The Price You Took

*Trigger warning* Nightmares, violence, mentions of guns, school shooting, loss of a parent, bullying, mature themes, mature content, perfectionism, cat calling. (Please note that trigger warnings will vary by chapter.)

On Monday, I devised the perfect plan. No one even knew we were friends.

On Tuesday, he swiped the gun from his dad's locked cabinet.

On Wednesday, we decided the pep rally would be our moment—chaos disguised as celebration.

On Thursday, as the entire school packed into the gym, we waited just outside the doors. The plan was simple: I would shoot the first person to step out. Then he would take the gun, storm inside, and unleash hell.

The door creaked open, and there stood Mr. Quinn, the guidance counselor. I raised the gun and pulled the trigger—three deafening shots to his face. He crumpled backward into the gym, dead before he hit the floor. Screams erupted, piercing and wild, echoing through the auditorium.

No one had seen us yet. I handed him the gun and leaned in close. "Your turn," I whispered. Without hesitation, he bolted into the chaos, firing blindly. I followed a moment later.

Inside, the scene was pandemonium—students screaming, tripping over each other, scrambling for cover. But no one was hit. Not yet.

I moved swiftly, closing the gap between us. From behind, I tackled him, and we fell hard to the polished gym floor. He fought, but I was quicker, stronger. I pried the gun from his grip, turned it on him, and pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times.

Silence fell as he lay still, the chaos momentarily suspended. I had silenced him forever.

On Friday, they called me a hero.

It really was the perfect plan.

7:00 AM

My subconscious was really fucked.

The room around me was massive—far too large for a seventeen-year-old. But that's what happens when your house is the tallest building in all of New York City.

My father, Maurice Battle, isn't just anyone. He's the smartest man in the world, the genius behind the technology that keeps society functioning today. Battle Enterprises doesn't just shape the future—it owns it. And one day, I was supposed to inherit it.

I lingered in bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. Notifications piled up from classmates who pretended to be my friends. I ignored all of them, finally dragging myself into the shower.

The warm water softened the frizz in my long, curly brown hair as it cascaded down my back. Soap ran smoothly over my tan skin, washing away the weight of sleepless nights. At five foot ten, I towered over most girls, not that it mattered.

I dressed in my usual uniform: a blue hoodie over my skirt, mismatched socks, and worn-out sneakers. I never looked like the daughter of a billionaire genius, and I preferred it that way.

Downstairs, my father was already in his lab, surrounded by blueprints and prototypes. He was hunched over a robotic arm, adjusting its movements with mechanical precision.

"I'm heading to school," I called out.

He didn't glance up. "Imani's waiting outside."

No "goodbye," no "have a good day," just the same cold dismissal. I lingered for a second, hoping for even a flicker of acknowledgment. When none came, I left, slamming the door harder than I should have.

Outside, Imani was standing by the car, holding the door open. As always, he greeted me with a polite nod. "Good morning, Miss Battle."

I forced a thin smile. "Morning, Imani."

He waited until I was buckled in before shutting the door and sliding into the driver's seat. The car moved smoothly through the city, tinted windows keeping the world at a comfortable distance.

"Any plans after school?" he asked, his voice even.

"Not unless you count pretending I care about physics."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "Your father would want you to care."

"My father wants a lot of things."

I rested my forehead against the cool window, watching the city blur past. Skyscrapers stood like steel titans, neon ads flickering against the glass like restless ghosts. Battle Enterprises' latest invention played on a massive screen—a sleek, AI-controlled surveillance system.

"Ensuring a safer tomorrow," the voiceover promised.

I scoffed.

Imani glanced at me through the rearview mirror but didn't comment. He never did.

As we neared the school, my phone vibrated. Another notification. Another headline.

"Maurice Battle's Daughter: Billionaire Heiress or Just Another Rich Rebel?"

I locked the screen and exhaled slowly.

Another day in paradice

8:15 AM

School wasn't just a school. It was an institution—an exclusive enclave of royalty, heirs, and the children of world leaders. Everyone wanted to know me, to be my best friend, but I wasn't interested in them. They only saw the surname.

The halls buzzed with the usual chatter as I walked toward my locker, ignoring the whispers that followed me. Every now and then, a teacher or staff member would glance my way and give me the same forced smile. To them, I wasn't a person—I was a headline waiting to happen.

But something distracted me—a boy I'd never seen before. He stood at the locker beside mine, struggling with the combination.

I raised an eyebrow, glancing between him and the locker. "You seriously can't open it?"

He sighed dramatically. "Nope. Clearly, I lack the ancient wisdom required for this highly sophisticated mechanism."

With a sigh, I took the lock from him, spun the combination, and pulled it open in one smooth motion.

His eyes widened. "Okay, that was magic. Or I'm just spectacularly untalented at this."

I walked away without responding, ignoring the expectation that I'd return my name. For a brief moment, I felt bad. He seemed like the only decent guy in this entire school, but I didn't engage with people. I observed them, analyzed them, and kept my distance. It was safer that way.

Miras showed up again in my first class: advance placement Calculus and Physics 12, the most challenging classes at one of the most exclusive schools in the world. So he was smart.

The thought annoyed me, though I wasn't entirely sure why.

As he walked into the room, he spotted me and waved. My chest tightened—why was he waving? Did he not understand how this place worked?

And then he did the unthinkable. He walked past the rows of polished desks, past the kids with their designer bags and perfect hair, and sat in the empty seat next to me.

No one ever sat there.

"Cherish," the teacher called out during roll.

"Here," I mumbled, hating the sound of my own name and the attention it brought.

Miras was oblivious to it all, leaning back in his chair like he belonged. The class was tough—one of the hardest in the school—but I barely paid attention. Instead, I let my pencil drift across the edge of my notebook, tracing the features of the boy sitting next to me.

Fair skin, bushy brown hair, a slight slouch to his otherwise lean frame. He wasn't polished like the others. He didn't fit here, and yet he didn't seem to notice.

"That's really good," Miras said suddenly, breaking my focus. I hadn't realized he'd been looking at my sketch. "Can I have it?"

I froze, unsure how to respond. Before I could say anything, the teacher interrupted.

"Miras, Nakita Sanders will show you around during the break," the teacher announced.

My stomach churned. Nakita Sanders, of all people. She was the school's resident destroyer of reputations. I'd watched her chew through unsuspecting guys like it was a sport.

Miras, oblivious as ever, turned to Nakita with a bright, polite smile. I packed my things quickly and left before I had to see more.

The thing about this school was that it was filled with mean, entitled people. Another reason I avoided them.

I spent most of my free time hiding out in the year-eleven girls' bathroom. It wasn't glamorous, but it was quiet. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I leaned against the wall, the notifications piling up from people I didn't care to respond to.

The door creaked open, and I glanced up, expecting one of the usual girls. Instead, Vincent walked in. He was followed by Nakita, who was practically dragging Miras behind her.

"This is the seniors girls' bathroom," Nakita said, her tone casual, like she was stating the weather.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" Miras stammered, his face turning pale. "We didn't think anyone was in here."

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Clearly."

"This is...Cherish," Nakita said, hesitating just slightly. For once, her tone lacked its usual bite.

"We've already met," I said flatly, not bothering to elaborate.

"Yeah, she's really good at—"

Before Miras could finish his sentence, Nakita grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the bathroom.

Good. He'd learn soon enough not to get too comfortable.

By lunch, I spotted him again—sitting with Nakita. She'd already staked her claim, leaning in close, laughing too hard at things that probably weren't funny. Miras looked...awkward, like he didn't quite know how to navigate the situation.

Not my problem.

The next time I saw him was at the decathlon meeting after school. I'd been president of the team for two years, and while I took pride in my role, today, I was already exhausted by the time I sat down.

But there he was. Miras. His bright, eager face practically glowing as he looked around the room. Why was he here?

I didn't have the energy to figure it out. "Let's run some drills," I said, diving straight into practice.

"How many pleats are in a chef's hat?"

"Three hundred?"

"Wrong."

Three grueling hours later, I finally escaped. My mind was buzzing with equations and historical facts as I trudged home.

But the moment I stepped into my dad's lab, all of that evaporated.

Because standing there, in the middle of the room, was Miras.

I froze, my backpack slipping off my shoulder. My dad, who had barely glanced at me all week, was showing Miras some intricate diagram. They were laughing. Talking.

It hit me like a punch to the gut.

This was why my dad had been so distracted lately. This was who he'd chosen.

Not me.

Miras.

The boy who didn't belong here, who didn't understand this world. The boy who sat next to me like it was no big deal, who let Nakita Sanders drag him into the bathroom, who was too naive to see the danger he was walking into.

He was the one my father trusted.

He was the one my father thought could help save the world.

And I wasn't.

"Oh, good, you're here," my dad said as soon as I stepped into the room. His voice was warm, but his attention was elsewhere. 

He gestured toward Miras, who stood awkwardly next to him. "Cherish, meet my newest team member. Miras, this is my daughter."

Miras' face turned crimson. His wide, startled eyes darted between me and my dad. "Cherish is...your daughter?" he stuttered, his voice cracking slightly.

"Why don't you kids grab a snack while I finish up here," my dad said, clapping Miras on the back in a way that almost knocked him forward.

It all made sense now. Miras wasn't just some random new kid. He was my father's protégé.

"Your house is so cool!" he said excitedly as we walked toward the kitchen. "Do you guys have a pool?"

I raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "Why are you working for my father?" I asked instead, cutting straight to the point.

"I'm not really sure," he said, his tone still bubbling with excitement, "but I'm honored! This is the most exciting thing I've ever done."

"Yeah, okay," I muttered, opening the fridge. "What do you want to eat?"

"Do you have PB&Js?"

"Of course," I said flatly, texting the chef. Moments later, the sandwich arrived, perfectly plated like everything in this house always was.

Miras dug in immediately, his enthusiasm untouched by my indifference. When he started rambling about how excited he was to help out with the decathlon, I mumbled a noncommittal excuse and retreated to my room. I needed space—space to think, to process, and most importantly, to be away from him.

A knock at my door interrupted my thoughts.

"Yeah?" I called, brushing strands of hair from my face.

"Dinner's almost ready," my dad said from the other side.

"Okay."

"Miras is eating with us," he added.

I sighed, dragging myself out of bed. My dad never invited people over unless it was for work, and even then, they rarely stayed for dinner. This was new.

Miras was already seated at the dinner table when I arrived, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.

"I have no idea what any of this is, but I'm going to try everything!" he said, his enthusiasm unshaken.

I filled my plate with a small serving of vegetables, keeping my distance from the mountain of food Miras was piling onto his.

"This is amazing!" he said between mouthfuls.

"How are you liking school?" my dad asked, his tone conversational.

"It's incredible! Everything's so big and fancy," Miras said, awe dripping from every word.

I couldn't take it anymore. "What's going on with you two?" I asked, my voice cutting through the cheery chatter like a blade.

My dad's expression shifted, his smile fading slightly. "Crimes have been rising since the last mission," he explained. "We need extra hands."

"So you hired a sixteen-year-old?" I retorted.

"Seventeen," Miras corrected softly.

My eyes narrowed, ignoring him. "You're joking, right?" I pressed, turning to my dad.

"We need someone who can blend into a crowd more easily," he said, his voice firm but calm. "I need you to keep this a secret, Cherish. No one at school can know about this."

I scoffed. "I don't have anyone to tell."

"Besides," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken, "you could use someone your age around the house. I understand you have a few classes together."

"Just math and decathlon," I muttered, stabbing at the food on my plate.

"Perfect," my dad said with an air of finality. "You two can help each other prepare for Washington this weekend."

Washington. The decathlon competition. The thing I had been captain of for years. Now it was our thing, apparently.

After dinner, my dad instructed Imani to drive Miras home.

"Cherish, walk him out," he said, motioning toward the door.

I shoved my chair back and walked Miras to the gates in silence.

"See you tomorrow!" he said with a bright smile as the car door closed behind him.

I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights fade into the night. When I turned to go back inside, my dad was waiting.

"What do you think of him?" he asked casually.

I hesitated, debating whether to tell him the truth. "He has a loud personality," I said finally.

"I think he's a good boy," my dad said, smiling slightly. "I hope you two can become friends."

"Maybe," I replied, though I didn't mean it.

"Dad?" I asked later, catching him as he made his way toward his office.

"Yes?"

"How did Mom die?"

He froze mid-step, the question hanging in the air like a weight.

"Trying to save the world," he said finally, his voice quieter than usual.

"Just like what you're doing now?"

"No," he replied firmly. "I'm prepared for whatever happens. That's why we have Miras. If something were to happen, you'd be..."

"Goodnight, Dad," I interrupted, turning away before he could finish the sentence.

The mention of death made my stomach twist. I didn't want to think about it—about what happened after we were gone, about the weight of it all.

Instead, I shut my door, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling, the day replaying over and over in my head.

My dad's trust in Miras. His faith in this boy he barely knew.

And the unspoken implication that I wasn't enough.

The next morning, Miras was still struggling with his locker.

"Thanks," he said as I opened it for him for the second time that week. "These things are so complicated."

"You just twist and pull," I said flatly, letting the door clang open.

"I can help you," came a voice that sent a shiver of irritation down my spine.

"Oh, hey, Nakita," Miras greeted, smiling brightly at her.

I clenched my jaw and focused on retrieving my calculus textbook.

"Little Miss Perfect," Nakita sneered in my direction, her saccharine tone laced with venom.

"Daddy's money," I muttered under my breath, slamming my locker shut.

Nakita grabbed Miras by the arm, yanking him away as if he were her personal property. He waved goodbye with his free hand, completely oblivious.

"See you in Calc!" he called.

"Yep, bye," I muttered to myself.

"Battle!" The professor's voice rang down the hallway like a warning siren. "Hoodie off, or it's detention."

When Calculus rolled around, Miras plopped down in the seat next to mine without hesitation.

"So, what are we drawing today?" he asked, glancing at the blank corner of my notebook.

"I don't always draw in class," I said, flipping to a clean page. "I've already burned through most of my detention slots."

"Detention slots?" His brows furrowed in confusion.

"You get a certain number before they expel you," I said nonchalantly.

"Wait—you get detention?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"I don't like being told what to do," I said with a shrug.

He laughed. "So, the decathlon... are you excited for Washington?"

"No," I grumbled. "I have to sit on a bus for four hours with a bunch of idiots."

"By 'idiots,' you mean the smartest people at the greatest school ever, right?"

"Yes. Idiots."

Miras chuckled. "Speaking of idiots, can you come over to my place tomorrow to study?"

"Um... sure, I guess."

"Awesome! This trip is going to be great!"

The more I talked to Miras, the more I realized how genuinely kind and pure-hearted he was. And the more I wanted to keep my distance. I hated how Nakita had started orbiting him like a planet caught in his gravitational pull. I couldn't say anything about it, though—not without sounding petty.

By lunch, Nakita was practically acting like Miras's girlfriend, picking him up for class, buying him lunch, and driving him around. When Miras invited me to join them, both Nakita and I declined for very different reasons.

After decathlon practice, Miras was waiting by his locker, struggling with the lock yet again. I sighed and opened it for him, now part of our unspoken routine.

"Can I have your number?" he asked, shoving his phone toward me. "For study purposes."

I glanced at his screen and couldn't help but notice ten unread messages from Nakita Sanders.

"Good lord," I muttered, reluctantly entering my contact info.

"Thanks! I'll see you at your place!"

I grabbed my jacket from my locker and headed outside, sliding into the car where Imani was waiting.

"Any stops, Miss?" she asked, adjusting the rearview mirror.

"Central Park," I replied.

Two hours later, we pulled back up to the house, and the first thing I saw was Miras standing in the driveway. His white school t-shirt was plastered to his skin, drenched with sweat.

"There you are," he said, his voice filled with relief. "We were worried about you."

"I was at the park," I muttered, brushing past him as I headed upstairs to change.

When I came back downstairs, Miras was in the home gym, deadlifting with determination.

"Want to try?" he asked, setting the bar down and looking at me expectantly.

"No," I laughed, shaking my head.

"Come on, I'll spot you. We can adjust the weight."

"Why would I want to lift weights?"

"Don't you want to be stronger than the jocks?" he teased.

"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. "Give me that."

He adjusted the weights before handing me the bar. I gripped it tightly, ignoring the strain in my arms as I tried to lift it above my head. A sharp pain shot through my arm, and I immediately dropped the bar, stumbling back.

Miras caught me before I could fall. "You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Yeah, just scared myself," I muttered, wincing.

"You should probably take it easy for a few days," he said, eyeing me warily.

"I'm fine," I insisted. "My dad can fix it if anything happens."

Just then, my dad appeared in the doorway. "You kids okay?"

"Yeah, we're just messing around," I said quickly.

"Dinner will be ready soon," my dad said, wrinkling his nose. "Wash up, Miras—you stink."

"Yes, sir," Miras said, his cheeks flushing as he hurried off.

After dinner, Miras and I were sitting on the couch. His gaze flicked to my laptop screen.

"Stanford University, huh? Is that your dream school?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Something like that," I said, closing the tab. "I'm interested in their science, technology, and society program."

"Good luck getting in," he said. "Stanford's, like, the hardest school ever—especially for science." He paused. "If I could go anywhere, I'd want to go there too."

Before I could reply, my dad called from the kitchen. "Miras, Cherish, dinner."

As we ate, Miras continued his usual food marathon, clearing his plate faster than anyone I'd ever seen.

"Hungry, Miras?" my dad asked, amused.

"Mhm," Miras mumbled, his mouth full.

"Have you started packing for Washington?" my dad asked me.

"Not yet," I replied.

"Make sure you do that tonight," he said. "Don't leave it to the last minute."

Miras suddenly perked up. "Sir?"

"Miras?"

"Can I have Cherish over tomorrow? For studying?"

My dad froze, his fork hovering midair.

"Here we go," I whispered under my breath.

My dad set his fork down and gave Miras a pointed look. Miras immediately paled.

"Why?"

"Washington preparation," I said quickly, trying to diffuse the tension.

My dad studied Miras for a moment before finally answering. "Only because I trust you to look after her while you're away."

"I don't need a babysitter," I muttered.

"If she's home one minute past curfew, Miras, it's blood on your hands," my dad said sternly.

"Yes, sir," Miras squeaked.

I walked Miras to the door for the second time that night.

"Goodnight, Cherie," he said with a sheepish grin.

"Cherie?" I raised an eyebrow.

"It's my new nickname for you."

I rolled my eyes, what a stupid nickname.

"Be safe," I said, watching as he disappeared into the night.

****

As I walked into school, I caught sight of Nakita draped all over Miras, her arms hanging from his shoulders as she unlocked his locker for him.

When she noticed me, her eyes flickered with mischief, and she gave me a taunting wave before planting a kiss on his cheek.

I shot her a one-finger salute without thinking and quickly turned away, retreating to the bathroom to hide. I stayed there until the bell rang, letting the seconds tick by, before heading back to my locker to grab my calculus textbook.

Miras waved as I entered the room, his smile as bright as ever."So you and Nakita, are you guys...close."

"Nakita? Yeah, she's cool. Really popular."

"Yeah, she is," I muttered.

"Do you want anything?" Miras asked me as he pulled something out of his bag.

"I'm okay."

"You sure? These Kit Kats are really good!"

"Miras, I'm starting to think you find all food incredible."

"Because it is. Besides, your vending machines actually work."Miras tossed me a Kit Kat bar before getting another one for himself.

"I've had the Kit Kat bars," I said. "I know what they taste like."

"Then you should be taking it."I rolled my eyes at him before putting the candy in my pocket."Miras?"

"Yeah?" he said, still chewing on the chocolate.

"I don't mean to sound like a total bitch, but Nakita Sanders has a reputation for using guys. So just be careful, okay?"

"You're not the first one to tell me," he said. "But she's told me they're just rumors."

Decathlon practice ran a couple of hours later than usual since it was the last practice we had.

"Make sure you are here bright and early," shouted Mr. Hebert. "You need to pick up your jackets, and we need to be on the road by six-ten. Okay, six-ten. Write it down!"

"I'm so nervous," Miras said as we walked to our lockers."It's only states.""Only states?" Miras nearly choked. "My school couldn't even get past regionals."I opened Miras's locker before grabbing my jacket and bag out of my own. It was reaching six PM now and getting dark.I walked alongside Miras away from the rich school and into the poorer town of NYC.

"Do you walk to school?" I asked him."Yeah, sorry. I know it's not as nice as your place."

"It's fine," I said to the sound of cars screeching in the background.The further we walked down the street, the more people I noticed hovering around garbage fires and drinking beer or some other substance.

"Don't give them any attention," Miras said after he put his arm around my shoulder once I was whistled at."What are you doing?" I said as I tried to shove his arm off of me.

"Please just trust me."Miras stared each of the men down as we passed. As he predicted, the men stayed silent. It felt weird having a boy's arm around me. I wasn't sure if I liked it or not.Miras's apartment building looked abandoned and half-built.

I recognized the area from the news as being the highest place in NYC for crime rates.Miras led me up the stairs to the highest floor of the complex.

"Sorry, the elevator doesn't work.""I can imagine," I muttered.The door opened to the smell of something cooking, followed by a loud pop and shriek.

"Aunt Nayley?" Miras ran inside with me behind him.In the kitchen stood a middle-aged woman standing in a smoke cloud. She had a towel thrown over her shoulder and something red splattered all over the walls.

Miras quickly ran to turn off the heat to the stove.

"Aunt Nayley, I've told you not to turn the heat up so high. You'll blow the fuse."

"Hi, I'm Miras's aunt," she said, spotting me in the cloud. "It's so weird meeting someone famous. I feel like I should bow down to you or something."

"Please don't," Miras said as he frantically turned off the stove.

"I'm Cherish," I said.

"Oh, believe me, I know. I was trying to make something for dinner, but I'm not very good at cooking for an Italian woman."

The smoke alarm went off as Miras cursed at it."I think I'm going to order some pizza," she called over the obnoxious noise. "Why don't you and Miras go study?"

I looked over at Miras, who was waving a towel in the air. He grabbed a screwdriver off the counter and unscrewed the alarm from the ceiling as it clanked to the floor.

"Sorry."