The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Ella POV:

"You know, Amber," I said, my voice calm but laced with sarcasm as I stared her down, "instead of obsessing over me and my business all the time, might I suggest you redirect that energy? Like, maybe calling your father and checking up on him? You know, the man whose life you’ve been so determined to use as leverage to feel important?"

Amber’s perfectly manicured hand froze mid-adjustment of her designer bag strap, and her fake smile faltered for a split second. For someone who spent all her time trying to look untouchable, she sure had a glass jaw.

"Oops," I continued, a mocking tilt in my tone, "did I hit a nerve? My bad."

Her jaw clenched, her blue eyes narrowing at me like daggers, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

"Listen, Amber," I said, taking a step closer to her, closing the space between us. "I don’t have time for whatever petty little game you’re trying to play. If I wanted to, I could make one phone call—just one—and your little façade of perfection would come crumbling down faster than your apology press conference."

Amber’s lips twitched, but she quickly recovered, flipping her hair in that practiced, dismissive way she always did. "You think you’re so clever, don’t you?" she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Acting like you’re above it all when, really, you’re just a little waitress with no clue how to play in my league."

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, honey, if this is your league, then I’m glad I’m not in it. Because if all you’ve got is hollow threats and daddy’s credit card, then you’re playing a losing game."

Her cheeks flushed with anger, and for a moment, I thought she might actually slap me. But instead, she straightened her posture, her mask of indifference slipping back into place.

"You’re pathetic," she spat. "You think Jason, Max, or Dylan actually care about you? You’re just a novelty to them, Ella. Something to fight over because they’re bored."

I laughed, genuinely amused. "And you think I care what you think? Newsflash, Amber: your opinion stopped mattering the moment you turned your life into a soap opera. You should focus on cleaning up your own mess instead of trying to drag me into it."

Amber opened her mouth to retort, but I held up a hand to stop her.

"Don’t," I said firmly. "I’m done entertaining this nonsense. And Amber? A word of advice: worry less about me and more about that PR disaster you’re currently living in. Because, unlike you, I don’t need to hide behind excuses or daddy’s name."

With that, I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving her standing there, probably fuming but too stunned to do anything about it.

God, that felt good.

......

If this God-forsaken day could just end already, I’d gladly hurl myself into bed and let sleep wash away all the chaos. I leaned against the counter, glancing at the diner’s wall-mounted TV. There weren’t any customers yet since the peak hour hadn’t arrived, and I wasn’t about to risk pulling out my phone to kill time—my boss’s temper was something I wasn’t keen on triggering again.

The TV blared a ridiculous reality show, something overly dramatic and painfully predictable, the kind of thing you’d only watch if you’d exhausted all other options. I was just about to tune it out entirely when the screen abruptly switched to a news broadcast.

The headline alone froze me in place: "The Prescott Empire Crumbles—Corruption Charges Confirmed."

I blinked at the screen, unsure if I’d read it right. But there it was, plastered in bold letters beneath the presenter, who was speaking with an air of smug satisfaction.

"Breaking news: The Prescott family business has officially collapsed. Their accounts have been frozen, and Mr. Prescott himself is now facing a barrage of corruption charges. Sources claim this dramatic downfall began after losing the support of the Kings but has been exacerbated by today’s sudden stock crash, which left the Prescott empire in financial ruin."

I didn’t realize I was gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles started to ache.

The presenter continued, detailing the accusations of fraud, bribery, and involvement in some shady underground dealings. Apparently, it wasn’t just business incompetence—the Prescotts had their hands in some very illegal cookie jars.

It was surreal. Just yesterday, they were a name everyone feared or respected, depending on where you stood. And now? The news presenter signed off with a final, almost gleeful remark:

"We may be witnessing the end of the Prescott legacy as we know it."

My stomach churned.

I couldn’t help but think back to earlier—how smug they were especially that spoilt brat, how they thought they could waltz into my life, mess with me, and walk away unscathed. A part of me wanted to celebrate their downfall. Was this karma, or was it something else entirely?

My mind wandered to Mr. Harris, his cryptic words about "dealing with the Daddy bear - Prescotts Kingsley-style." I’d dismissed it at the time, too preoccupied with getting out of the police station. But now, seeing this on the news? A cold shiver ran down my spine.

Did he do this?

If he did, it wasn’t just a warning shot—it was a full-blown takedown. And while the Prescotts deserved to face the consequences of their actions, the ruthlessness of it all left me uneasy. I wasn’t naive. I knew the Kingsleys had power, real power, but seeing it wielded like this? It was a stark reminder of the world I’d tried so hard to stay out of but damn did I miss it.

When Mr. Harris had said, "Daddy Bear won’t bother you again," referring to Amber’s father, I thought he meant something minor—maybe forcing them to lose out on a significant business deal or applying just enough pressure to scare them into backing off. But this?

This was something else entirely.

The Prescotts weren’t just losing business; they were being obliterated. Their accounts frozen, their stocks in freefall, and Mr. Prescott himself now facing corruption charges. I didn’t think Mr. Harris would crush them to this extent. Sure, I was annoyed when Amber’s dad decided to insert himself into her petty drama and come after me, but this? It almost felt excessive.

Almost.

I won’t lie—it felt satisfying to know the Prescotts wouldn’t dare to cross me again. They’d learned their lesson, albeit in the most brutal way possible. Still, there was a lingering unease in the pit of my stomach as I watched the news replaying their downfall like a dramatic soap opera.

Had I really set all of this into motion?

The truth was, I didn’t ask Mr. Harris to do any of this. I had planed to deal with them myself. All I wanted was for Amber and her family to stay out of my business. Instead, they had the nerve to conspire against me, pulling strings to have me arrested on some bogus charge. And for what? To humiliate me? To teach me a lesson?

If they’d stuck to their lane, none of this would’ve happened. It wasn’t my fault they underestimated who they were dealing with.

Still, watching the Prescotts crumble so spectacularly had me questioning everything. Was this really all because of Mr. Harris? Or was it something bigger? Whatever the case, as long as people believed their downfall stemmed from losing the Kings’ support—and not because of me—then everything would remain fine.

Because, honestly, people should know better than to mess with someone just because they are beneath them.

The Prescotts should’ve known that throwing me in prison over Amber’s ridiculous vendetta was a line they couldn’t cross. I might not be flashy about it, but I’m no stranger to power. And if they thought I’d let them get away with treating me like some nobody, they were sorely mistaken. Mmmh Mr. Harris has taken care of them for me.

In this world, actions have consequences, and they were just unlucky enough to face theirs.

I let out a breath, brushing the thoughts aside. I didn’t ask for this, but now that it’s done, there’s no use in feeling guilty about it. My conscience was clear.

After all, I wasn’t the one who made them corrupt. I wasn’t the one who ruined their reputation. They did all of that on their own.

And as long as nobody could connect this back to me—or Mr. Harris—it was their mess to deal with. Let the world speculate about the Kings pulling their support or the Prescotts’ shady dealings. It had nothing to do with me anymore.

The bell above the diner’s door jingled, snapping me out of my thoughts. A couple of customers walked in, and I plastered on my best "welcome to the diner" smile, pushing the Prescott news to the back of my mind—for now.

As I took their orders, I couldn’t help but glance at the TV again, where the news anchor had moved on to the weather forecast. Life went on, and so would I. Let the Prescotts’ learn the hard way: You don’t come for me unless you’re ready to face the storm.