Page 120 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“I don’t know,” I reply, my voice low. “His parents? No, they wouldn’t be here. We all know the ceremony’s a no-go for family members.”

Cam frowns, as he watches Bishop shift. “Maybe he’s looking for Alex,” he suggests, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.

I nod slowly, understanding exactly where he’s going with this. Alex. The person Bishop’s been fixated on since she stepped foot at Altair University. Everyone expected her to be here today, to be part of the selection process, especially since she’d somehow managed to manipulate her way into the top spot in our class, a position practically handed to her by Chancellor Maxwell. But that was before she made it perfectly clear she wanted no part of it. If she had wanted to be here, she would’ve shown up by now.

She’d said from the start that she wasn’t interested, that she wouldn’t take part in the ceremony or the games. If Alex had truly wanted to, she would’ve been here with us today. But she wasn’t, and I wasn’t surprised. She had made her choice.

“Guess that means Bishop’s going to have to play a different game now,” he mutters.

I can sense it, Bishop’s control slipping, even if just a little. He’s always been one to crave power and dominance, but Alex’s absence is a reminder that his grip might not be as tight as he thinks. It’s a strange thing to see him vulnerable, even if just for a moment.

As part of the top scorers, we’re given the privilege of choosing our teams for the Altair Games. The rest of the students, those who ranked lower, will be randomly assigned partners, but that hardly matters. We all know the strongest will choose us, and there’s an unspoken agreement that whoever scores highest gets first pick. Being part of the Legacy group, the formality of it all is just that—a formality. Tradition must be upheld, but none of us dare break the long-standing custom.

I glance at Bishop one last time. He’s scanning the crowd again, his eyes darting across the faces of the students, still searching. But for what? I wonder if he’s really expecting Alex to show up, or if he’s just trying to hold onto some semblance of control in a situation that’s slipping away from him.

I think about Alex for a moment—how she wasn’t actively avoiding me anymore. She’d even smiled the other night, something so small, yet it felt like a breakthrough. Maybe I was getting to her. Maybe she was letting me in, even just a little.

As the room falls into silence, the Chancellor’s voice rings out over the speakers, clear and firm. “Alexandra Prescott,” she calls, pausing for a moment as if waiting for a response. But there’s nothing. Not a sound. Not a single shift in the crowd.

The sound of her name hanging in the air causes a small shift in the atmosphere, a subtle easing of whatever tension Bishop was carrying. His shoulders relax just the slightest bit, and I swear, for a second, I catch the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. Whether it’s because he’s finally certain Alex won’t disrupt the process or because he knows he’s about to take back thecontrol he so desperately craves, I’m not sure. But it’s there, barely perceptible.

Chancellor Maxwell doesn’t hesitate. “Bishop Ashbourne,” she announces, her voice commanding attention, and I can feel the room’s energy shift with his name.

Bishop steps forward without a hint of hesitation, his posture straight and his expression dripping with arrogance. Confidence radiates off him like it always does, but there’s something sharper today—like he’s eager to seize the moment, to lock in his victory. He makes his way to the center of the stage, his eyes glancing briefly over us before settling on the large button placed in the middle of the floor. It’s a simple motion, but it’s one that signifies something monumental—he presses it, locking in his agreement to play, to take control of this process in the way only he knows how. The click of the button reverberates in the room, and the audience watches, waiting for the next move.

It’s a formality, just like everything else about this day, but for Bishop, it’s a declaration. This is his moment. And everyone here knows it.

The Chancellor’s voice rings out again, clear and authoritative, drawing every eye to the stage. “As the top scorer, Bishop Ashbourne will now choose his remaining teammates. A reminder to all present that this process, while ceremonial, is not without meaning. The students who rank highest, as you well know, has the privilege of picking their team.” She pauses for a beat, eyes scanning the room, before adding, “This is an honor in itself, one that has always been upheld in our institution.”

Bishop stands tall, his posture proud and almost regal as he faces the audience. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. The Chancellor’s words hang in the air, but for Bishop, they’re almost an afterthought. He knows, as we all do, that the picking is a mere formality. There’s no question about who willbe chosen, no surprise in the selection process. Everyone already knows who’s in line to join him.

But there’s something biting in the Chancellor’s tone when she reminds everyone of the honor in being chosen, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a subtle jab—maybe she’s reminding Bishop that, in some way, this is his “reward” for being at the top. I imagine it’s hard to feel truly honored when your position is almost guaranteed, especially when someone like Alex, ranked first, has refused to take her spot and publicly rejected what’s supposed to be a mark of prestige.

I glance at Bishop again, and I can almost see the thought swirling in his mind. He’s one of the few who has ever had this power, and the tradition that comes with it makes his control over the situation feel like a birthright. I wonder if anyone else in the history of Altair University has ever outright turned down their position. Probably not. No one else would dare.

But Alex did.

It doesn’t matter, though. Not now. The button has been pressed, the game is on, and Bishop’s grip on the process is secure. He’ll pick his team, the others will fall into place, and that will be the end of it. But for some reason, watching him stand there with his confidence on full display leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

The air feels heavy as Cam steps forward. Sutton and I follow in his wake, the three of us stepping out onto the stage together. A unified front.

No one’s surprised. Not really. The room is alive with quiet murmurs, but the reality is simple: Bishop will pick us.

He stands there for a moment, taking it all in, his gaze sweeping across the crowd as though soaking in the power that’s all his.

“Camden Lín-Whitlock,” Bishop announces, his voice loud and authoritative, his gaze already locking with Cam’s.

Cam doesn’t hesitate, his eyes lighting up in a way that almost looks too eager. The choice has always been obvious, and for the most part, it’s never felt like much of a choice. But today, there’s an edge to it—a finality, almost as if confirming his place alongside Bishop in front of the room is a reaffirmation of something more.

With a grin, Cam steps forward, shaking off any lingering tension. His movements are smooth and confident, but there’s a slight pulse of excitement in his veins. He reaches the center of the stage, taking a moment to soak in the spotlight, and places his hand firmly on the button, locking his spot beside Bishop with a deliberate, confident gesture.

The button clicks in place, finalizing the decision.

The silence lingers for a moment before the weight of the moment finally sets in. There’s no drama, no surprises. Bishop Ashbourne has made his first pick. And Cam, as expected, is now officially on his team.

The sound of the button clicking echoes in the auditorium, marking the moment. Sutton and I stand beside him, waiting for our turns, but even I can’t help but feel the tension that comes with the next few seconds.

The doors of the auditorium slam open with a force that ripples through the room. A collective gasp pulses through the crowd, and all eyes snap toward the entrance.

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