Chapter 8: The Curse Begins
The De Silva estate was glowing that night—fairy lights strung across the garden like stars stitched into silk, waiters in black vests roamed with trays, and almost everyone from South Crest High was in attendance. Of course, they were. Bella de Silva didn’t throw parties. She threw spectacles.
She spotted Raymond first. He’d just walked in, still in his varsity jacket, tall and striking in that annoyingly casual way. Bella moved quickly, her wine-colored satin dress catching the light with every step. Her arm looped into his, her laughter just loud enough for people to turn their heads. “Mendez,” she purred, “you clean up... almost well.”
Raymond chuckled politely, but he was scanning the crowd. “Ysa said she might come?”
Bella’s smile faltered for a split second.
And then, as if summoned—there she was. Ysabelle. Not in a designer dress, not in heels that screamed influence, but in a soft black off-shoulder and boots, her guitar case slung casually on her back. Her mom dropped her off, not knowing it was a warzone masked as a party.
Raymond lit up. “There she is.”
Bella felt it. That shift. The way his attention left her like a gust of wind slamming a door.
Ysa walked over, gave a nervous smile. “Hey.”
Before Raymond could greet her properly, Bella stepped in. “Look who made it,” she said sweetly, too sweet. “We were all wondering if your broomstick had a curfew.”
A few chuckles from the crowd. Ysa gave her a tight-lipped smile and shrugged. “Nah, I Uber.”
Bella tilted her head, voice dripping sarcasm. “You know, it’s really brave of you to show up after… last week’s cafeteria incident. You’re not scared of germs, are you?”
Raymond frowned. “Bella—”
But Bella didn’t stop. She motioned to the stage. “Hey, Ysa. You should sing for us! Maybe something... dramatic. You know, like Witchy Woman?”
The laughter stung, and Bella could see it—Ysa’s shoulders stiffening, her hands balling. But she stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
She excused herself, walked to the far end of the garden, alone. And whispered words she didn’t mean. Words she didn’t realize would twist into a spell.
“I hope they all feel it—the weight, the shame, the cruelty. Everything they ever did… twice as much. Tenfold. May they be stripped of the masks they wear.”
No lightning. No thunder.
Just a cold wind. A whisper in her ear.
ns216.73.216.72da2“Wish granted.”
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