Chapter 1: The Vote That Broke Me

So, the guys in my class decided to hold a vote for the ugliest girl, and—guess who won? Yeah. Me.

It’s one of those stories that just sticks with you, bitter and impossible to shake off. Even now, I can’t shake it. I still remember the way the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, making everything look even more washed out and mean. Even now, when I think about it, I can feel the sharp sting of that moment—like a paper cut you keep bumping into all day.

But one name jumped out at me: Tyler Monroe.

Tyler Monroe—his name always seemed to claim the page—sharp, bold. Impossible to ignore. He was the kind of boy who wore confidence like a varsity jacket. You know, the kind who makes you feel like you’re standing outside in the cold, watching the party through the window.

I’d liked him, secretly, for six years. To me, he was the sun.

Six years. That’s forever when you’re a kid. It’s enough to memorize the slope of someone’s shoulders, the way their laugh sounds when they really mean it, the little things they never notice about themselves. To me, Tyler was everything bright and golden, the center of my small universe.

With every stroke of his pen, he mocked me—the girl who dared to step out of line and confessed to him.

I’d always wondered if he could feel the weight of my gaze, if he ever noticed how careful I was around him, measuring every word. But when his pen scratched my name onto that list, it was like he drew a line I wasn’t allowed to cross. That was it. The boundary.

Years later, on CNBC, a financial news host interviewed Tyler Monroe and asked if he had any regrets in life. Tyler looked straight at the camera and said, "Back in high school, I mistook a diamond for a pebble. I let someone else take her away, and for seven years I've regretted it every single day. Lucky for me, she's single now, so maybe I still have a shot."

The world moves on, but sometimes it circles right back to the places you thought you’d left behind. Hearing him say those words on national TV—with that rare, raw honesty—felt like time folding in on itself. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. There’s something about regret that clings to the voice, a catch in the throat you can’t quite hide.

The "someone else" he mentioned was sitting across from me at that very moment. Hearing this, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his steak toward me, and said he needed to make a call.

It was one of those fancy business dinners at a restaurant where the napkins are folded into origami shapes and the ocean glimmers just beyond the glass. If you cracked a window, you’d smell the salt air. The man across from me—cool. Collected. The kind who never lost his composure—simply excused himself, his voice so steady you’d never guess what was brewing underneath.

Out on the balcony with an ocean view, his voice turned cold: "Granite just reached Series C funding, right? Tell Red Oak, Larkin, and Crestview to pull their investments." It was a power play, plain and simple—the kind of move that could change everything for a startup.

He said it quietly, but there was steel in his voice. Ruthless. Efficient. It made the night air feel colder.

That’s how power works here. In America, it’s all smiles and phone calls.

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The boys in class started a vote for the ugliest girl.

It was the kind of mean-spirited game that spreads through a classroom like wildfire. Even the air felt tense, thick with anticipation. I could feel all those eyes on me, waiting to see what I’d do.

When the voting booklet landed in my hands, the whole class fell silent.

The silence was heavy, humming with the sort of cruelty that only teenagers can muster. I could hear someone tapping their pencil, the sound impossibly loud in the hush. For a second, I wondered if anyone would speak up, but no one did.

The first page was for class sweetheart, the second for class ugly.

There was something almost official about the way the pages were labeled, as if someone had decided this was just another harmless poll, like picking prom royalty. But the stakes felt higher, sharper.

For class sweetheart, the competition was fierce. For class ugly, there was no suspense.

I could see the scribbled hearts and stars next to the popular girls’ names, the way people giggled and whispered as they filled in their votes. When it came to the second page, though, the laughter faded, replaced by a nervous kind of energy.

One after another, my name filled the page.

Each letter felt like a pebble dropped in a well—one after another, echoing in the dark. I watched as the ink bled into the paper, my name standing out in a sea of scrawled handwriting.

Of the 21 boys in our class, 17 voted for me.

Numbers have a way of making things real. Seventeen out of twenty-one. It’s hard to argue with math, even when it hurts.

I knew I wasn't pretty.

I’d never been the girl people whispered about in the hallways, never the one who got asked to dances or chosen for yearbook superlatives. I was just… there.

Single eyelids, thick lips, dark skin, an old-fashioned hairstyle, and pimples on my forehead.

I’d memorized my own flaws the way some girls memorize song lyrics. I knew exactly what people saw when they looked at me, and I’d learned to keep my head down.

I was self-aware, so I never dreamed of romance, let alone Tyler Monroe's affection.

Still, hope is a stubborn thing. It sneaks in through the cracks, no matter how much you try to seal them. I told myself I didn’t care, but deep down, I did.

But when I saw Tyler's handwriting, my heart still couldn't help but sink.

His handwriting was unmistakable—neat, confident, a little slanted. Seeing my name in his script felt like a punch to the gut. It made everything real in a way nothing else could.

I'd known him for six years, liked him for six years.

Six years of watching from afar, of memorizing his schedule, of hoping for the tiniest bit of attention. You’d think I’d have grown out of it by now, but crushes don’t care about logic.

I never expected that the day after I confessed, he'd humiliate me so openly.