THE JONES ESTATE
By the time the evening shadows crept across the gilded staircases of the Jones residence, the heat from the Courtyard Clash hadn't cooled—it had only found a new place to burn.
Nancy was still fuming.
After what happened with Sabrina and Poppy, there was tension in the air so thick it could be sliced, bottled, and sold as poison. She had come home with her jaw clenched, her heels clicking furiously against the marble floor. Sabrina trailed behind her silently, knuckles still red from the fight she didn't regret.
The Jones household, typically calm and curated like an art gallery, had its own undercurrent of chaos tonight.
In the living room, nestled into one of the ivory couches with casual arrogance, sat Jessy Langford. Perfect blowout. Expensive perfume. And worse—Nancy's limited edition Valentino handbag, the one she explicitly told no one to touch, slung over her shoulder like it was hers.
Opposite her sat Harry's mother, sipping chamomile tea, gesturing elegantly with each word like she was born narrating a slow, tragic opera. Jessy was nodding along with false sweetness, legs crossed, grin practiced. The whole room felt like it had been dipped in sugar and arsenic.
Nancy stepped in and froze.
Her eyes locked on the bag. The bag.
Her voice sliced through the room like a siren.
"Jessy."
Jessy's smile didn't falter, but her eyes flickered. "Oh. Hey, Nance."
Nancy's arms folded slowly. "Is that my bag?"
A pause.
Then Jessy gave a silky shrug. "I borrowed it. Just for the dinner."
"You borrowed it?" Nancy repeated, tone sharp. "Without asking? That bag cost £1.2 million."
Jessy chuckled, the way someone laughs when they want everyone to believe they're not rattled. "You weren't using it. I figured it'd be fine. I mean—it goes with my dress."
Nancy saw red. "It's not Zara, Jessy! You don't just borrow a million-pound bag like it's a phone charger!"
Harry's mom shifted uncomfortably, but didn't interrupt. She never interfered with these things because she definitely be the one blamed at the end.
Jessy stood now, still smiling. "Relax, I didn't ruin it. Look, no scratches."
Nancy's voice rose like thunder. "You don't touch what you can't afford! Do you know how many waitresses you'd have to rob to pay for that?"
The insult hung in the air like smoke. Jessy's fake smile dropped for half a second—but that was all it took. The mask cracked.
At that exact moment, Harry Maddox walked in.
He paused in the doorway, gaze flicking from Nancy's furious expression, to Jessy's guilty stance, to the bag. The bag that was very much not hers.
"What's going on?" he asked slowly.
"She took my bag," Nancy snapped. "The one I told everyone not to touch."
Jessy looked at Harry now, eyes wide, trying to summon tears that hadn't arrived yet. "I was going to give it back."
But Harry didn't look at her.
He pulled out his phone, opened his banking app, and in under ten seconds, wired £1.8 million to Nancy's account.
"There," he said flatly. "Now you've been paid back—plus extra."
Nancy stared at him, stunned.
Jessy's lips parted. "Harry—"
But he held up a hand. "I need a minute." Then, quieter, to Nancy: "Sorry about that."
Nancy didn't reply. She didn't have to. She'd already won.
Harry turned and walked out of them to his room.
Jessy started to follow, but he held the door closed behind him with one palm and looked her straight in the eye.
"Come here."
She hesitated, then obeyed.
They stepped into the hallway. The glow of the chandelier caught the tension in his jaw.
"Jessy," Harry said, voice controlled, "what are you doing with the money I send you every week?"
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I send you thousands. You say it's for rent. Groceries. Work stuff. But somehow you're borrowing bags, not buying anything real, and calling it even?"
"I just—wanted to look nice," she said quietly. "For your mom. I thought it would impress her."
Harry scoffed. "You've been trying to impress people since I met you. And somehow, every time, it costs me more."
Jessy's mouth opened, then closed. She didn't have a good answer.
He stared at her. "So again. What are you using the money for?"
"I told you—" she began, but it was a lie even she didn't believe.
Harry didn't yell. He didn't curse. He didn't throw anything.
He just walked away.
He stepped out the front door, into the cooling night, pulling out his phone and texting a driver to take him to the club. He didn't even know which one—just one with loud music and no expectations. Somewhere he could be numb. Somewhere he didn't have to think about the girl he used to care about, or the life that was starting to feel more like a trap than a choice.
Inside, Jessy stood alone in the hallway, still wearing the bag, still wearing the lie.
Upstairs, Sabrina was comforting Nancy—who, despite her win, had tears running down her cheeks. Not because of the bag. Because she'd finally seen what pretending not to care about money did to people.
St. Augustine's may have been the battlefield by day, but the wars always came home at night.
And tonight, the fire was upstairs.
*
*
CLUB
The club pulsed like a living heart.
Lights flickered violet and blue over chrome ceilings. Music—loud, dirty, hypnotic—shook the floor with every bass drop. It was the kind of place that fed off desperation. Where broken people danced like they weren't breaking.
Harry sat in the corner of the VIP lounge, drink untouched, jaw tight, still reeling from the scene with Jessy. His thoughts spun in bitter loops: the bag, the lie, the money, the look in Jessy's eyes like it was all just a misunderstanding.
He wanted to forget.
That was when he saw Layla.
Of course. He saw that girl everywhere.
At first, she was just another silhouette in the crowd—long legs, gold dress, damp brown hair tumbling over her bare shoulders like a waterfall. But then he noticed her expression. Wide eyes, stiff shoulders. Something was wrong.
She was trying to pull away from a man—older, drunk, insistent. He had one hand gripping her arm and the other wrapped around her waist like he owned her.
Harry stood up immediately.
Layla twisted, trying to shake free. Her voice was sharp but unsteady. "Let go of me."
The man laughed, teeth yellow. "Come on, beautiful. You've been flirting all night."
"I haven't!" she snapped, panic rising. "Let. Me. Go."
That was enough.
Harry moved like a storm. In three strides, he was between them, hand on the man's chest.
"She said no," Harry said coldly. "Move."
The drunk guy smirked, trying to puff up. "Who the hell are you—"
Harry didn't give him the chance. One sharp look—jaw set, fists barely restrained—and the guy backed off with a muttered curse, stumbling into the crowd and vanishing like smoke.
Layla's knees buckled.
Harry caught her just in time, one arm sliding around her waist, the other steadying her wrist. Her perfume hit him—jasmine, cinnamon, something sweet under pressure.
She looked up at him, breathless. "I—I didn't know what to do. Thank you."
And that's exactly when Jessy appeared.
She had followed him to the club. She didn't even know why—maybe to apologize, maybe to scream. But when she walked in, heart pounding and hurt on standby, this was the scene she saw:
Harry. Holding a girl. Their faces inches apart. His arm around her. Her lips parted.
And Layla, barely upright, murmuring something into his ear.
Jessy stopped dead, fury igniting in her gut.
"You bastard," she whispered, then louder, "YOU'RE CHEATING ON ME?" She screamed as of she wasn't cheating too.
Harry turned instantly. "Jessy—what? No. This isn't what it looks like."
But Jessy had already backed away, eyes glassy, mouth trembling. "I knew it. You couldn't wait five seconds. You left me and ran to her."
"Wait—Jess—" Harry moved after her, but Layla's hand caught his sleeve.
"Don't," she said softly. "She's gone."
He turned to her—torn, angry, exhausted—and then, in a moment she'd never be able to take back, Layla leaned in and kissed him.
Just a second.
Just the smallest, hopeful second.
And then—
Harry shoved her back.
Not violently, but firmly. Like her touch burned.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped. "Did you really think that was okay?"
Layla blinked, stunned. "You—you saved me. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," he said sharply. "I'm not interested."
Layla stood still, humiliated. Her cheeks flushed crimson.
Then Harry said it.
The thing he shouldn't have said.
"You think I'd want to kiss you? You're not even—" he stopped himself, but it was too late. The look on his face said everything.
Her voice cracked. "Say it."
He didn't.
So she did.
"You're body-shaming me now?" she said, voice trembling with disbelief. "You think because I'm not some polished doll like Jessy, that I'm… what? Unworthy?"
Harry looked away.
"Answer me!" Layla shouted, raw now. "Didn't you feel anything? Anything at all when I kissed you?"
He stared at her.
And for a moment, something flickered—regret, maybe. Or guilt. But not enough.
"No," he said. "I didn't."
That was the truth. Or maybe it wasn't. But it was what she heard.
Layla stood there alone as he walked off, the gold dress that had shimmered under the club lights suddenly feeling too tight, too short, too desperate.
The music roared again. But she didn't dance.
Not that night.
*
The alley behind the club smelled like sweat and static and last chances.
Harry pushed through the back door, fists clenched, the echo of Layla's kiss still burning on his lips — not because it meant something, but because it didn't. It was chaos. This whole night was chaos. He needed air. Space. Jessy.
God, Jessy.
He spotted her slumped against the wall just past the dumpster, knees pulled to her chest, eyes rimmed red. She looked shattered. Hair wild, eyeliner smudged. A mascara tear clung stubbornly to her cheek like a bruise.
"Jess," he breathed, stepping toward her. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen. You have to believe me."
She didn't look up at first. Just wiped her face with trembling fingers and let out a small, broken sob.
That sound—delicate, fragile—hit him like a gut punch. Harry knelt beside her, hands hovering, unsure if he was allowed to touch her.
"I swear to you, that wasn't what it looked like. She was in trouble. I helped her. That's all."
Jessy finally looked at him. Her eyes glassy, voice so small. "She kissed you."
"I didn't kiss her back."
Jessy's chin trembled. "But you didn't push her away fast enough."
That was true. But it was also a trap. And he walked straight into it.
"I was shocked. It happened fast. I didn't want her. I want you."
Jessy swallowed hard, glancing away like it hurt to hear.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "For the fight. For earlier. For tonight. You mean too much to me. I messed up."
He reached for her hand. She didn't pull away.
"Please," he said, voice dropping to a raw edge. "Let me fix this."
Jessy hesitated for half a second too long—but then, slowly, she leaned forward, letting her head rest against his chest.
He held her. Just held her, gently, protectively. Her hands curled into his jacket like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
And then she tilted her face up.
Harry didn't think.
He kissed her.
Soft. Careful. An apology more than anything else. But Jessy leaned into it — and that's when everything shifted. Her hands slid to his face, her mouth deepened the kiss, like she wanted to erase Layla from his memory altogether.
What Harry didn't see—
Was Layla.
Standing at the mouth of the alley, clutching her gold dress like armor, watching the scene unfold like a knife slipping between ribs.
She had followed him. Not to interfere. Not even to beg. She just… needed to understand. Needed to know if what he'd said — "I didn't feel anything" — was true.
And now she did.
Jessy saw her.
Saw her standing there, vulnerable, eyes wide, breath caught.
So she kissed Harry harder.
Hands tangled in his hair, body pressed tight, lips all fire and fury. Jessy didn't just want Harry to feel it.
She wanted Layla to see it.
Harry pulled back, breathless. "Jess—wait—"
But Jessy just smiled through the tears. "You were mine first." Jessy giggled, "I'll forgive you if you take me to that restaurant tomorrow—the one with the good food."
Harry nodded. "Okay."
And Layla turned and walked away, heels echoing down the street like a countdown.
To something breaking...