Page 60 of Holding Hope

“That’s because I haven’t wanted to be seen by you, Arabella.”

Arabella.

Arabella Finch.

As in the daughter of the woman who’d been harassing Clarke about her mental health hiatus?

Arabella cocked her head, still ignoring me. “Tsk. You don’t mean that, Ethan⁠—”

“Yes, I do,” he cut in, removing her hand. “And I don’t appreciate this weird vendetta you have with my friends. If you really wanted me to go out with you, you’d stop torturing Clarke.”

Arabella laughed, rolling her eyes. “I do not torture her! We’re friends. That’s just how girls are, right…”

Finally, her gaze slid to me. “Who are you?”

“Avalon,” I said flatly. “And no, you’re not right. And you’re not Clarke’s friend.”

Arabella placed a hand over her chest, mouth falling open. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are? Do you know who I am?”

The questions were laughable. I could’ve told her exactly who I was—it would’ve shattered her world—but this wasn’t about me.

This rage was for Clarke.

“I don’t need to know your name or when you graduated or how much land your daddy owns to know you’re a bitch.”

Her eyes narrowed, mouth opening, but I kept going.

“I’ve been here a month and not once have I seen you or your friends check on Clarke. I saw the way she froze when you spoke to her. You’ve tormented her in some way—enough to leave damage—and judging from the three minutes I’ve known your name, I can tell you’ve never apologized.”

“Avalon,” Ethan said gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go. She’s not worth it.”

I shrugged him off. “No. She doesn’t get to act like this and not be called out.”

I turned back to Arabella, who looked ready to explode. “You can’t treat people like shit and expect them to laugh it off when you want something.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, her face turning tomato-red. “You don’t know anything, Avalon.”

But I did know.

I knew girls like her.

Hell, I had been girls like her—self-absorbed, oblivious to the damage I caused—until I met Clarke.

Ethan tugged my arm again, urging me to drop it, but I couldn’t. Not when it came to Clarke. She’d already been through enough—I’d already put her through enough—and I wasn’t about to let some girl with a farmer’s tan and cheap earrings add to it.

“Clarke wouldn’t want you wasting your energy on someone like Arabella,” Ethan murmured. “Just leave it.”

Clarke.

Everything always came back to her.

I didn’t know Arabella well enough to be this angry, but she’d hurt Clarke. And that was enough to light the match inside me.

The one that wanted to burn down anyone who hurt her.

She was everywhere—in Melody’s laugh, in the apple orchard air, in every thought I’d had since stepping foot in Texas.

What had she done to me?