Chapter 3: Official Enemies

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The Alcott and Vale mansions sat side by side on Beacon Hill like two grand old ladies sharing gossip over tea. Built in the 1920s by business partners who'd wanted their families to remain close, the houses were separated by nothing more than a narrow strip of manicured gardens and an ornate wrought-iron fence that had never been meant to keep anyone out.

Vivian's bedroom window faced directly toward Tristan's, close enough that they could have watched each other sleep if they'd wanted to. Which, thankfully, they never had.

What they had done, over the years, was develop their own communication system that would have impressed the CIA. It had started innocently enough when they were kids:

Tools: a mini whiteboard with markers, two jars of smooth river stones, and matching brass bells hung just outside their windows. 

Instruction: Throw a stone at the bell to get attention, hold up the whiteboard to send a message. 

Simple, efficient, completely invisible to parents and absolutely harmless to any guards' attention!

The system had served them well through years as Vivian's gadgets were taken away by her mom almost every night. Their conversations' content? Sometimes about shared homework answers (Tristian always asked), sometimes about gossip at school and sometimes friendly mocking.

It had been their secret lifeline, the only way they found connection to each other under no interference from the adults. 

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Now, lying still on her bed with her phone confiscated, Vivian had never wanted to throw something so badly in her life.

The sharp ting of a stone hitting her bell made her look up from her misery. Through the window, she could see Tristan's silhouette behind his curtains, and sure enough, there was his whiteboard pressed against the glass.

"Can we talk?"

Vivian felt her jaw clench. She grabbed her own board and scribbled furiously before holding it up.

"About what? Your big mouth?"

Even from across the garden, she could see him flinch. Good. Let him feel like shit for five minutes. He deserved it after what he'd put her through.

His next message came quickly: "Why did you do that to me?"

Vivian felt her blood boil. He was blaming her? After what he'd done?

She grabbed her marker and wrote even more furiously: "ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?"

His response was immediate: "You threw me under the bus! Made me look like an idiot!"

"You DID that yourself!" she scribbled back, her handwriting getting messier with each word. "I saved both our asses and you're mad at me??"

"You made me sound crazy! Like I made everything up!"

That was it. Vivian grabbed the biggest stone from her jar and hurled it at his bell so hard she thought she might break the window. The sound echoed through the night like a gunshot.

She held up her board one more time: "Stop dragging me down!"

Then she slammed her window shut and yanked the curtains closed.

But Tristan wasn't done. Ting. Ting. Ting. Stone after stone hit her bell, each one making her angrier. She tried to ignore it, grabbing her backup phone, which little Vivian purchased using money she saved from tutoring math others sneakily, and throwing herself onto her bed.

Beep… beep... beep…

"You're here, there's nothing I fear

And I know that my heart will go on

We'll stay forever this way

You are safe in my heart and my heart will go on and on" 

(Madison's phone bell - My Heart Will Go on, Céline Dion)

Beep… beep... beep…

"Madison? It's me. Yes, I know it's late. Listen, I need to tell you what happened tonight..."

But the window bell kept ringing. Ting. Ting. Ting.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She marched to her window and threw it open, ready to scream at him to shut up.

Instead, she held up her middle finger straight up to the sky, making sure he could see it clearly in the moonlight. Then she grabbed her bell from its hook outside the window and brought it inside, slamming the window shut with enough force to rattle the glass.

The silence that followed was deafening.

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The next morning at Whitmore Academy, both Vivian and Tristan looked like pandas who'd lost a fight with a makeup artist. Dark circles under their eyes, hair slightly less perfect than usual, and the kind of exhausted irritation that comes from a sleepless night spent being angry.

Breaktime

Vivian was attempting to focus on her French literature essay when she heard the familiar sound of Tristan's voice echoing from the courtyard below. She probably should have ignored it, but something in his tone made her look up from her laptop.

"...completely insane if you think I'd ever..." Tristan was saying, his voice carrying that particular edge he got when he was really pissed off. 

Vivian could see him standing near the fountain with his usual crowd – James, Marcus, and a few other guys from the lacrosse team. They were all grinning like they'd just heard the best joke of their lives. She was deadly curious like an orange cat (ginger hair Vivian). But curiosity kills the cat!

"Come on, man," James was saying, loud enough that half the courtyard could hear. "Everyone saw you two sneaking off together last night. Very romantic, running away from the ball..."

"It wasn't romantic!" Tristan snapped. "God, you guys are such idiots. It was nothing, okay? We just went outside for air and got caught. End of story."

Marcus laughed. "Sure, bro. That's why you both looked like you'd been rolling around intimately in the dirt when they dragged you back in."

Vivian felt her cheeks burn. She should have closed her laptop and walked away, but she found herself frozen in place, listening as Tristan dug himself deeper.

"Look, I don't know what Vivian was thinking, but I was just trying to be nice. She was being all dramatic about the party, complaining about everything, so I went along with it. That's what you do when girls get emotional, right? You just nod and agree until they calm down."

The words hit her like a slap. Emotional? Dramatic? She'd trusted him with her feelings, and now he was reducing them to some kind of female hysteria for his friends' entertainment.

"Oh, so you were just being a gentleman," James said with a smirk. "How noble of you, putting up with Princess Alcott's tantrum."

"Exactly. And honestly? I'm done with it. Done with her constant negativity, done with her thinking she's better than everyone else just because her family has money. Like, we all have money, Vivian. Get over yourself."

Vivian's hands clenched into fists. The conversation was attracting more attention now – other students were slowing down to listen, some not even bothering to hide their interest.

"So what you're saying is," Marcus grinned, "you'd rather eat glass than be stuck with Vivian Alcott again?"

"I'd rather eat broken glass while on fire than waste another minute of my life pretending to care about her problems," Tristan said, his voice carrying across the courtyard like a public announcement. "Trust me, there's not enough money in the world to make me voluntarily spend time with that—"

"Finish that sentence, I DARE YOU."

The voice was ice-cold and perfectly projected. Every head in the courtyard turned to see Vivian standing at the top of the stone steps, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder and her expression deadly calm.

She descended the steps with the kind of measured grace that made people instinctively step out of her way. When she reached the bottom, she was flanked by Madison, Sophie, and Emma – her own inner circle, who had appeared as if summoned by some kind of rich-girl telepathy.

"Please," Vivian continued, her voice carrying just enough volume to ensure everyone could hear, "don't let me interrupt. You were saying something about broken glass?"

Tristan's face had gone pale, but his friends were still smirking like they thought this was all some kind of game.

"Just being honest," he said, trying to salvage some dignity. "I think we both know we're better off keeping our distance."

Vivian smiled. It was the same smile her mother used at charity galas right before she destroyed someone's reputation. "Oh, I couldn't agree more. In fact, I think the entire school should know exactly where we stand."

She turned to address the growing crowd of students who had gathered to watch the drama unfold. "Since there seems to be some confusion about last night's events, let me clarify. Tristan and I are not friends. We will never be friends. And anyone who thinks there's some kind of romance brewing between us clearly needs to get their eyes checked."

Her crew backed her up like a gospel choir, "Get your eyes checked!"

Madison stepped forward, her phone already in her hand. "Should I post this on the school Instagram? I feel like people need to know not to waste time with matchmaking attempts."

"That's a wonderful idea," Vivian said, never breaking eye contact with Tristan. "In fact, let's make it official. I, Vivian Alcott, formally declare that Tristan Vale is dead to me. If you're friends with him, you're not friends with me. If you invite him to a party, don't bother inviting me. Consider this a public service announcement."

The courtyard had gone completely silent. This was the kind of social nuclear warfare that could reshape the entire school's social landscape, and everyone knew it.

Tristan stared at her for a moment, and she could see the exact moment he realized she was serious. His face hardened, and when he spoke, his voice matched her tone exactly.

"Fine by me. I'd rather spend my time with people who don't need a team of therapists to handle basic human interaction."

"And I'd rather spend mine with people who don't run their mouths the second things get difficult," Vivian shot back.

They stood there for another beat, the air between them crackling with the kind of tension that makes everyone else uncomfortable. Then Vivian turned on her heel and walked away, her friends falling into formation around her like a perfectly choreographed retreat.

Behind her, she could hear Tristan's voice: "You heard her, guys. War it is."

By lunch, the entire school knew that Vivian Alcott and Tristan Vale – former golden pair of Whitmore Academy's elite social circle – were now officially enemies. The news spread through the halls like wildfire, dividing friends and forcing people to choose sides in a conflict that promised to be legendary.

And that night, as Vivian sat in her room listening to the absolute silence from across the garden – no stones hitting windows, no bells ringing, no whiteboards pressed against glass – little did she know that their parents were already making phone calls. Quiet, careful conversations about "p**chological evaluations" and "com********** assessments" that would soon turn their teenage drama into something much more serious.

Also, little did she know the idea that in two weeks, her world would be turned upside down by a transfer student with dark eyes and a smile that made her forget, for the first time in years, that she was supposed to be miserable.

But for now, there was only silence. And the strange feeling that this war was just the beginning of something much bigger than either of them could imagine.