My Quarterback Boyfriend Chose His First Love at Prom, So I Chose His Rival

The black town car glided along the coastal highway toward the Grandview Hotel, the ocean reflecting the dusk outside my window.

My phone vibrated against the champagne satin of my off-the-shoulder gown, screen lighting up with message after message from classmates.

*Westbridge Prep's King and Queen.*

*Happy 8th anniversary, guys!*

*Can't wait to see the dance!*

Tonight was supposed to be the culmination of everything. Eight years ago, Blake Carter had handed me half a crushed peanut butter sandwich on the elementary school bleachers and told me we were a team. Since then, he had grown into the state’s top quarterback, courted by every major college recruiter in the country, while I had stepped out of the choir shadows to build my own music career, pulling a million streams on my debut single.

Two weeks ago, in front of the entire student body at the pep rally, Blake had taken the microphone. He promised that tonight, at senior prom, he would give me a custom promise ring and lead me onto the floor for the opening dance.

The student council had even launched an official livestream, titled *Westbridge's Golden Couple*.

Yet the digital dashboard clock read 7:30 PM.

The doors were opening, and Blake was nowhere to be found.

The car eased to a halt in front of the hotel’s portico. The moment the driver opened my door, a flurry of phone cameras and camera flashes blinded me.

"Avery! Where's Blake?" a student reporter from the school paper called out, thrusting a mic toward me. "Is he setting up a surprise entrance?"

"Avery, look this way!" someone else yelled.

Then, from the edge of the crowd, a shrill laugh cut through the chatter. "Don't hold your breath. Someone saw his truck heading toward the north estates. Isn't that where Chloe Whitmore lives? She just got back from Paris, didn't she?"

A few students quieted down, glancing between each other.

I kept my chin level, gathered the train of my satin skirt in one hand, and stepped past them without answering. The heavy double doors of the ballroom lobby closed behind me, cutting off the noise of the press and the crowd.

I headed straight for the backstage dressing room reserved for student council and performers. Inside, the bright bulbs framing the makeup vanities hummed softly. The space was empty, quiet, and cool.

I placed my clutch on the marble counter to smooth my dress. Right beside my purse sat a rose-gold phone in a clear case.

It was Madison’s backup phone. My best friend must have set it down while checking her makeup earlier and forgotten it.

I picked it up, intending to slip it into my clutch so it wouldn't get lost in the rush.

Just as my fingers touched the screen, a banner notification flashed across the top.

*Group Chat: For Chloe’s Perfect Night (12)*

Beneath the title, an image preview popped up, sent directly from Blake’s number.

My hand froze.

The screen unlocked without a passcode. I tapped the notification, and the photo expanded in full, high-definition color.

It was Blake.

He was wearing the custom black tuxedo we had picked out together at the boutique three weeks ago. But he wasn't standing in the hotel foyer. He was on one knee on the manicured lawn of a private estate, surrounded by dozens of white rose arches. Overhead hung an enormous velvet banner: *THE NIGHT SHE DESERVED.*

In his hands was an open velvet box holding a diamond ring.

Standing in front of him, hands pressed to her cheeks in tearful delight, was Chloe Whitmore.

My gaze slid to the edge of the photo. Standing right behind them, clapping with a proud, beaming smile, was my older brother, Ethan.

The room felt entirely devoid of oxygen.

My thumb moved on pure instinct, scrolling through the previous messages. A short video clip appeared next. I pressed play, turning the volume down just enough to hear.

The camera panned across a banquet table loaded with crystal flutes and tiered platters. Madison’s voice squeaked behind the lens, laughing. "Blake, hurry up! The cake is coming out!"

Blake looked into the camera, grinning with that familiar, crooked smile he always gave after throwing a touchdown. "Hold on. Avery can wait. Chloe only gets one night like this."

Laughter erupted in the background, Ethan’s voice louder than the rest.

I stared at the screen as my fingertips went numb.

I scrolled higher, scanning the chat history. The texts went back three days.

Chloe had claimed to have an aggressive, uncurable illness, tearfully confessing to Blake that her final wish was to feel what it was like to be engaged to him before our class graduated. And Blake had mobilized everyone.

My boyfriend of eight years.

My brother, who lived under the same roof.

My best friend, who had helped me pick out my shoes yesterday morning.

Every single one of our mutual friends was there, gathered in a private garden, watching my boyfriend put a ring on another girl's finger, while I was left to face the public alone at our prom.

A sudden vibration jolted my palm.

My own phone on the counter was buzzing with an incoming call.

*Ethan.*

I picked it up, pressing the speaker button. "Hello?"

"Avery! Thank God you picked up," Ethan said, his voice breathless with exaggerated panic. "Listen, there’s an issue. Blake’s truck broke down on the expressway near the bridge. Total alternator blowout. He’s stuck waiting for a tow truck."

In the background of his call, beneath his panicked tone, I heard the crisp pop of a champagne cork and the sound of someone laughing near a patio heater.

"Really?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.

"Yeah, man, he's furious about it," Ethan continued smoothly, lying without a second of hesitation. "You know how stubborn he is. Look, you need to just handle the entrance solo for a bit. Smile for the school cameras. Don't let people think there’s trouble. He'll get there as soon as he can, okay?"

"Put Blake on the phone, Ethan."

A brief pause hung on the line. "Avery, he's dealing with the mechanic—"

"Put him on."

A rustle of cloth sounded as Ethan covered the receiver. A moment later, a familiar, deep voice came through the speaker.

"Babe, don't stress," Blake said, his tone casual and faintly annoyed. "I told Ethan to tell you. It's just a delay."

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, watching the steady, cold look in my own eyes. "Where are you, Blake?"

"I'm on the side of Highway 4, trying to sort out this mess," he lied smoothly. "Just smile for the cameras, babe. I'll be there soon."

I took a slow breath, keeping my voice even. "Prom starts in thirty minutes, Blake. If you're not in this ballroom in thirty minutes, I'm choosing someone else to walk in with."

A low chuckle broke from his side of the line. It was dry, dismissive, and utterly certain of itself.

"Eight years, Avery," Blake said softly, dripping with arrogant amusement. "Who would dare take my place?"

The line went dead. He hung up.

I stood there in the quiet dressing room. A stray tear escaped the corner of my eye, tracking down my cheek. I reached up, blotted it away with a tissue, and tossed it into the trash can.

I closed Madison’s phone and laid it face down on the vanity.

Then I picked up my own phone, navigated past the flooding notifications, and scrolled deep into my contacts list.

Down at the very bottom, buried beneath old school groups and muted acquaintances, sat a contact with a blank black profile picture.

No name. Just a number I had memorized two years ago and never dared to dial.

I opened the chat.

The last exchange between us had been a year ago, left unanswered on my end.

I didn't hesitate. My thumbs moved across the keyboard.

*I need a prom date. Tonight.*

I pressed send.

I stared at the screen, expecting silence, or perhaps a delayed response after days of absence.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The screen lit up with a single, immediate reply:

*Send me the address.*