Piss Off, This Is My Money

They said Jace will be a bum forever.

He smiled. Challenge accepted.

They said his attitude would land him in jail.

Cool. He like bars.

They said he'd get a girl pregnant in freshman year.

Guess what? He did.

And right now, She’s on his chest. Two of them are eighteen. The baby in her stomach is five months. Tomorrow, they'd be getting married. No priest, no fucking courts. It'd be right here in their hostel.

Four months from now, a sophomore med student would guide them through the birth. Fuck hospitals and doctors.

Her phone buzzed. He glanced. She slammed it shut.

She turned to him, face inches from his.

“I want to go outside,” she whispered.

“Why? Pain?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine. Just…” She kissed him. “Be back soon.” She stood, and Jace watched her go, a grin spreading.

Humans were fucked up. They said pregnancy was hard. Morning sickness, aches, swollen bellies. Bullshit.

Five months. No complaints. No symptoms. Nothing. Except proof in the damn test that confirmed it.

Then a voice, low and urgent, came from outside.

“Is he inside?”

“Shush.”

“No one should talk!” Another whispered.

Jace swung his legs off the bed. Who the hell…? Weekend, too early. Dorms quiet. Normally, silence ruled this hour.

“Is the camera ready?”

He moved. Fast. His blood pounding. Legs carrying him to the door. He flung it open.

His head jerked in anger. At least fifty people packed into the hallway, more crammed on the stairs. Some fucking professional camera setup—multiple cameras on tripods, ring lights, sound equipment and shit.

“What the fuck are you doing in front of my room?” Jace snapped, fury cutting through his calm like a knife. “You want your fucking Livestream? Take it somewhere else!”

“Maya, tell her,” said the guy—cocky grin plastered across his face.

Maya?

Jace’s blood screamed. Wait…a fucking second.

There she was, in the arms of Mr. Perfect-Arrogant-Rich-Kid-With-A-Grin-He-Thinks-Is-Charming.

He dashed. Fingers itching for destruction. “Let go of her hand,” he growled.

“You said he was crazy,” the guy smirked, “but never this.”

He grabbed Maya’s hand, yanking her back while preparing to rearrange the guy’s face.

Then—WOSH.

Hot fire. Face. BAM.

He staggered. Holy hell. Maya’s hand? It took Jace a full three seconds to understand what happened.

“Maya? What the hell…?” He laughed like a manic. Not because it was funny. Because it wasn’t.

“That give you the clue? Don’t touch her,” the guy sneered, the grin sticking like gum to his face.

"Maya, tell us how you're feeling right now," one of the cameramen said, shoving a microphone toward her face.

Maya's smile widened. She looked directly into the camera. "Honestly? I was nervous when I first got the challenge. Like, five months is a long time to commit to something like this. But the payoff?" She laughed. "Totally worth it."

Challenge? Jace's brain stuttered. What challenge?

The TV screen mounted in the hallway flickered to life. Jace saw himself on it. And Maya. In his bathroom. Five months ago. The day she'd told him she was pregnant.

“But when I thought about the followers I’d get…” Maya smiled. “Why not? Ten million to three hundred million in five months—just from filming everything with my fake boyfriend.”

Jace’s brain froze. Fake boyfriend? Her smile hit him like a punch. Her? Me?

“How did you hide it so well?” one of the cameramen asked. “We all can tell he doesn’t know about it. He was so into it he even asked to marry you tomorrow.”

Maya tilted her head, still smiling. “He’s a fantasy guy. I just fed the fantasy he needed. Told him my parents were drug addicts, just like his. So easy.”

Jace blinked. Thousand eyes. Cameras. All of them on him.

“Jace Prescott,” someone barked, “how does it feel knowing everything—the kisses, the talks, the last five months—was live for millions to watch?”

“He’s a good kisser!”

“Those abs!”

He looked at her. Explanations? Instead she smiled.

“I was planning to pay you, by the way. Blank cheque. Some of it could even send your parents to rehab.”

Jace’s legs moved without his permission. The world blurred. He was numb. Cameras, people, shouting… nothing made sense.

This had to be a nightmare. One of the fucked-up ones he always woke screaming from.

“One word. How do you feel?” A microphone shoved in his face.

Then… he snapped.

Arms flying. Cameras first. CRASH. To the ground.

People next. Blows raining. They fought back—he didn’t care. Couldn’t feel.

Sirens in the distance. He knew. Police? Not friends. Poor kid in a rich kid’s world. Always guilty. Even for breathing.

He was hurled into a car. No questions. No mercy.

Next thrown into a cell. Lock clicked.