I was born with the kind of face people couldn’t help staring at, yet I suffered from crippling social anxiety. To escape the weight of everyone’s eyes, I spent years hiding behind a black face mask. Naturally, that made me the school’s favorite freak. They hauled my desk into the boys’ locker room, scrawled “UGLY” across my gym uniform in permanent marker, and eventually cornered me in the athletic equipment shed, demanding that I take the mask off. That was the day Damon, the new transfer student, kicked the door off its latch. He pulled me behind him and turned a glacial stare on the crowd. “If she doesn’t want to show her face, none of you touch her.” From that moment on, he became my self-appointed protector, making sure nobody laid a finger on me. Slowly, inevitably, I fell for him. I even began to summon the courage to take the mask off—just for him. Until the afternoon before our senior graduation gala, when I heard Damon laughing with the very people who used to torment me. “The bet expires tomorrow, Damon. Are you seriously going to ask out the freak?” Damon’s voice drifted through the door, lazy and amused. “Of course.” “First, I get her to take the mask off in front of the whole school. Then we tell her that every single heroic rescue, every sweet little moment, was scripted from day one.” Someone chimed in, “What if she actually turns out to be hot?” Damon scoffed. “If she were pretty, would she have spent three years hiding like a subterranean mole?” I looked down at the glowing screen of my phone. Barely thirty minutes earlier, Damon had texted me: [When I ask you out tomorrow night, will you take off your mask for me?] And I, foolish and trusting, had typed back: [Okay.] … The moment my message went through, Damon’s reply popped up instantly. [That’s a promise. No backing out.] Attached was an animated head-pat sticker. If this were half an hour ago, I would have stared at that screen with a racing pulse and heat rising to my cheeks. Now, a violent wave of nausea crested in my throat. Inside the equipment room, the banter continued unabated. “Hey, Damon, you think she actually fell for you?” “Is that even a question? Damon bought her morning iced lattes for three straight months. The way she looks at him now, it’s like he hung the damn moon.” Someone lowered their voice, feigning concern. “Isn’t she supposed to have some severe panic disorder? What if she has a complete psychotic breakdown when she finds out on stage?” There was a brief pause before Damon’s dismissive chuckle filled the room. “It’s not that deep.” “Besides, it’s just a senior prank. If she gets hysterical, I’ll sweet-talk her for five minutes. She’ll come around.” A chorus of raucous laughter echoed against the tin roof. I stood frozen in the dim shadow of the stairwell, my knuckles white, the metal edges of my phone digging painfully into my palm. Every time he had shielded me from cruelty—it was a game. Every afternoon he spent waiting for me outside the clinic—it was a game. Every gentle whisper that he didn’t care what I looked like under the fabric—all of it, a calculated performance. No wonder he always arrived with such cinematic precision whenever I was cornered. No wonder the bullies claimed to fear him, yet never truly stopped tormenting me. They were in on it together. From the very beginning. I was nothing more than a wager to kill the boredom of their senior spring. Hearing approaching footsteps, I turned and headed down the stairs. “Kate?” Damon’s voice called out behind me. I stopped. He jogged down the steps, catching up to me, carrying the faint, sweet scent of mint vape and gym dust. “What are you doing over here?” Damon studied me for a second, his eyes immediately dropping to my trembling, pale fingertips. “Did someone mess with you again?” His brow furrowed into that familiar, protective scowl—the exact expression he wore every time he played my savior. “Tell me who it was. I’ll handle them.” I looked at him through the narrow space above my mask. His acting was flawless. The tenderness in his voice, the fierce concern in his eyes, even the instinctive way his hand reached out to straighten the collar of my cardigan—not a single seam showed. I gave a small, quiet shake of my head. “No. I just came to pick up the program itinerary for tomorrow night.” An unmistakable wave of relief washed over his features. “Good.” He pressed a warm paper cup into my hands. “Earl Grey milk tea. Quarter sweet, no pearls.” “You always said too much sugar makes your heart race.” I stared down at the custom label. I used to think this meant he paid attention. That he cherished my quirks. Now I understood: a seasoned predator always takes notes on his prey. Damon walked me out toward the quad, the late afternoon sun casting long, sharp shadows across the concrete. “About tomorrow night,” he asked casually. “Are you ready?” I deliberately held my breath, letting the silence stretch. As if terrified I might retreat into my shell, he added quickly, “Don’t be scared. When the time comes, just look at me. No matter what anyone says when you pull it down, I’ll be standing right beside you.” I looked up into his dark, bright eyes. “Really?” “Of course.” He smiled, his palm gently ruffling my hair. “When have I ever lied to you?” On the walk home, those words spun in my head like broken glass. My phone buzzed against my leg. It was Dr. Evans, my therapist: [If being looked at tomorrow feels like too much of an ambush, we can cancel the unmasking step. Your boundaries come first.] Three years ago, an incident of extreme public harassment had left me with severe post-traumatic agoraphobia and social anxiety. I was never afraid of my own face. I was terrified of the gaze of others. The intrusive awe, the predatory curiosity, the uninvited cameras, the relentless whispering—it made my airways seize and my limbs lock in panic. The mask had been my perimeter fence. My armor. Yet in the eyes of my peers, refusing to reveal one’s face could only mean one thing: hideousness. I had once wanted to dismantle that wall for Damon. Now, there was no need. I typed back to Dr. Evans: [We’re not canceling.] [I’m still taking it off.] The next morning, an old video surfaced in the senior class group chat. The footage showed me trapped against the bathroom sinks, with Christine pulling aggressively at the strap of my mask, sneering: “How grotesque do you have to be to keep this stupid thing on twenty-four hours a day?” A second later, the video cut to Damon violently shoving her back, stepping between us, his voice icy with fury: “Touch her again and see what happens to you.” The clip ended abruptly there. Immediately after, Christine posted: [A little senior year throwback to our resident hero’s finest moment.] The chat exploded with notifications. “I swear, back then I actually thought Damon was obsessed with her.” “Who knew it was just a bet? LMAO.” “Shhh, shut up before someone leaks it. The grand finale is tonight.” The message was swiftly deleted, but not before I had already screenshotted it. Christine tagged me right after. [Kate Campbell, make sure you show up early tonight.] [Damon’s got a massive surprise waiting for you.] I didn’t argue. I simply typed: [Okay.] I set my phone face down on the vanity. A gentle knock sounded at my bedroom door, and my mother walked in carrying a garment bag. She unzipped it to reveal an emerald-green silk dress. “It arrived from the tailor,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with a familiar, lingering ache. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you and stay in the back row?” I shook my head, offering her a steady smile. Over the past three years, she had put her entire career on hold, taking me to countless specialists. She had even taken down every full-length mirror in the house, terrified that seeing my own reflection would trigger the memory of that suffocating day when strangers mobbed me. But I was tired of hiding. “Mom, I’ve got this.” She smoothed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, her eyelashes damp. “My girl was never meant to live in the dark.” Just before I left the house, the school’s media coordinator called my cell. “Kate, the senior commemorative spotlight video is fully edited.” “Are you absolutely certain you want it broadcast on the main auditorium screen tonight?” It was a tribute video the administration had invited me to film weeks ago. The set had been completely closed—only the female videographer and Dr. Evans had been allowed in the room. In that footage, I wasn’t wearing a mask. I had initially decided to keep it strictly archived for faculty records. Until last night. “Yes. Play it as planned.” The coordinator sounded taken aback. “I thought you wanted it kept strictly internal?” “Things have changed,” I said, gazing down at the crumpled milk-tea label on my desk. “Also, can you adjust the queue? Run the video immediately after Damon’s performance.” “Consider it done.” When I arrived outside the high school auditorium, Christine and her circle were already waiting by the glass double doors. She looked me up and down, her eyes fixing onto the black fabric covering the lower half of my face. “Still wearing that rag tonight?” she taunted. “Damon’s making a big speech for you. You aren’t planning on kissing him through cotton, are you?” The girls behind her giggled into their manicured hands. I kept my chin slightly lowered, offering no response. Thinking I was cowed, Christine reached out a painted nail to flick at the elastic strap. Before her skin could graze mine, a hand clamped down on her wrist. “I warned you,” Damon’s voice cut through the air. Christine threw her hands up in mock surrender, rolling her eyes. “Fine, fine. She’s your property. I won’t touch her.” She shot Damon a knowing, conspiratorial wink. In that split second, I caught the ghost of an amused smirk tugging at the corner of Damon’s mouth. By the time he turned toward me, his expression had smoothed back into seamless, tender devotion. “You okay? Did she rattle you?” I shook my head. He naturally reached down and laced his fingers through mine. “They’re finishing sound checks inside. Let’s go.” All the way down the carpeted aisle, heads turned to watch us. Damon walked with his chin high, basking in the ambient glow of everyone’s attention. At the side stage door, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Kate, this is our last night as high schoolers.” “I don’t want any regrets between us.” I asked in a whisper, “So you really need to see my face?” He paused, then smiled warmly. “It’s not just for me.” “I want the whole room to see that no matter what you look like underneath, I’m choosing you.” The delivery was so earnest it could have won an award. Yet from behind the backstage curtain, I could hear Christine’s poorly stifled snickers. I pretended not to notice. Slowly, deliberately, I slipped my fingers out of his grasp. “Alright,” I said softly. “Tonight, I’ll let everyone see.” … The gala officially commenced at seven. By six-thirty, Christine had already dropped a photo into the private class thread. The stage center was decorated with an ostentatious bouquet of crimson roses, and the overhead projector read: [Damon’s Senior Confession.] The chat erupted into frantic speculation. “Is the freak actually going to unmask?” “Damon deserves an honorary humanitarian award for this sacrifice.” Christine set up a live betting pool: “How many seconds can Damon look at her bare face without laughing?” Within ten minutes, the pot surpassed thousands of dollars. Damon dropped in three grand of his own, betting he could hold out for a full minute. Right after placing his wager, he sent me a direct message: [Where are you? Don’t get cold feet on me now.] Standing just outside the green room door, I typed back: [I’m here.] Through the crack in the door, I watched Christine hand him a silver gift box. Inside rested a compact mirror. Taped to the glass was a neon post-it: “Time for the ugly to face reality.” Someone chuckled, “What if she finds out it was all a joke and cuts you off completely?” Damon snapped the lid shut, his tone utterly indifferent. “Who else does she have besides me?” “Even if she throws a fit, I’ll say a few sweet words and she’ll come running right back.” I pushed the door open. The green room fell dead silent. I had shed my baggy oversized fleece for the floor-length emerald dress. My dark hair was swept up into an elegant, loose chignon, though the black mask still concealed the lower half of my face. A flicker of genuine shock and intrigue crossed Damon’s eyes. He quickly shoved the silver box behind his back. “Kate. You look stunning.” He crossed the room and took my wrist, his grip tightening just a fraction too hard. “You remember what you promised, right?” His eyes bore into mine. “The whole school is watching tonight. Don’t make a fool out of me.” I nodded faintly. “I won’t.” At seven sharp, the auditorium dimmed. After the opening musical numbers, the stage lights dropped into complete darkness. A lone spotlight pierced the center stage, illuminating Damon holding ninety-nine red roses. The massive LED screen behind him began rolling a video montage of his greatest hits as my “hero.” There was the day he kicked open the gym shed door. The day someone dumped soda on my uniform, and he draped his varsity jacket over my shivering shoulders. The day he stood between me and a circle of taunting seniors. In the polished, dramatic edit, he looked like a knight descending from the heavens. Murmurs rippled through the audience. “No wonder Kate fell for him.” “Any girl would lose her mind over that.” Near the front row, Christine and her clique were doubled over, biting their lips to keep from howling with laughter. Because every single crisis in that video had been choreographed down to the second. The clip faded to black. Damon raised the microphone to his lips. “Kate Campbell. Come up here.” Hundreds of pairs of eyes instantly pivoted, landing squarely on me. I didn’t move. The romantic smile on Damon’s face flickered for an imperceptible second. Christine immediately raised her voice from the front row, leading the chant: “Go up there!” “He protected you for three whole years, Kate! Don’t be ungrateful!” Damon extended his hand toward me once more, his voice dripping with gentle persuasion through the speakers. “Kate, don’t be afraid.” “As long as you trust me, I’ll protect you forever.” Under the blinding glare of the spotlights, I walked up the stage stairs. Damon sank down onto one knee, thrusting the roses toward my chest. “Will you take off the mask and be my girlfriend?” The crowd went feral. “Take it off!” “Say yes!” I took a step backward. “I don’t want to take it off anymore.” Damon’s jaw tightened instantly. He reached down and clicked the microphone’s power switch to mute. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed under his breath. “We had a deal last night.” His fingers clamped down hard around my wrist, raw irritation bleeding into his voice. “I spent weeks setting this up. You don’t get to pull a temper tantrum now.” I met his gaze evenly. “And if I refuse?” Damon stared at me for three cold seconds, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp threat. “Then next time someone corners you, don’t come crying to me. You know damn well what Christine and the others will do to you without my protection.” He flicked the microphone back on, shifting instantly back into an affectionate smile. “Kate, stop teasing. Everyone’s waiting for you.” I glanced at the digital clock mounted on the side wall. 7:40 PM. It was time for my surprise. “Kate Campbell, how long are you going to drag this out?” Christine strutted onto the stage, holding her phone high to capture me in high-definition. Her livestream had already pulled in thousands of viewers, the comment section flooding with demands to see the freak unmasked. “Damon has done everything for you! You won’t even show your face?” “Or do you already know you’re too repulsive, and you’re scared you’ll terrify him?” Uproarious laughter erupted from the lower tiers of the auditorium. Damon didn’t step in to stop her. He just leaned in close, muttering darkly, “Don’t make me pull it off myself.” I looked up at him. “Didn’t you say you’d love me no matter what I looked like?” “Yes!” he snapped, exasperation finally cracking through his composure. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be playing these pathetic mind games.” Christine popped open the silver gift box and shoved the compact mirror into Damon’s palm. “Once she takes it off, let her get a good look at reality.” Someone in the crowd yelled, “Pull it off for her, Damon! The betting pool is closing!” Losing his last shred of patience, Damon dropped the roses and stepped aggressively into my space. “Final warning, Kate. Do you take it off yourself, or do I do it for you?” I held my hand over the fabric, retreating another step. The audience roared with laughter. Damon grabbed my wrist in an iron grip. “Kate Campbell, that’s enough!” “Do you honestly think anyone else in this world would ever look at you?” “I spent three years babysitting you. You should be down on your knees thanking me!” In his fury, he hadn’t realized that his microphone was brushing his collar. Every vicious, condescending syllable boomed through the high-end sound system, bouncing off every corner of the massive hall. The entire auditorium dropped into a stunned, breathless hush. Christine scrambled to smooth it over, grabbing her own mic: “Damon’s just frustrated! Who wouldn’t lose their temper after dealing with her drama?” Realizing his mistake, Damon softened his voice in a desperate bid for damage control. “Kate… I just want you to be brave. Be good. Take it off.” He reached his hand out toward my face again. Just as his fingertips came within an inch of my skin, every light in the auditorium cut out.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “578823”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply