Chapter 1

After six years of chasing him, James "Jamie" Dawson finally agreed to be with me. I was over the moon.

That is, until the day I overheard him talking to his mates. "You mean Mari Bennett? She’s just been my little lapdog for six years."

"She’s not bad looking, though. That’s why I didn’t ditch her. Kept her around to make Nate feel a bit jealous, remind her not to pick fights with me all the time."

The “Mari Bennett” he mentioned was me. And Nate—Natalie "Nate" Carter—was his ex-girlfriend of three years.

Jamie had clearly had a few too many drinks; his words were slurred.

"If you fancy Mari, mate, you should’ve said earlier. I’d have let you have a go."

Jamie transferred to our class in our final year of A-levels, causing a massive stir in school.

With his high cheekbones, sharp brows, 6’1” height, and short, slightly tousled hair, he stood out from the rest of the stressed, pale-faced students. There was something about him—cool, detached—that made him hard to ignore.

My best mate, Chloe Mitchell, said at least six out of every ten girls fancied him.

I was no exception.

I’d liked Jamie since I was 18. Six years had passed since then.

I had always thought he liked me too.

Back then, I was going through an awkward phase—teenage weight gain, spots, the works. Not exactly ugly, but definitely not the prettiest.

Still, whenever some of the boys teased me about being too fat to ever get married, Jamie would step in. “If losing weight means marrying someone like you, better to stay as I am,” he’d quip.

When they complained that I was blocking their phone signals with my size, Jamie would just laugh, “Maybe it’s time for you to upgrade your phone.”

Rumours about me and Jamie started to spread in the class.

Of course, they were all about how I was a toad lusting after a swan, thinking too highly of myself, or how I was desperate.

So I started keeping my distance from Jamie on purpose.

Then, during our New Year’s party, there was a game that required boys and girls to team up.

I was sure no one would pick me, and the others were probably waiting to laugh at me when Jamie, to everyone’s surprise, took my hand.

He leaned in and whispered softly, “Mari, why have you been avoiding me lately? Did I do something wrong?”

“When you ignore me like that, it feels like there’s something missing.”

I kept telling myself that his words didn’t mean anything. Jamie couldn’t possibly like me.

Yet, I still couldn’t stop my face from turning bright red.

In our final term, when we were all cramming for exams, I did two things: studied and tutored Jamie.

Jamie was smart, but it’s harder to improve your score the higher you already are. It’s like how a student scoring 200 marks can easily improve to 300, but getting from 600 to 700 is nearly impossible.

But in our three mock exams, I watched as Jamie went from 550 to 590, then to 620.

Our teachers and classmates couldn’t believe it.

And as Jamie’s compliments and encouragement came pouring in, I started to feel more confident too.

The snide comments from our classmates faded, replaced by talk of how we made a good match, a “power couple,” as they called it.

“Do you think Jamie’s working so hard because he wants to go to the University of London with Mari?” someone joked.

“Definitely. With his family’s money, why bother studying this hard unless he’s got a reason?”

“He’s improved by 70 points in one term! Mari, help me too! I’m shipping you two!”

After six months of studying together and pushing each other to succeed, I was sure there was something between us.

So, the night after our A-level exams, I gathered the courage to confess. I filled the hotel entrance with roses and launched dozens of drones over the Thames, spelling out Jamie’s initials in the sky.

I was young then, too young to realise that a confession should be a declaration of victory, not the start of an attack.

Jamie’s friends seemed more excited than he was when they saw the scene, shoving him towards me.

But instead of the classic “yes” you’d expect in a romantic movie, I heard, “Whoa, mate, this is that girl you mentioned, isn’t it?”

“Go on, Jamie. She’s pulled out all the stops for you.”

Their faces were lit up with a strange excitement I didn’t quite understand.

Later, one of Jamie’s mates accidentally forwarded their group chat messages to our class group.

That’s when I found out they had been calling me names like "tank" and "sumo wrestler," teasing Jamie for being so desperate that he’d go for anything.

They’d even shared photos of random women in high heels and stockings, telling Jamie to go after something “better.”

Jamie, to his credit, had calmly explained that there was nothing romantic between us.

His polite, dignified tone stood out in that cesspit of filthy jokes.

That’s when I convinced myself: Jamie wasn’t a bad guy; he just didn’t like me.