Chapter 100 Chapter 99
Harper POV
The living room is packed.
Girls sit cross-legged on the floor, perched on armrests, leaning against the staircase railings. Someone is still chewing gum too loudly. Someone else is whispering about a group chat notification like it’s breaking news.
Typical.
I stand at the front of the room with my planner in hand, tapping my pen once against the paper until the chatter fades.
“Okay,” I say, projecting the calm authority I’ve perfected over the last two years. “We are officially five days out from the charity auction.”
A few girls groan dramatically.
I raise an eyebrow. “Save the dramatics. You all signed up for this. The university is watching, the donors are watching, and Daniel Meyers is probably watching from whatever PR cave he lives in.”
That gets a few laughs.
I continue, “This event is important. It’s not just about money, it’s about visibility. The school wants this to look polished. Fun. Safe.”
I glance around the room, letting the silence sharpen.
“So I’m going to say this very clearly: please behave.”
A girl in the back mutters, “Define behave.”
I smile sweetly. “Don’t get arrested. Don’t start fights. Don’t end up on Barstool. If you have to ask whether it’s a bad idea, it is.”
More laughter.
I flip a page. “Auction logistics: dresses are formal. Arrivals are staggered. No one is leaving early without telling me or the committee. And for the love of God, do not treat the hockey players like zoo animals.”
A few heads turn.
“You can flirt,” I add dryly. “Just don’t climb them.”
That gets a louder laugh.
I run through the rest—check-in tables, sponsor banners, the photographer schedule, the silent auction items.
I’m in my element here. Organized. Controlled. The kind of person people rely on.
The kind of person who doesn’t unravel in public.
“Alright,” I finish, clapping my hands once. “That’s it. Five days. Stay out of trouble. Meeting dismissed.”
The room breaks apart instantly—girls standing, chatting, grabbing bags, heading out into the night like none of this is sitting on my shoulders.
I start gathering my papers, exhaling slowly.
Then—
“Madam President,” Lila says, appearing beside me like a mischievous ghost, “quick question.”
I don’t look up. “If it’s about snacks, I swear—”
“It’s about Logan Shaw,” she says brightly.
I freeze.
Of course it is.
Lila leans closer, voice conspiratorial. “Do you think you can behave with him before the big event?”
I close my eyes and sigh.
“Lila.”
“What?” she says innocently. “I’m just saying, the donors probably don’t want to see you two making out behind the ice sculpture.”
“We are not—” I stop, because even denying it feels ridiculous. “We are fine.”
Lila’s grin fades a fraction.
She studies me. “Okay… that sigh was not fine.”
“I’m tired.”
“That’s not tired,” she says. “That’s bothered.”
I straighten my papers with unnecessary precision.
“I’m not bothered.”
Lila’s eyes narrow. “Did he do something again?”
“No.”
“Did he ignore you again?”
“No.”
“Did he say something stupid?”
“No.”
Lila’s face hardens anyway. “Harper, he is an idiot. I will happily—”
“It’s not Logan,” I cut in quickly.
She stops.
I sink down into one of the chairs still arranged in a circle from the meeting, the room suddenly too big now that everyone else is gone.
Lila stays standing, arms crossed, waiting.
I stare at my hands.
Then, quietly, I say, “I don’t think I’m… dateable.”
Lila blinks.
“What?”
I laugh once, but it’s hollow. “I don’t think I’m dateable.”
Lila’s expression shifts from confusion to disbelief.
“Harper,” she says slowly, “you’re literally the definition of dateable. You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, you’re competent—”
“That’s the problem,” I murmur.
Lila’s brows knit. “What does that even mean?”
I swallow, then force myself to say it.
“Daniel Meyers called me this morning.”
Lila makes a face. “Ugh. Voldemort in a blazer. What did he want?”
“He said the photos from the date were great,” I say. “And then he said… ‘This looks like someone people want to date.’”
Lila pauses.
Then she bursts out, “Oh my God. That’s what this is about?”
My cheeks heat. “Don’t.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she says, holding up her hands. “Harper. He meant it as a compliment.”
“I know,” I say sharply. “I know he didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“Then why are you spiraling?”
Because it hit something that was already there.
I look up at her, frustration and vulnerability tangled together.
“Because it got me thinking,” I admit. “It’s not like guys run up to me asking me out.”
Lila opens her mouth, but I keep going before she can interrupt.
“They approach, sure. But it’s always joking. Always… ‘Oh, Harper Lane, the president. The girl who has everything under control.’”
I mimic the tone bitterly. “Like I’m a title before I’m a person.”
Lila’s expression softens slightly.
“And even when they do flirt,” I continue, “it’s like they’re flirting with the idea of me. Not… me.”
She sits down across from me now, quieter.
I stare at the carpet.
“Even Logan,” I say, voice tightening. “We slept together. Twice.”
Lila stays silent, letting me say it.
“And both times,” I whisper, “he acted like I didn’t exist afterward.”
Lila’s jaw clenches.
“That does something to you,” I continue. “It makes you wonder what you are to someone. If you’re just… convenient.”
“Harper—”
“And now I can’t stop thinking,” I say, the words spilling out faster, “that maybe I’m not what guys want. Maybe I’m impressive. Maybe I’m respected. Maybe I’m the girl people rely on.”
I laugh again, sharp with sadness.
“But maybe I’m not wanted.”
The room is quiet.
Lila looks at me like she wants to argue me out of it, like she wants to grab the thought and shake it until it disappears.
But she doesn’t.
She just says, carefully, “That’s not true.”
I blink hard. “Then why does it feel true?”
Lila leans forward.
“Because,” she says softly, “you’ve been surrounded by boys who are intimidated by you.”
I scoff. “That’s such a—”
“It’s not,” she insists. “Harper, you’re not undateable. You’re just not… easy.”
The word stings.
“I don’t mean difficult,” she says quickly. “I mean you’re real. You don’t play dumb. You don’t shrink. You don’t pretend you don’t see things.”
Her eyes sharpen. “That scares men who want simple.”
I swallow.
“And Logan?” she adds.
My chest tightens.
“Logan is a mess,” Lila says bluntly. “A hot mess. A talented mess. A mess who doesn’t know what to do with someone he actually feels something for.”
I stare at her.
“That’s not about you being undateable,” she continues. “That’s about him being emotionally constipated.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out.
Lila nods firmly. “Exactly. That’s the technical term.”
I wipe at my face quickly, annoyed that my eyes are burning.
“I just…” I whisper. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
Lila reaches across the space and squeezes my hand.
“Then let me be very clear,” she says. “Daniel Meyers is paid to make things sound marketable. Logan Shaw is paid to skate fast. Neither of them gets to decide your worth.”
I swallow hard.
“You are dateable,” she says. “You are wanted. You are not too much.”
Her voice softens.
“You’re just not for boys who want less.”
The words settle in my chest, heavy and comforting at the same time.
I exhale shakily.
Lila leans back. “And for the record?”
“What?”
“If Logan screws this up again, I will personally auction him off to a goat farm.”
I snort.
“Now,” she says, standing, “come on. Let’s go upstairs before you convince yourself you’re unlovable. I have homework, and you have a goon problem.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the ache.
But as we walk out of the meeting room, the thought still lingers faintly in the back of my mind.
Not because I believe it.
Because part of me is still waiting to be proven wrong.