Page 117 of The Ruthless Rivalry

But worry is all I can do now. As they begin discussingtheirversion of my future, my retreat is slow and silent. Each word they speak tightens the walls I’m building around myself, enclosing the part of me that still aches to create, to be something more than what they want me to be. To befree.

The words taste like ashes in my mouth—bitter, suffocating, a death sentence for any hope of self-expression I might have had. I can feel Sylvester’s shock, his quiet approval burning into me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

Instead, I stare at the smoldering remains of my dreams, watching as the last embers of my passion flicker and fade away,consumed by the weight of everything I’ve allowed them to take from me.

And as the fire dies, so does the last bit of the person I used to be.

Chapter 25

Alex

My eyes are fixed on the machine, a constant reminder of life and death. The beeping echoes in my ears, a haunting sound that won’t escape. It’s all too familiar, this hospital room, this feeling of helplessness. Images flood my mind as I remember lying in a similar bed not too long ago, my own injuries paling in comparison to Alfie’s still form before me. Gauze covers his body like a patchwork quilt, each spot representing a burn that I couldn’t prevent.

I clench the object in my hands until my knuckles turn white, the familiar smell of smoke filling my nostrils and threatening to smother me in memory. But I refuse to look away from themonitor, my gaze unblinking as I will it to change, to show signs of life. My jaw clenches and grinds in anger as I glare unflinchingly at the monitor, reliving the rage and destruction caused by the fire that did this to him.

The nurse enters, her footsteps soft on the linoleum floor. She checks Alfie’s vitals, her movements practiced and efficient. I want to ask her if there’s been any change, but the words catch in my throat. Instead, I watch her silently, desperately searching for any sign of hope in her expression.

She turns to me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and concern. “You should get some rest,” she says gently. “You’ve been here for hours.”

I can’t. My fingers cling tightly to the charred object in my hands—Alfie’s top hat. It was once a perfect black, now it’s marred by scorch marks and soot. But I refuse to let it go—that tent was everything to Alfie.

“I’ll go when his parents arrive,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from disuse.

The nurse nods, understanding etched in the lines of her face. She leaves quietly, and I’m alone again with the steady beep of the machines and my own tumultuous thoughts.

I lean forward, my elbows resting on the edge of Alfie’s bed. The hat in my hands feels heavy, a tangible reminder of all he’s lost. “Come on, Alfie,” I murmur, my voice barely audible. “You’ve got to wake up. The show must go on, remember?”

My mind drifts back to earlier in the evening—the roar of the flames, the acrid smell of burning canvas, and the frantic screams of students as they fled in every direction.

That memory hits me like a physical blow. I should’ve been with him. I should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner.

I close my eyes, trying to push away the guilt, but it’s impossible. The images flood back, relentless and vivid. The sudden commotion, the panicked shouts. The heat that hit mefirst, followed by the smoke—thick and choking, enveloping everything in its path.

I think back to Alfie telling me he didn’t need my help with the club’s setup. He’d insisted, so selfishly, I’d spent the night indulging in everything it had to offer—enjoying the lights, the laughter, the distractions. I’d let myself forget the responsibilities of the evening, convinced that everything would be fine. But after the improv stage, when Bishop and I had charged off in opposite directions, I’d wanted space from him. The tension between us had been unbearable, and I’d needed a break. I found peace in the quietest part of the woods, away from everything. Away from him.

But now, all I can feel is the weight of what I should’ve been doing instead of running away. The guilt gnaws at me, a constant reminder that I chose to be somewhere else, while something went terribly wrong.

I open my eyes, focusing once again on Alfie’s still form. His face is barely visible beneath the bandages, but I can still see the faint outline of his features, so familiar and yet so alien in this sterile environment. I reach out, my hand hovering just above his bandaged arm, afraid to touch him, afraid to cause him more pain.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Alfie.”

A clearing throat startles me and I turn to see a burly man and a petite woman both with fiery red hair, just like their son’s. His parents have finally arrived, and their piercing gazes fill me with a sense of dread.

“You must be Alex,” the woman says as she steps forward. “Alfie has told us so many wonderful things about you,” she adds, her smile tinged with sadness as she glances at her lifeless son lying behind me.

Alfie talked about me?

I nod, unable to find my voice. The lump in my throat grows larger as I watch Alfie’s mother approach the bed, her steps hesitant. His father follows close behind, his face a mask of barely contained anguish.

“Yes, ma’am,” I finally manage to croak out. “That’s me.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald reaches out and takes Alfie’s limp hand in hers, her thumb gently stroking his knuckles. “He was always going on about his new friend when he called,” she says, her voice wavering slightly. “Says you were the reason Club Bedlam was becoming so popular.”

Friend? Alfie considered us friends, and I suppose we were slowly becoming just that, weren’t we?

I swallow hard, fighting back this chaos of emotions inside me. “Alfie’s the real star. He’s the one who made it all happen.”

Mr. Fitzgerald’s hand rests heavily on my shoulder, his grip firm yet gentle. “Alfie says you have a knack for breaking through the barriers of social groups.”

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