Page 1 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

PROLOGUE

ALLY (AGED 14)

It always begins the same way—a hallway drowned in silence, a restless feeling coiling in my stomach, and a decision that isn’t really a decision at all. I know this routine all too well, but now that I have boobs, it seems to happen more frequently, as if my body has become a beacon for these unsettling moments.

Canary Bay High is supposed to be safe. Not like the gritty schools churned out by movies, with their shadowy danger lurking behind every corner. Instead, there are pretty flowerbeds at the entrance, a faded dolphin mural, and a strict no-tolerance policy for nearly everything. Yet, none of that holds any comfort when the hallway lies empty and a boy, two years my senior, corners me with his arm pinned against the wall.

Breath reeking of cheap energy drinks, his voice is slick and dripping with condescension as he taunts, “You’re always scribbling in that little book of yours, Ally. What do you draw? Pictures of me?” I can feel my eyes roll in defiance, and even as I try to slip under his grasp, he blocks my path with a force that leaves me both weary and enraged.

“Come on,” he insists, drawing closer until his nearness feels like an invasion. “Just one kiss. Don’t be such a tease.”

I’m not exactly scared; fear is muddled here with anger. My hands clench into fists, my heart pounds a frantic beat, and my pulse screams at me to run, yet I stand there, paralysed by conflicting impulses to run or stand up to him. “I said no,” I manage—a defiant whisper that seems swallowed by the thick air between us.

He doesn’t heed my protest. His hand reaches out—then, in an instant, the whole scene shatters. One moment, he is looming over me, and the next, he’s tumbling to the ground with a resounding thud that echoes down the hallway.

That’s when I see him.

Rhys Gilmore.

The new kid, emerging like a bolt of conflicted vengeance. Without a word, he lunges at the boy, fists flailing with raw, fiery speed. A brutal, sickening crack splits the silence—was it a punch, a shattered rib? I’m rooted in place, trapped in a swirl of shock and a rising tide of emotions.

The aggressor struggles against Rhys’s relentlessness, but Rhys is a force of unpredictable passion—until the sharp call of a teacher sends pounding footsteps descending the hallway.

In moments, Rhys is hauled away, panting, blood trickling from his nose, while the other boy crumples, his lip severed, and curses spilling from him.

I stand there, frozen, clutching my sketchbook as if it were a fragile shield, feeling an internal dissonance too overwhelming to name.

Time seems to stretch and compress all at once, the chaotic interplay of anger, relief, and something uncomfortably tender settling in.

Later, when I find Rhys again, he’s in the nurse’s office. Sitting slumped on a bed with an ice pack pressed against his ribs, dark hair tumbling over his eyes, he looks as if he’d rather disappear completely.

I don’t knock; instead, I step inside, shutting the door with a heaviness that matches my confused heart. The nurse is outside typing on her computer.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance, and that silence is almost louder than any spoken word. So, I take the space beside him until our knees lightly touch, and before I know it, my resolve morphs into something impulsive.

I lean in and kiss him—a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s rough and desperate, messy with unspoken frustration and vulnerability.

A silent scream of thanks and admission fight against the turmoil inside me as I try to articulate my feelings in that moment.

Then he pulls away, a whispered, “Wait—” barely escaping his lips, and right then, the door creaks open.

In steps a pretty blonde, polished, almost too perfect—her presence radiates calm and impeccable composure, as if every step, every word, was rehearsed for this very moment. “Rhys!” she exclaims, hurrying over. “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

Rhys stands, stiff and measured, as though he’s trying to process too many emotions all at once. “Ashley, this is Ally. Ally, Ashley. She’s new here too,” he says abruptly, a self-imposed boundary building between us.

I step back, words burning on my tongue, my cheeks aflame—not with embarrassment, but a raw, unyielding sense of betrayal.

Ashley touches his arm gently. “You’re still bleeding. Come on, let’s get you home.” And just like that, he goes.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t explain the maelstrom inside him. He escapes with the air of someone unwilling to confront the contradictions between his impulses and the expected decorum.

I’m left standing there, stunned—like a firework whose spark fizzled out before taking flight.

Later, the truth surfaces. Their dads were acquainted—a tangled web of business deals, reputations, and obligations built on pretence. Their relationship was never meant to be real; it was nothing more than a façade crafted by expectation.

And yet, in the turbulence of that moment, it had felt achingly genuine for me. I, the girl left outside that carefully arranged life, felt every truth like a betrayal.

I kissed him first, diving into an ocean of emotions I had kept hidden, revealing a part of me that I had tried to keep locked away. He may have been the new kid at school, but the attraction to him was instant. I felt things for him I’d never felt before.

---