This is it. The final act.

The vast, white-painted loft is packed with reporters, music critics, and other prominent players in the music industry eager to hear Celia's new EP. Some of the guests sit on the wooden chairs in front of the small platform stage in the middle of the room. Others stand near the buffet table on my right, enjoying drinks and light snacks before the long-awaited event begins.

Excited squeals emanate from the swarm of teenagers standing in line under the huge Celia Adams EP Release Party banner near the entrance to the room. As they wait for their turn to snap a picture with their queen, most are busy marveling at Celia's beauty and graciousness. The rest, however, are more interested in curling their lips at me as if I was a disgusting tramp who doesn't deserve to be here.

The Vanessa Hayes-Wong from two months ago would've spent the last hour wondering if their opinion was true. Probably even cowers at the sight of their identical, red Crusaders of Love T-shirts—the same ones my attackers wore when they slushied me two years ago.

But not today.

Like a tiger waiting to pounce on its prey, I fix my gaze on the psychopath in the crimson velvet dress across the room—Celia Adams.

I spent the past week devising the perfect rat trap to unmask the evil mastermind who has been terrorizing me over the past two years. And when I left home this afternoon, I was sure this plan was going to work.

Still, as I glance at the clock on the wall behind me, a tinge of doubt creeps into my mind.

The show is about to start in twenty minutes, and according to Ollie, Celia has a nervous habit of going to the ladies' room before she performs. Yet right now, she still poses for pictures with her fans at the photo booth, playing the role of the saint she has assumed for years.

"This is a bad idea," Ollie mutters the same thing for the thousandth time today. "I'm telling you, you shouldn't do this."

"Yes, I should, Ol." I keep my voice soft, hoping it will calm him. "I can't keep running away from this. It's about time I fight back. It's about time I end BlueEyedCupid's reign of terror over our lives. It's time to take down the Evil Queen."

"Time to take down the Evil Queen," he scoffs, shaking his head in disapproval. He glances at the skinny man near the exit before leaning forward to me and lowering his voice into a whisper-shout, "We don't even know if we can trust that guy, Ness. What if him telling you all about that she-devil's plan is actually her plan to trap you, huh?"

As much as I hate to admit it, Ollie has a point.

When Blake first told me about what BlueEyedCupid has in store for me this Valentine's Day, I asked myself the same question. But he made it clear that BlueEyedCupid's plan for me was too horrifying for him to carry out—even when the latter offered him a chance to go on a romantic dinner date with his queen as the payment.

After careful consideration, I decided to choose to believe that the Gossip King has grown a conscience. My overanxious best friend, on the other hand, refuses to believe it.

"I'll be fine, Ol. Don't worry," I assure him, determination in my tone.

Ollie clicks his tongue. "I still don't get why we don't just move to Timbuktu."

"Because running away to Timbuktu is the answer for everything?" Sarcasm drips from my voice.

Ollie opens his mouth to defend himself but clamps it shut before any sound comes out. His lips gather into a stubborn, worried pout, drawing out a chuckle from me.

"Hey." I catch his hand and intertwine our fingers, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. "We've talked about this. We're lucky Blake refuses to do what BlueEyedCupid asks him to. Even luckier that he agrees to help us with this."

When I first told Blake about BlueEyedCupid's real identity, Blake was in shock. He refused to believe that the woman he'd worshipped for years was truly a cold-blooded, conniving psychopath. At one point, he even called me a stupid, insane peasant who belonged in a mental institution for accusing the softhearted queen of being such a monster.

Still, Celia isn't the only cunning woman in this room.

Using Blake's denial to my advantage, I trick him to participate in this act of deception by daring him to prove to the whole world that Celia Adams is truly a saint. After all, if she isn't the evil mastermind that I believe she is, she won't fall for my little trick.

"That witch isn't going to stop until I make her stop, Ol," I mutter through gritted teeth, keeping my eyes fixed on the psycho who almost killed my beloved cat. "If we don't do this, then she'll keep haunting us for the rest of our lives. What if next time she asks someone else, someone as heartless as her, to do her dirty work?"

The concern in Ollie's gaze deepens, and he tightens his grip around my hand. "I know, that's why we should—"

"Run away to Timbuktu?"

He drops his eyes to the floor, pouting.

With a chuckle, I say, "Running away isn't the answer for everything, Ol. Sometimes we just have to face whatever life throws at us and take a stand. Fight for what's right."

His expression softens a bit, although seeds of worry linger in his eyes.

"And don't you think she needs to pay for what she did to Kiki?" I ask.

The muscles in his face tighten as he clenches his jaw, and I can tell he concurs with me. Still, he sets his mouth in a grim line. "Look, I want justice for Kiki as much as you do, but this is too dangerous. What if that she-devil attacks you herself, huh? She's a psychopath, Ness. You don't know how far—"

"Ol." I put my hands on his shoulders and look him straight in the eye. "In case you forget, I once beat the shit out of a one-hundred-and-seventy-pounds juvenile delinquent who ends up joining the army and becoming a cop." As Ollie's lips quirks in faint amusement, I continue, "I'm pretty sure I can take care of that evil queen. Besides, this is the only way we can get foolproof evidence of her . . . evilness."

Ollie releases a snort of laughter. "Yeah, but—"

"Hey, hey, hey." I tap Ollie's shoulder as one of the stage crews approaches Celia at the photo booth. "I think this is it."

As Celia announces the end of the photo session to the disappointed teenagers, Ollie watches her over his shoulder and mutters, "This is a terrible—"

"Hey." I cup Ollie's cheeks in my palms and guide his gaze back to me, hoping he'll see the determination in my eyes. "This is going to work. No more running, okay?" As his eyes soften, I let go of him. "You know what you have to do, right?"

His eyes flick to the large projection screen on the stage before he heaves a deep sigh of resignation. "I'm gonna get fired for this."

"Not if things go as planned," I reply with a chuckle. "Wish me luck."

I'm about to walk past him when he reaches for my wrist, his touch urgent yet gentle. His lips part in concern, and I know he wants to say how bad of an idea this is—again. But this time, he flashes a tight smile at me. "Good luck."

I return the gesture with a confident nod before striding toward the battlefield. My gaze follows my nemesis as she sails out of the room, waving and smiling at her hysterical fans as if she was the queen of the Moors.

Yeah, she's a queen alright. The queen of all evil.

"This is a bad idea," Ollie mutters a few feet away from me.

A giggle bubbles from my chest, but it sticks in my throat as I get closer to the room's exit. The Crusaders of Love stand near the glass door, glaring at me with the venom of a thousand box jellyfish. The thought that one of them might throw a bucket of slushie—or worse, pig blood—at me sends an icy chill down my spine.

Getting slushied in front of the most important people in the music industry—including my boss—will be mortifying and possibly career-ending. After all, who would want to work with a supposed boyfriend stealer who can't even defend herself in front of a bunch of teenage girls?

No, no, no. Everything is going to be alright, Vanessa.

"Eww. That yellow Voldemort is even uglier in person," a girl jeers at me, loud enough to make the photographer and his crew turn their attention to me.

As a flush of embarrassment sweeps up my throat, another girl chimes in, "Yeah. He's super blind for choosing her over our queen."

Despite the cool breeze blowing from the vents, a rivulet of sweat soon runs down my back. In my peripheral vision, I see Ollie ready to rush to my side—which is undoubtedly going to worsen things for us. I'm about to abort the plan and flee to Timbuktu when a voice in my head reminds me of what Jack said the other day.

My former archenemy's right. This is like high school all over again.

There's a reason why I was never bullied back when I was in high school. Yes, most of the kids in my hometown were nice, but that wasn't all. I survived my childhood and teenage years without any emotional scars because I never—ever—let the bullies get into my head.

And right now, I shouldn't let Celia and her minions get into my head either.

Just a few more minutes and this will be over. The world will see what kind of a monster Celia Adams truly is.

My determination to end this circus once and for all manages to push my anxiety away. As Ollie threads his way through the crowd, I stop him with a quick warning headshake. Lifting my chin, I continue marching to the warzone.

Daggers of hatred still fly from my haters, but this time, I choose to ignore them. I choose not to listen to their cruel words. I choose to stand up for myself.

And the most magical thing happens.

It's as if there's an invisible shield enveloping me, protecting me from the attacks directed toward me. I guess it's true what people say, huh? Strength does come from deep within.

As my confidence level rises, I spot Blake standing near the exit with a glass of red wine in his trembling hand. Anxiety contorts his face, and as he brings his glass closer to his quivering lips, he accidentally spills some wine on his white shirt.

My mouth curves down in a grimace, doubt fleeting through my mind. Can he really pull this thing off?

As Celia disappears into the restroom area, I approach the Gossip King. "Psst. It's showtime."

Blake's Adam's apple bobs up and down as he gulps. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he gives me a nervous nod.

Let's hope this works.

My pulse picks up its pace as I inch toward the ladies' room. I breathe in and out through my mouth, trying to push my anxiety into the background. Yet sweat still breaks out on the palms of my hands.

Calm down, Vanessa. This is going to work. It has to.

As my feet grow heavier with each step, Rachel the receptionist struts out of one of the restrooms. The thick cloud of nauseating perfume surrounding her tingles my nose, and I fight back a sneeze.

"Hi, V." Rachel tries to pass me one of her usual fake smiles, but her upper lip stiffens, making her look like a creepy Barbie doll instead. Hmm? What's wrong with her—

My mouth falls open as I realize why her stiff lips seem so much plumper than usual. Did she get lip filler?

It baffles me why someone with a pair of lips as perfect as Rachel's would even think of improving her appearance. But I guess Ollie is right—everyone has something they're insecure about. At that moment, I realize why Rachel said those awful things about my face: she was projecting her insecurities on me.

Right now, I have a choice to either retaliate by laughing at her funny face or be the better person.

I choose the latter.

"Hi, Rach." I flash her the most genuine smile I can muster and glance at her stunning, pink cocktail dress. "Love your dress."

"Thanks. It's Versace." She tosses her long, champagne-blonde hair over her shoulder, pride shining in her green eyes. As she scans my outfit, an expression of haughty disdain settles on her soft features. "Where did you get yours? Target?"

The smile on my face falters.

Although I did buy my polka-dot buttoned blouse and black skater skirt at Target, the condescending look Rachel gives me is highly unnecessary. Besides, it's not like I have any choice. The rat trap I'm planning for BlueEyedCupid requires me to wear something with buttons on it, and this blouse—which is a super cute one—happens to be the only one I have in my wardrobe.

How did she know I bought my clothes at Target anyway?

Restraining myself from sassing her, I let out the fakest laugh of my life and simply inject a ton of saccharine into my voice. "Goodbye, Rachel." I hope you accidentally eat a rat's poison and burn in hell with your faux Versace dress—which you probably bought at some shady flea market.

I spin on my heels and stomp past Dick, who emerges from the men's room smelling like he just swam in a pool of nauseating perfume similar to the one Rachel wears. The strong, spicy scent stabs my nose, and I can't help but sneeze loud enough to wake up the dead.

What is it with these people and perfume?

Sniffing, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and step into the quiet ladies' room. A red-haired woman in a leopard print jumpsuit retouches her make-up in front of the huge mirror. Only one of the five stalls in this room is occupied, which means Celia must be in there.

I stop next to the red-haired woman and fish out my lip gloss from my clutch. My hand shivers as I roll the lip gloss across my already shimmering lips. Calm down, Vanessa. You can do this.

You can—where is that guy?

Just as I think Blake chickens out at the last minute, the door swings open and hits the wall with a bang. My stomach tenses when I see Blake standing at the door.

It's showtime.

"What are you doing here? This is the ladies' room," the woman beside me barks at Blake.

A shadow of hesitation crosses Blake's face. But when I give him the go-ahead nod, he steps further into the room.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, you pervert!" the woman shouts, resting one hand on her hip. "Are you deaf or something?"

Blake reaches into his back pocket and stammers quietly, "G-get out."

"Oh, this is absurd. You're the one who should get—" The red-haired woman drops her mascara wand to the floor and gasps out loud as Blake pulls out the jackknife I gave him this morning.

"Y-you." He unfolds the blade and points it at the woman beside me, who throws her shaky hands up in response. "Get out. Now."

Too shocked to utter another word, the woman scrambles toward the door, almost tripping over her heels in her haste.

Now that the room is empty but the two of us and our special guest inside the stall, I mouth at Blake, "Lock the door."

Blake nods before doing as instructed. Here we go.

"Blake?" I add a fearful edge to my voice. "What are you doing? Put down the knife."

"I-I can't, V. I have to do this."

Every muscle in my body tenses as he inches away from the door with his knife pointed in my direction. When we were rehearsing this act yesterday, we weren't using any props. But now that a real, sharp weapon is involved, I can't stop the knot of dread from forming inside my stomach.

"Y-you're standing in the way of true love." Blake tightens his grip around the knife, his knuckles growing white. "You . . . must . . . be . . . punished . . ."

The dramatic expression on his face sends my pulse soaring. He's not thinking of turning me into Leatherface for real, is he?

Holding my breath, I shift into a cautious stance, ready to knock him down in case he decides to do what my archenemy asks him to. My heart drums in my ears as I fix my gaze on the knife, beads of sweat blossoming on my forehead. Blake's hand has stopped trembling, and that spikes panic in my chest.

Shoot, shoot, shoot. Ollie's right, isn't he? This is a trap. I repeat. This is a—

A sigh of relief slips past my lips when Blake places the knife on the marble countertop.

Covering his mouth with his left hand, Blake whispers, "How am I doing?"

I guess he wasn't lying when he said he was an honorary member of his high school's drama club, huh? I give him the two thumbs-up sign.

As Blake beams in pride, I clasp my hands together and continue playing the role of the damsel in distress. "Blake, please. This isn't you. You don't want to hurt me. I'm your friend, aren't I?"

He slides back into character. "Yes, but . . . the queen wants this."

"No, she doesn't. You've seen her interview, right? She congratulated Ollie and me. She's moved on."

Blake sets his mouth in a stubborn line and shakes his head. "I'm sure she's just being nice. Like the saint that she is."

"No, no, no. You've got it all wrong, Blake." Stepping closer to the occupied stall, I raise my voice to ensure the woman inside hears my lies. "She congratulated Ollie and me in person yesterday. She even gave us some congratulatory flowers."

Blake narrows his eyes in suspicion. "You're lying. BlueEyedCupid said the queen is still madly in love with Oliver. That's why I have to do this."

"Hold on a second." I feign surprise. "You're telling me BlueEyedCupid asked you to do this?"

A muffled grunt of irritation erupts from the throat of our special guest inside the stall, drawing a smirk to my face. Time to pour gasoline on the fire.

"You shouldn't believe some crazy online fans, Blake." I keep my tone steady. "Haven't you heard the news? Celia is getting back together with Henry Stickles."

"What?" Blake squeals.

The sound of someone slapping their forehead from inside the occupied stall has me struggling to hold back a grin. "Think about it. Why do you think Henry agreed to collaborate with Celia on Memories?"

"Why?" Blake tilts his head to the side, confusion in his voice.

Henry felt guilty because one of his fans threw a cake at Celia and essentially humiliated her in public. That's why, when Ollie and I reached out to him, he agreed to collaborate with Celia to prove that there was no bad blood between the two of them.

Nevertheless, I lie, "She wrote that song for him, Blake. She said it to me herself. Ollie is yesterday's story. Henry is the love of her life. They're still keeping their relationship under wraps because they don't want the paparazzi to ruin everything like last time. But they're going to announce the wonderful news today."

"What?" Blake gasps in exaggerated excitement, his face breaking into an overjoyed smile. "You're serious?"

"I swear on my future husband's future grave," I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.

Celia hates it whenever Ollie swears on his future wife's future grave. Probably afraid something bad would happen to her in case Ollie ever marry her. Judging by the soft growl coming from behind the closed door, she hates it more when I mimic my best friend.

Grinning, I return my attention to the man standing before me. "Would you please put