Dared by My Archenemy—For Everything

My archenemy, Mason Whitaker, suddenly went pink in the cheeks and blurted out, "Savannah Carlisle, you got the guts to take the Harvard entrance exam with me?"

His cheeks, usually unreadable—like a poker face at the final table—flushed, and his voice had this weird mix of bravado, sure, but also nerves. The whole thing felt unreal. Like one of those high school dramas everyone claims they don't watch, but totally do.

I was just about to refuse when—like I was suddenly in a livestream—a stream of pop-up comments flashed across my vision:

[The clueless real heiress will definitely say no and blow her shot at a new life.]

[Serves her right to be unlucky. She refuses help from the top student, and after her real identity gets out and she bombs the SATs, even if her rich parents take her back, her dad won't care and her mom will resent her. She'll get crushed by the fake heiress, spiral into depression, and it'll all be her own fault.]

[Crying, why does she get to be Professor Mason Whitaker's white moonlight after he dies? Couldn't Mason have eaten better in high school?]

Wait, what? Real heiress? White moonlight? Who even talks like that? It was like my brain had suddenly tuned into a reality show commentary track. Except this time, the stakes were my life.

Wait, what? Real heiress? Depression? Suicide? Where was all this coming from? The words hit me like a cold bucket of water to the face.

Totally freaked out, I grabbed Mason Whitaker's hand.

His hand was surprisingly warm, solid, and—God help me—comforting. I squeezed just a little tighter. Like maybe if I held on, I could keep the ground from shifting under my feet.

"Harvard is a must. Help me ace this, genius."

My voice came out a little too bright, a little too desperate. But I didn't care. If this was my lifeline, I was grabbing it with both hands.

Earlier that night, during Truth or Dare, Mason drew a dare:

"Help the girl with the worst grades get better before the SATs."

He read the slip like it was a death sentence. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes—hope—maybe—or just plain stubbornness. The room fell quiet, all eyes on us.

"Get a five-minute kiss from her as thanks."

A ripple of laughter ran through the group. Someone whistled. Mason's ears burned red. I suddenly realized I was the punchline to this dare. Everyone followed his gaze to me, the class underachiever.

I could feel my cheeks heat up, too. But I forced myself to hold his gaze. If I was going to be the butt of this joke, I could at least own it.

"Savannah Carlisle, you got the guts to take the Harvard entrance exam with me?"

His voice was steadier this time, like he'd found his footing. I was about to refuse when, for the second time, a wave of pop-up comments scrolled in front of my eyes:

[The clueless real heiress will definitely say no and blow her shot at a new life.]

[Serves her right to be unlucky. She refuses help from the top student, and after her real identity gets out and she bombs the SATs, even if her rich parents take her back, her dad won't care and her mom will resent her. She'll get crushed by the fake heiress, spiral into depression, and it'll all be her own fault.]

[Crying, why does she get to be Professor Mason Whitaker's white moonlight after he dies? Couldn't Mason have eaten better in high school?]

The comments felt like warning bells, flashing neon signs in a casino: Bet everything, or walk away broke.

Panicking, I quickly slipped my hand into Mason Whitaker's.

It was almost instinctive, like my body decided before my brain could catch up. His palm was clammy. Guess I wasn't the only one freaking out. I could practically feel his pulse racing.

"Please, help me get through this, genius."

My voice was smaller than I'd intended, but it was real. I couldn't back down. Not now. Not with everyone watching and those pop-ups screaming in my head.

"If I can get into Harvard, forget a five-minute kiss—I'll do five minutes every day if you want. I'll give you a down payment right now."

I suddenly leaned in. Rose up on my toes.

The room erupted in a mix of laughter and shocked gasps. I could smell his cologne—clean, sharp, a little bit like cedar and soap. Had I gone too far? Maybe. But then I saw his reaction.

He flushed right away, my always cold and aloof archenemy, his ears turning red.

He stumbled back, nearly knocking into the coffee table. For a split second, I wondered if he'd faint. It was almost cute—if you ignored the fact that he was supposed to be my nemesis.

He stepped back, his voice rough and strained as he mumbled, "Don't get the wrong idea. I'm just doing the dare."

He looked anywhere but at me. Rubbed the back of his neck like he wished he could disappear. If there was ever a time to call someone out for being awkward, this was it.

He had no idea what was coming. The pop-up comments in my eyes were about to go wild:

[What's happening, the real heiress actually didn't refuse?]

[Lol, cold guy acting tough. He's so hyped inside, he probably wants to grab the real heiress and kiss her senseless, but acting cool won't win you a girlfriend.]

[He obviously set this up with Tyler Monroe ahead of time, so when he drew the dare, Tyler would ask this question to put him on the spot, making him rack his brain to help the real heiress level up.]

[Laughing so hard, the real heiress doesn't even know Mason already made her a plan for underdogs to rise up—what's waiting for her is endless late-night study sessions.]

I stared at the comments, heart pounding. Wait. Mason Whitaker planned this all along?

He actually wants to help me get better?

I never noticed. Not once.