Chapter 2 - The calm before the claws

Melrose Wexley didn't wake up to alarms. She woke up to luxury.

Her four-poster bed was draped in blush pink silk. Her Pomeranian, Chanel, barked like a socialite denied front-row seats. Three stylists circled her like she was royalty under siege. One filed her nails into perfect almond tips. Another adjusted her honey-blonde hair into soft, villainous waves. A third ironed the seventh outfit option for her birthday entrance.

"Too gold?" she asked no one in particular, squinting at her reflection.

"It's giving goddess," one of them said.

"It's giving wealth," another added.

Melrose smiled lazily, satisfied. "Good. I want people to remember this party for the rest of their miserable little lives."

She reached for her phone, ignoring the fifty-plus messages buzzing in her VIP birthday planning chat. Her finger hovered over the RSVP list.

127 confirmed. 14 maybes. 2 declined.

She scrolled past the names like they were insignificant footnotes — until one caught her eye: Rachel Peters — attending.

Her lips twitched. "Cute. She thinks she's brave now."

Just as she was about to text her PR girl about rooftop lighting, a new message lit up her screen.

 Unknown Number: I can't wait for your birthday.

No emoji. No name. Just seven words.

She stared at it for a beat too long.

Then shrugged. Probably a jealous nobody. Or some obsessed freshman dying for attention.

Still, she blocked the number. Then smiled — sharp and glossy — and moved on.

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VALEMOUNT UNIVERSITY – EARLIER

Valemount's campus was abuzz.

Not because of finals. Not because of one of Dr. Trent's infamous "mental health" sabbaticals.

Because Melrose Wexley was throwing a party.

The kind of party that got you noticed. The kind that ruined reputations, ended friendships, and made you trend for all the wrong reasons. The kind of party that mattered.

Flyers — digitally and mysteriously distributed — had landed in the phones of every dangerously bored rich kid, every wannabe influencer, and every social climber with decent lighting.

Snapchats were flying. Instagram DMs were exploding. Even professors looked the other way when whispers of "Melrose's rooftop" echoed through the lecture halls.

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CITY MALL – 3:12PM

Olivia Brown and her girls weren't just shopping — they were preparing for battle.

She, Rayna, and Cleo stormed through the luxury mall like it was a runway-slash-war zone, their heels clicking with purpose.

"I swear, if she wears another baby-pink corset, I'm gonna puke glitter," Cleo muttered, flipping through a rack of metallic mini dresses.

"Her whole vibe screams prom queen with a vendetta," Olivia said coolly. "I'm going for cold, untouchable, and maybe legally intimidating."

Rayna held up a black mesh dress. "This says 'try me, I dare you,' but fashionably."

"Perfect." Olivia grinned.

They tried on outfits like armor, stepping out of fitting rooms with narrowed eyes and sharp tongues. Every mirror was a war council. Every accessory, a threat.

"Remember Harper's party last year?" Cleo asked, adjusting her strappy heels. "He threw up in the pool and blamed it on the lifeguard."

"And let's not forget Kendra's blackout-on-the-buffet moment," Rayna added.

"Classic Valemount," Olivia said. "This year? We survive with style. No mistakes. No tears. Just slay."

They paid in black cards and sarcasm, walking out with enough designer power to bankrupt a mid-tier influencer.

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WEXLEY ESTATE — 6:15PM

Melrose stood in front of her full-length mirror, now alone.

The stylists were gone. The chaos was quiet. Only her reflection remained — chin high, posture flawless, expression carved from the kind of stone that costs six figures.

Her silk robe shimmered in the golden lighting. But her scowl ruined the softness.

Melrose sat cross-legged on her pink velvet couch, scrolling through Instagram with the same energy ancient queens used to approve executions.

"Olivia and her minions better come prepared, 'cause I will show them who the real queen is," she muttered.

Her latest post — a glam photo of her in a mirror with red lipstick and crown filters — was blowing up. The comments were about war zones.

#liv_B# – Go to hell, bitch

#bee_bae# – The Real Queen Bee is HERE

#Mira_cle# – Make way for Melrose Wexley, please

#Rianna# – Olivia eat some sht, please*

#liz_zy# – The Real Queen is still Olivia Brown

#Ry_an# – One night stand pls

Then, the final comment made her freeze.

#Olivia_Brown# – Keep trying, bitch. You're nothing beside me.

Melrose's nostrils flared. Her lips curled into a smile. The kind that promised violence in couture.

She typed fast:

> @MelroseWexley: In your dreams, bitch. Let's see how tomorrow goes.

They both had the same number of followers on Instagram and TikTok — 2.2M each. Their fans were as unhinged as they were loyal. And messy. And obsessed.

Melrose replied to Olivia's little fan army one by one, dropping burns sharper than her manicure.

Then she switched over to Olivia's page.

 A new post. Mall. Designer bags. Filtered sunlight. Three girls walking in slow motion.

Caption:

> #We are gonna make some bitch cry soon#

Melrose laughed once — quiet and dark.

Then she stood, walked to the mirror, and stared at herself. Chin high. Expression carved in expensive stone.

Her phone buzzed again — a reminder from her planner:

BIRTHDAY: TOMORROW. ROOFTOP. BLOOD MOON. 9PM.

She picked up her phone. Opened the front camera. Snapped a selfie — hair tousled, lips smirking, eyes blazing.

> Caption:

Let the countdown begin. 15 hours 45 minutes to now and the Queen walks on the red carpet

She hit post.

And the countdown began.

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