maya shrugged. "I've been losing the safe one."

Two days later.

She spotted him before he saw her—Vic's father. Mid-fifties, sharp suit, slicked-back hair that tried too hard to forget its age. She walked in like she didn't even know he was there. Just a girl grabbing a coffee. Casual. Harmless.

His gaze landed on her. Lingering.

She "accidentally" dropped her lipstick as she passed his table.

"Oh!" she turned, eyes wide, voice soft. "I'm such a klutz…"

He handed it back. Warm smile. Slight lean forward.

She looked up through her lashes. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Delacroix."

She extended her hand with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—slow, deliberate, like every move had been rehearsed before a mirror. Fingertips brushed his palm first, then her grip followed—light, lingering, a whisper of contact.

"I'm Elle," she said, voice honeyed and soft, tilting her head just enough to let her hair fall over one shoulder. "It's a pleasure… Mr Delacroix "

And just like that, the hook was in.

At school, everything changed—but only beneath the surface.

To Vic, Maya still looked like the broken version of herself.

She kept her eyes down when he passed. Flinched when he brushed too close. Sat on the far end of the cafeteria, alone, chewing on her straw like it was a nervous habit.

But every move was rehearsed. Every breath calculated.

She let him corner her at her locker.

"You've been quiet," he smirked, hand brushing the metal beside her head.

She didn't meet his eyes. "Just tired."

"Tired of pretending, or tired of lying to your little friends?"

"No one believes me anyway."

Vic laughed, low and cruel. "Good girl."

He walked away, smug, and didn't see the way her fingers uncurled—steadily, silently—as if releasing something dead from her palm.