Chapter 1
Mariella’s P.O.V
The sun blared through my window like it had a personal vendetta against me.
“Fuck off,” I muttered, dragging the pillow over my face. A creak from the hallway. Light footsteps. Only one person alive sucked this bad at sneaking.
“You’re not gonna find my stash, Beau,” I mumbled into the cushions. “Give up before I launch this pillow at your head.”
The soft patter of bare feet came closer.
“You’re a really mean sister, you know that?” Beau’s voice giggled right before he threw himself across me like a sloth on caffeine.
Beau — Beaufort Kingsley, age ten, chaos incarnate — tangled himself around me like a human backpack. And as much as I huffed and groaned, I couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my lips.
Unlike most siblings, we didn’t want to kill each other. Just… maybe threaten bodily harm for fun.
Groaning, I peeled myself off the couch, dragging my human barnacle with me. We’d fallen asleep here after a sugar-fueled horror movie marathon. My joints popped in protest as we shuffled toward the kitchen.
I usually slept in the Den — my little slice of heaven out back — but sometimes it was nice to crash close to Beau. He always slept better when I was nearby. Since Dad died, he’d started sneaking into my room more often. Not that I blamed him.
He vanished to get dressed while I poured cereal and dumped milk with reckless abandon. Coco Pops overflowed the bowl. Close enough.
I slipped outside while he ate, the chill morning air nipping at my bare arms.
Our backyard was small, nothing fancy — just grass, wildflowers, and a crooked wooden fence. But in the corner stood my castle: the Den. A stone mini-house wrapped in ivy, old vines, and tangled roses. A little wild. A little forgotten. Kinda like me.
The Harley I’d been fixing up sat gleaming in the morning light. Next to it, my punching bag swayed in the breeze.
Fishing the spare key from under the unicorn statue (don’t judge me), I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The scent of rose oil, vinyl, and lingering incense wrapped around me like armor. This was my world — my sanctuary.
Band posters covered the walls, framed like sacred relics. My four-poster bed — carved mahogany with black curtains — waited at the back like a throne. Satin sheets, blood-red duvet, crimson-spattered pillows. Pure aesthetic chaos.
The vanity gleamed. My bookshelf sagged. My closet? Monstrous. My bathroom? Black marble, waterfall shower, blood-colored tub. Dad’s sound booth was still here, tucked into the corner like a secret I couldn’t let go of.
Since he passed, Mom worked three jobs to keep things running. She barely slept, barely smiled. When she was home, she wasn’t really home — just a shadow of who she used to be. So I stayed out here. Out of the way. Out of sight.
I moved on instinct, grabbing makeup, clothes, perfume. Today wasn’t just about showing up.
Today was about arrival.
No more fat jokes. No more invisibility. No more soft, scared Mariella. I’d lost 130 pounds since May. Through pure will, sweat, and rage. I didn’t want approval. I wanted silence — the kind that falls when predators walk into the room.
I pulled on my black lace bralette and matching thong. Wiggled into ripped jeans that clung like sin. My ‘NERD’ crop top flashed my belly ring and the vine tattoo that curled from rib to hip.
Twin braids, smoky eye, razor-sharp liner, red lips. My eyes — that freaky bright silver — practically glowed when the light hit them right. I didn’t tone it down.
I enhanced the myth.
Doc Martens. Jacket. Helmet.
This year, I wasn’t crawling into school like a ghost begging not to be seen.
I was walking in like a storm.
Let them stare. Let them whisper.
I’d spent four years at Briarwood being teased, mocked, dismissed. For my size. For my brain. For being different.
And now?
Now they’d have to learn a new lesson.
My name is Mariella Kingsley.
And this year, I’m not just here.
I’m unforgettable.
