Chapter 347: Die-hards and Hypes Setup

Emily wrapped her arms around Delilah the moment the PheiCrush Simps stepped off the court, their shoulders slumped, glitter still clinging to their skin like the last stubborn sparks of a dying firework.

The final note of the official cheerleaders’ routine still hung in the air—crisp, perfect, triumphant—while the Simps’ own performance, raw and desperate and beautiful in its imperfection, faded into the rafters like smoke.

It hadn’t been close.

Not even a little.

Paige and Brielle

stood at center court like twin statues carved from victory and spite, accepting the crowd’s roar with the lazy, practiced smirks of people who had never once doubted the outcome.

Years of elite training, private coaches flown in from LA or worse... Italy, synchronized routines drilled until muscle memory became instinct, budgets that turned cheerleading into high art—they had brought every unfair advantage Paradise could buy, and they had used every single one of them without apology.

As the Simps filed past, heads low, the Heavenchild twins stuck their tongues out in quick, childish mockery—

petty, deliberate, gleeful

.

Winners get to be

bitches,

their matching expressions seemed to purr

. What are you going to do about it?

The stadium’s energy had already begun to pivot.

You could feel it shift in real time, that fickle, predatory thing called public opinion tilting away from the scrappy underdog and back toward the gilded establishment.

Half the students who had screamed Phei’s name ten minutes earlier were now chanting for Paige and Brielle, for the twins, for the team that had always won and would always win because loyalty in Paradise was never about belief—it was about survival, and survival meant attaching yourself to the side least likely to bleed.

Marcus’s Angels

led the new wave from the stands, their coordinated

white-and-gold

shirts flashing under the lights, their chants rising like a cult hymn to the Heavenchild prince. They screamed for the twins as though Paige and Brielle had just claimed Olympic gold instead of humiliating a group of amateurs in a high-school gym.

The

Danton Babes

joined in next, then the rest of the fan blocs, falling in line like dominoes toppling toward the safest, shiniest exit.

The stadium roared for the victors.

The PheiCrush Simps walked off in near silence.

Delilah was crying.

Not the dramatic or

attention-seeking

sobs that would have turned heads. Just quiet, relentless tears sliding down her cheeks as she watched everything they had poured their hearts into get dismissed in five minutes of flawless choreography.

Tears that come when you realize

passion

is beautiful but

privilege

is bulletproof.

"We lost," she whispered, voice cracking. "We fucking lost. In front of everyone. In front of the whole damn school."

Emily pulled her closer, one hand steady at the small of Delilah’s back, the other brushing damp strands of hair from her face.

"I know."

"His reputation—we were supposed to make him look good, and we—we just made him look like a joke—"

"Delilah." Emily’s voice was calm, almost amused, a quiet anchor in the storm of humiliation still swirling around them. "This was the plan."

Delilah blinked through the tears, confusion slicing clean through the despair.

"What?"

"This was his plan." Emily nodded toward the stands, toward the sections that had been split between Phei loyalists and Marcus loyalists just minutes ago.

The balance had already shifted violently. Half the people who had bet on Phei—literally bet, with money and reputation and social capital—were now reconsidering. Jumping ship. Running back to the safe harbor of guaranteed victory before the tide pulled them under.

"He knew we’d lose. He suggested this competition specifically because he knew we’d lose."

"But—why would he—"

"Think about it."

Emily’s gaze swept the crowd again, slow and deliberate.

"Look at them. The

hype chasers

. The bandwagon jumpers. The ones who only rode with Phei because it was exciting, because the underdog story felt good on their feeds, because being Team Charity Case made them feel edgy for five minutes. They’re already gone. Look."

Delilah followed her gaze.

She saw it then—the slow bleed.

People who had worn PheiCrush Simp shirts an hour ago were now peeling them off, folding them away, turning toward the louder, shinier side of the court. Phones were out, odds being recalculated in group chats, bets being hedged.

The smart money was flooding back to

Heaven Reapers

(basketball team name), to Paige and Brielle, to the team that had never once tasted defeat.

"He’s cutting the fat,"

Emily said softly. "The

fair-weather

fans. The ones who cheer when it’s easy and vanish when it hurts. He’s shaking the tree so only the fruit worth keeping stays on the branch."

Delilah’s tears slowed, then stopped.

"He let us lose... so only the loyal ones would stay."

"Exactly."

Delilah stared at the court, at the twins still basking in their easy victory, at the crowd now solidly behind them.

Then, slowly, a small, dangerous smile curved her lips.

"He’s training

diehards."

Emily’s answering smile was small and sharp and proud.

"The ones who stay after this? The ones who look at that loss and say

’fuck it, I’m still ride-or-die for Phei’

? Those are the real ones. Those are the fans who’ll remember this moment forever. Who’ll never doubt him again, no matter how dark it gets, no matter how stacked the deck looks. He’s not building a fan club. He’s building an army."

Delilah wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.

The tears were gone.

In their place was something fiercer.

From the sideline, David watched the scene unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had seen this play before.

Clever bastard.

There had never been a universe in which the PheiCrush Simps beat

Paige and Brielle’s squad.

Everyone with a pulse had known it. The twins had been training since they could walk, had choreographers on retainer, had budgets that turned high-school cheer into Cirque du Soleil with pom-poms.

They had used every advantage Paradise afforded them without blinking.

But Phei hadn’t entered his girls in the competition to win.

He had entered it to lose.

To shake the tree.

To cull the weak.

To separate the tourists from the soldiers.

The crowd had shifted exactly as predicted—half his supporters had abandoned ship, racing back to the warm, safe embrace of Marcus’s inevitable victory. The betting odds were probably moving in real time, smart money flooding toward the

Heaven Reapers,

foolish loyalty money clinging stubbornly to the charity case.

Precisely as planned.

Poor Paradise.

They thought they had just witnessed a humiliating defeat.

They had no idea they had just watched a cull.

Delilah

signaled

Emily

.

A small gesture—barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it. A touch to the ear. A nod.

Emily

’s phone was already in her hand.

Her thumbs flew across the screen, typing a message to the Simps fans group chat:

INCREASE YOUR BETS. NOW.

The dealers would call it bravado. Desperation. The last gasp of true believers throwing good money after bad, too emotionally invested to see the obvious outcome.

And yet—