Tuesday was a gift, no classes, no social obligations, just me and my room and the blissful absence of having to perform for anyone.
Now it’s Wednesday, and I’m slouched in my usual seat in chem lab, watching the door like I’m waiting for a bomb to go off.
Portia’s not here yet.
The empty stool next to mine feels weirdly significant. Like the universe is holding its breath. I tap my pen against my notebook, the rhythm keeping time with my scattered thoughts.
I should be anxious. After the limo incident, the screaming, the whole “you’ll regret this” speech she delivered before peeling out of my neighborhood, yeah, I should definitely be bracing for some kind of nuclear retaliation.
But I’m not.
Actually, I’m kind of curious what she’s going to do next.
The realization hits me as I’m sitting here, and it’s so bizarre that I almost laugh. Portia Royce, billionaire psycho with control issues, is somehow... entertaining? Like watching a really unpredictable reality show where you have no idea what insane thing is going to happen next.
Maybe it’s because her tantrums are so over-the-top that they loop back around to being funny. Or maybe it’s because I’m so emotionally exhausted from everything with Ashley that Portia’s chaos feels refreshing by comparison. At least with Portia, I know exactly where I stand: she wants to own me, and I keep saying no, and she loses her shit in spectacular fashion.
It’s simple and straightforward.
The door swings open and Portia walks in.
She’s dressed immaculately as always. Her purple hair is perfectly styled, asymmetrical and striking. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence at all as she crosses the room.
She sits down on the stool next to mine with this deliberate grace, setting her expensive bag on the counter. Still nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.
I wait. My pen’s still tapping against my notebook, but I force myself to stop. The silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded with whatever game she’s playing now.
“Loser,” she whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.
I don’t react. Don’t give her the satisfaction. I just sit there, staring at the blank worksheet in front of me. Waiting.
She sighs, long and dramatic. “What’s today’s experiment?”
I point at the worksheet without looking at her. My finger lands on the title: “Acid-Base Titration Lab.”
The door opens again, and a girl I vaguely recognize from another section walks in late, hurrying to find her partner. She’s wearing a sundress, something flowy and feminine with a floral pattern.
Portia makes this disgusted sound in the back of her throat. I glance at her and catch her staring at the girl with this look of contempt.
“You’re such a fucking pansy,” Portia says, her voice low but sharp. “Maybe you should try wearing a dress like her.”
I blink at her, trying to figure out where the hell that came from. “What?”
But she’s already turning away, pulling the worksheet toward her and starting to read through the procedure.
Okay then.
I grab the equipment we need from the supply cabinet while Portia sets up the burette. We work in silence, the only sounds the clink of glassware and the scratch of pen on paper as we record our initial observations.
I’m measuring out the sodium hydroxide solution when I notice something’s off.
Portia’s gone completely still. Her hand’s frozen halfway to the indicator bottle, and she’s just... staring. Not at the equipment. Not at the worksheet.
At me.
I glance up, and her face is flushed. Like, actually red. The color spreads from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing under the collar of her designer blouse. Her amber eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and there’s this weird intensity in them that makes my skin prickle.
“Portia?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
She doesn’t respond. Her gaze flicks away from me to the girl in the sundress across the room, then back to me. Back to the girl. Back to me. Like she’s comparing something.
Her lips part slightly, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she breathes out, but her voice sounds strangled. She’s gripping the edge of the lab counter so hard her knuckles are white.
She’s breathing harder now, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow movements. Whatever’s happening in her head right now is clearly not something she planned for.
“You’re being so weird, Portia.”
Her head snaps toward me, and the look she gives me could melt steel. “Shut the fuck up,” she hisses through gritted teeth.
Before I can respond, she’s yanking her phone out of her bag with trembling fingers. She unlocks it and starts typing, her thumbs moving across the screen with frantic energy. She’s completely ignoring me now, hunched over the device like it’s the only thing in the room.
I turn back to my lab setup, trying to focus on the task at hand. I start following the instructions and putting drops of liquid into the glass.
But the sound of Portia’s typing is distracting as hell. Her fingers are flying across the screen like she’s possessed. It’s been going on for at least a couple of minutes now.
What the hell is she even doing? Is she talking shit about me?
I’m about to add another drop when I hear it.
A small sound. Wet. Like a drip hitting the counter.
I glance over.
“Huh?”
There’s blood dripping onto the black lab table, dark red droplets spreading across the surface.
My eyes track upward.
Portia’s staring at her phone, completely dumbfounded. Both of her nostrils are bleeding, twin streams of red running down over her lips and dripping off her chin. Her face has gone from flushed to this impossible shade of crimson that looks almost painful.
“Portia, you’re…”
I lean over to see what could possibly have this effect on her, and my eyes land on her phone screen.
It’s an AI-generated image. Of me. Wearing a frilly pink dress with lace trim and ribbons.
“What the fuck?” The words come out before I can stop them, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. It’s so ridiculous I feel stunned.
“NOOOOOOOO!”
Portia’s scream cuts through the quiet lab. Before I can process what’s happening, she’s slamming her phone down onto the table. Screen first. The crack is audible, loud enough that half the class turns to look.
She lifts it and slams it down again. And again. The glass shatters, pieces scattering across the black surface, mixing with the blood droplets. She’s destroying it with the kind of violence usually reserved for horror movies.
“Portia, stop!”
The words barely leave my mouth before she’s moving. She grabs her bag in one fluid motion, the expensive leather swinging wildly as she bolts for the door.
The door slams behind her with enough force that the windows rattle.
I’m left sitting there, surrounded by shattered phone glass and blood splatter that looks like evidence from a crime scene. The entire class has gone silent. Every single person is staring at me now. Some with their mouths hanging open. Others with this mixture of horror and fascination.
“Did she just smash her phone...” someone whispers from the back.
I can’t stop the thought that pushes its way through my brain despite everything.
No matter what happens with Portia Royce, one thing’s absolutely certain.
She’s never boring.
Portia: