𝙳𝙴𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽
/ˌdɛfəˈmeɪʃn/
𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑛
the action of 𝗱𝗮𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 the good reputation of someone; slander or libel.
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❝𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 �...
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A hesitant knock echoed through the door, and when she swung it open, the sight of her in a short nightgown caught me off guard. My breath hitched involuntarily. Weird emotions swirled within me, a chaotic mix of attraction and denial. Suppressing the chaotic desires, I clung to the mantra that id had to repeat to myself multiple times—I hate her.
As she stood before me, oblivious to the inner conflict, I wrestled with the complexities of my emotions. The delicate fabric of my self-control held strong, masking the longing and frustration. Every word, every glance, was carefully calculated to hold down the storm raging within. In the face of the challenge, I maintained the façade, determined to keep my emotions hidden, even as they threatened to break free.
"What are you doing here?" She shot at me, her tone dripping with hostility. "Just leave, Partridge."
However, I refused to listen to her dismissal. With a subtle persistence, I pressed myself into her apartment, breaking the unwelcome barrier she tried to set. The air was thick with tension, and I couldn't help but notice the trail of alcohol bottles scattered around, a visual proof of her struggles.
"Quite a party you've had here," I remarked, masking the concern that crept into my thoughts. I wanted to know what she had been through, even if my exterior remained indifferent. The conflict within intensified as I tested the delicate balance between probing and maintaining my facade.
"Why are you here?" she spat, a harshness in her tone that hinted at the conflict of her own beneath.
I let a smirk play on my lips, casually brushing off her obvious hate. "Thought I'd check on the damsel in distress."
Her retort was laced with venom, but I realized that the bottles were visual narratives of the chaos she'd endured, a silent plea for understanding.
"What's your deal, Y/n?" I shot back, the tension escalating with each word.
She snarled, but my equally snarky response prompted a defeated sigh. The room hung heavy with the weight of unspoken words, a battleground where neither of us reached victory.
"I'm not playing your game anymore," she declared, an edge to her voice. "I'm done fighting."
The words hung in the air, a proclamation that shattered my expectations. As I looked at her, a mix of disbelief and curiosity flickered in my eyes. The girl who'd been entangled in a web of rivalry, accusations, and hate was now ready to face the consequences, even if it meant imprisonment.
"Why give up now?" I questioned, unable to conceal the surprise in my voice.
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "What's left to fight for, Louis? The ashes of a burned library? A shattered reputation? I'd rather face jail than be a pawn in this twisted game."
