Chapter 1

Leon Henderson and I grew up together. We were inseparable and true childhood friends.

When I transferred back to his school at seventeen, I discovered that a mysterious girl had captured his heart.

No one ever realized that the unattainable dream girl he'd been longing for all these years was me all along.

All of Leon's friends knew his crush was a gentle, perceptive little angel.

She was the kind of girl who would slip her umbrella into his hands on a rainy day and then dash into the downpour herself.

When he got hurt playing ball, she quietly handed him cotton balls and Band-Aids without a word.

When he failed a test, she stayed by his side, comforting him softly, like a light guiding him through the darkest moments.

Everyone admired her kindness and purity. She was the soft spot Leon kept hidden deep in his heart.

But the truth was the complete opposite.

I slipped him the umbrella on purpose, watching him squirm with guilt.

His injury? I had tampered with the soles of his sports shoes so I could swoop in later and play the caring angel.

His failure in the test? I hid his study notes, making him rely on me even more.

I built the perfect image of his dream girl, and he was completely under my spell.

Lately, a girl who called herself Leon's "best bro" had been hanging around him. She acted carefree and cheerful, but she was skilled at stealing other people's crushes.

Now she had her eyes on Leon, who was rich and handsome. She clung to him, acting sweet and innocent while secretly trying to drive a wedge between us.

Everyone else regarded her as a simple, happy-go-lucky girl, but I see through her schemes.

After all, when it came to playing the gentle, angelic girl, I was far better at this than she would ever be.

Next, it was time for me, his real crush, to show her how to maintain this image.

*****

June in Nousiville was steaming hot, like a sauna. I stood outside Leon's villa, dragging my suitcase. My phone still displayed the message he'd sent half an hour ago.

Leon: [Emelia, have you arrived? I haven't seen you in three years.]

I glanced at the contact name "Leon" on my phone and couldn't help but smile.

It had been three years.

Three years ago, when my dad got a job transfer, I had to pack up and leave Nousiville with him. We left so suddenly that I didn't even get the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Back then, Leon stood outside my building, his eyes red. At fourteen, he was already 6 feet tall, shouting like an idiot, "You know what, Emelia? You're the most important person to me."

I sat in the car, waving at him and shedding enough tears so that he would remember me for the next three years.

Now that I was back, I was transferring to Nousiville Academy for my twelfth grade.

Not to sound petty, but I needed to see for myself if the perfect image I had carefully crafted all these years had been altered in my absence.

I had barely pressed the doorbell when the door was suddenly yanked open from the inside.

"Emelia!" Leon stood in the doorway. He wore a simple white T-shirt, his hair a little longer than I remembered, but his features were the same. He had thick eyebrows, a sharp nose, and a jawline so defined that it could cut through the wind.

He was taller than he'd been three years ago. His shoulders grew broader, and he had lost that boyish look. Now he carried a magnetic, almost predatory presence that made it hard to look away.

But those eyes of his, still as bright as ever, were fixed on me.

He looked like a golden retriever, lost for three years, suddenly spotting his owner at the door.

"Why are you so skinny?" he frowned, taking my suitcase right out of my hand. "What's your dad been feeding you? Your face is much slimmer."

"It's the summer, melting right off me," I replied with a grin, looking up at him. "Leon, you've shot up so much."

The tips of his ears turned pink as he looked away. "Come in. It's cooler inside."

I followed him inside, my eyes subtly scanning the living room.

By the entryway, a clear umbrella hung on the hook, its handle wrapped in a faded blue ribbon. That was the one I'd "slipped" to him three years ago.

On the coffee table sat a metal box, packed neatly with Band-Aids and cotton balls, the very same brand I had used all those years ago.

I lowered my gaze, mentally giving myself a score of 90.

I docked 10 points because he had left all that stuff out in plain sight. It was too obvious, as if I were some kind of museum exhibit rather than his crush.

"Where's your mom?" I asked, changing the subject.

"She's at the salon, and my dad's on a business trip," he replied, leaning my suitcase against the wall. Then he went to the fridge and pulled out a box of strawberries. "I remembered you love these, so I had them delivered this morning."

I took the strawberries, my fingers brushing the back of his hand by accident.

He jerked back a little but tried to play it cool, shoving his hand into his pocket.

I pretended not to notice, lowering my head to bite into a strawberry. The sweet juice burst on my tongue.

"Leon, I don't really know anyone in Nousiville anymore," I said, looking up at him with the right touch of vulnerability in my eyes. "I might have to lean on you a lot from now on."

His Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice dropped. "Come on. You can always rely on—"

Before he could finish, footsteps echoed from upstairs.

"Leon, do you have any yogurt? I want some," a voice shouted.

A girl with a high ponytail bounded down the stairs. She wore an oversized hoodie with sleeves so long that they swallowed her hands, with her fingertips barely peeking out.

She had that bright, carefree grin that screamed "good buddy," but when she spotted me, her steps faltered for a moment.

"Who's this?" she asked, tilting her head and giving me a once-over. Then she turned to Leon with a teasing grin. "Leon, is this your girlfriend? How come you never mentioned her?"

Leon frowned. "Cut it out. This is Emelia. We grew up together."

"Oh," she drawled, acting as if she had gotten it. "So you're the one he's always talking—"

"Greta," Leon interrupted, his tone carrying a warning.

Greta stuck out her tongue, feigning innocence as if she'd said something wrong. Then she reached out her hand to me. "Hey, I'm Greta Mitchell. I'm Leon's best bro. You're his childhood friend, right? Guess that makes us friends now!"

Best bro?

I glanced at her outstretched hand, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

Her hand was extended so casually, but it happened to block my reach for the strawberries. The way she positioned herself, right between Leon and me, created a subtle barrier, keeping us apart.

She was staking her claim without a word.

I mentally labeled her a beginner-level "angelic bitch." Her tactics were obvious, but she had the audacity to pull them off.

I took her hand with a gentle squeeze. My palm was soft and cool, carrying the kind of warmth that instinctively made people want to protect me.

"Hi, I'm Emelia Langley," I said, my smile subtle, not bright and dazzling, but a small curve with my eyes lowered like crescents. "Leon's mentioned you to me."

Greta froze for a moment.

I could almost hear her thoughts: I didn't say anything wrong, did I? Why did her smile make my skin crawl?

I let go of Greta's hand and turned to Leon. "Hey, Leon, is my old room still there? I want to head upstairs and unpack my stuff," I said, sounding casual, as if I were asking about the weather.

"Yeah, it's still yours. I already tidied it up, and the sheets are all new," he replied without thinking. Then it hit him. "Wait, you're staying over? I thought you were stopping by for a bit."

"My dad's still sorting out our new place in Nousiville, and the utilities aren't even hooked up yet. I don't have anywhere to stay tonight," I mumbled with my head down, feeling a bit awkward. "If it's a hassle, I can book a hotel."

"No way," he blurted out, sounding almost panicked, like I'd stepped on his tail. "Why would you stay at a hotel? Whenever your house was empty, you always stayed here. Remember?"

Greta blinked. "Leon, Emelia's a girl. Isn't it kinda inappropriate for her to crash at your place?"

She really put it neatly.

On the surface, she was looking out for me, but in fact, she was dropping a hint to Leon that we were not little kids anymore. Having a girl stay over wasn't proper.

I glanced at Greta.

Her expression was pure and guileless, as if she were saying something perfectly normal.

But I saw right through her. She was waiting for Leon to realize and then "thoughtfully" suggest I stay at a hotel. That way, she'd look considerate, and I'd be quietly moved out of the picture.

I let out a soft sigh and lowered my voice so only Leon could hear. "Yeah, I guess I forgot. We're not kids anymore. Maybe I should go—"

"Greta, you're overthinking it," Leon cut me off, his tone a bit colder. "Emelia's staying in the guest room, and I'm in the master bedroom. We're separated by two walls.

"She's been staying at my place since we were kids, and my mom kept a room for her."

He paused and then added, "Mind your own business."

Greta's smile froze for a split second.

It was so brief that Leon didn't notice, but I caught it.

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. As I passed Greta, I leaned closer enough to murmur in a low voice meant only for her.

"Nice hoodie. That's Leon's, isn't it?" I asked.

Her eyes widened for a split second.

Without another glance at her, I headed upstairs with my suitcase.

Behind me, Greta cooed in a sweet, pouty voice, "Leon, why are you so nice to her? I want new sheets, too."

Leon didn't agree to her.

I heard him kick the sofa leg and grumble, "Cut it out."

At the second-floor landing, I paused, leaned against the wall, and glanced down at the strawberry box in my hand.

There was a sticky note slapped on top, scrawled in Leon's bold handwriting: [Emelia's. Everyone else, keep your hands off.]

I smiled, peeled the note off, folded it neatly, and tucked it into my pocket.

Three years had passed. Some things had changed, but I still held a place in Leon's heart.

It had always been me.

*****

I pushed open the guest room door, and as expected, everything had been neatly arranged.

The curtains were now a creamy white shade I loved. A little pot of daisies sat on the desk, and on the nightstand lay the novel I had never finished. The bookmark was still right where I had left it last time.

Leon had always had a thing for those small, romantic details, ever since we were kids.

I opened my suitcase and hung my clothes in the closet, one by one.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Leon: [How are the strawberries?]

I texted back: [Sweet.]

Three seconds later, another message popped up: [Greta's always straightforward, never thinking before she speaks. Don't let it get to you.]

I stared at the message, my finger hovering over the screen for a moment.

Straightforward? What a perfect excuse for all angelic bitches.

When they upset others and said something off, they would make an excuse, saying, "I'm straightforward. Don't take it seriously." In an instant, they made all their shady stuff look like honest mistakes.

However, mem would fall for it every single time.

Because being "straightforward" signaled "no schemes," and in a guy's mind, "no schemes" practically meant "innocent."

I understood it better than anyone.

After all, the persona of "unattainable dream girl" I had built for myself relied on the same vibe: gentle, kind, and never making a fuss or fighting for anything.

But honestly, I was way out of her league.

I replied: [No worries. Honestly, she's kinda adorable. It makes me feel better knowing you've got such a lively friend around.]

I hit send and added a smiley face.

The key was calling her a "friend." It was a subtle nudge to remind him that Greta was nothing more than that.

Saying that it made me feel better was my way of positioning myself as the caring old friend, not fighting for anything. It was only being thoughtful and understanding.

Unexpectedly, he replied almost instantly: [You're always like this, always thinking about others.]

I stared at the message and couldn't help but laugh out loud.

I guessed Leon would never escape from under my thumb.

Because he would never realize that the gentle, kind dream girl he cherished in his heart was actually the one running the deepest game of all.

I put my phone away, walked over to the window, and pushed it open.

The evening breeze in June drifted in, carrying the sweet scent of roses. I glanced down.

Greta was outside in the yard with her phone pressed to her ear, facing away from the villa house.

Her voice was low, but the wind carried a few words up to me. "She moved in. So annoying. His crush looks more stunning in person than in the photos."

She paused, listening to whoever was on the other end. Then she stomped her foot and raised her voice a little.

"Yeah, I know, I'm not stupid. Who cares about his idealized old crush? That's history. I'm the one in the spotlight now," she said.

I leaned against the window frame, the scent of roses curling around my nose.

"Old crush?" I whispered softly, finding the words almost amusing.

I'd like to see who would become history.

I reached out and drew the curtain halfway shut.

Moonlight poured through the open half, casting a silver trail across the floor.

I walked onto it barefoot. The coldness under my feet pulled me back to that rainy day three years ago, when I had pressed the umbrella into Leon's hands and run straight into the storm.

He shouted my name from behind, his voice almost lost in the sound of the rain, but I still heard him.

He said, "Emelia, aren't you silly?"

I didn't look back.

I knew that the image of someone soaked to the bone, refusing to turn around, would leave a deeper impression than any tears ever could.

It proved that I was right.

Three years later, he still remembered that umbrella, that rainy day, and that silly Emelia.

But he would never know that I had another umbrella hidden in my bag that day.

I walked over to the bed, picked up the old novel, and casually flipped it open to the page with the bookmark.

The bookmark turned out to be a photo of Leon and me at fourteen, both in our school uniforms, standing on the rooftop. He was throwing up a peace sign, and I was right next to him, smiling gently and quietly.

On the back, in his messy handwriting, it read: [The best of times.]

I slid the photo back into the book, closed it, and turned off the light.

In the darkness, I lay there with my eyes wide open, a smile slowly forming at my lips.

Greta wanted to steal my man.

Well, she was about to learn the rules of my game.