Page 17 of The Ruthless Rivalry

I shoot Alfie a look that could melt steel, but he remains oblivious, grinning from ear to ear. My father, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

“Alex,” he says, his tone stiff, “I think it’s time you walk me out. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

I swiftly guide us toward the door and away from Alfie before he divulges anymore information that could make me seem even more insane in my father’s eyes. “Yes, let’s get some fresh air,” I say, shooting Alfie a pointed look over my shoulder.

Alfie seems to take my expression as an invitation following along.

As we step outside, the evening air hits us, but it does little to dissipate the tension. My father’s face is still a little flushed, but his expression is more bewildered now, like he’s trying to process everything. He keeps glancing at me, as if searching for something to say, but the words aren’t coming. I’m doing my best to think of a way to convince him that I haven’t completely lost my mind—though at this point, I’m not sure what I could say.

Alfie’s finger trembles as he points to one of the fountains. His voice falters, “Is that... blood?” His eyes widen with horror, and before anyone can respond, his face goes pale, and with a soft yelp, he crumples to the ground, unconscious.

I exhale sharply through my nose and can’t help but feel a surge of annoyance. Typical Alfie. I turn my attention to the fountains, scanning the area quickly. All of them are spewing a dark red liquid instead of water. Is it dye, or something moresinister? The crowd around us murmurs, unsure how to process what they’re seeing.

The tension sharpens as someone’s voice cuts through the uneasy silence, followed by the sharp point of an accusatory finger. “Alex Prescott is the culprit!” The voice rings out with unwavering certainty, and a murmur runs through the crowd, growing louder. “She didn’t want to play in the games! She did this!” The voice grows more insistent.

The words feel like a slap to the face, but there’s no denying that the logic, twisted as it is, holds a warped kind of weight. Ihadrefused to participate.

My gaze snaps to the fountains scattered across the campus, their once serene streams now turned into violent sprays of red, splattering the stone and soaking the air with an ominous hue. It’s as though the very heart of the school has been stained, the liquid seeping into every corner of my reality. A cold weight settles in my chest, and my heart sinks as the accusation settles like a stone at the bottom of my stomach. The Legacies and the gathered onlookers all turn in unison, their eyes narrowing, a collective storm of suspicion brewing in the air. It feels as if the entire campus has become an ocean of judgment, and I’m drowning in it.

I feel the weight of their gazes on me, but I refuse to shrink back. I stand taller, locking eyes with the growing crowd of students and families. “I didn’t do this!” I say firmly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my veins. “I’ve been with my father and Alfie the entire time!”

But my words fall flat as murmurs of “expulsion” and “criminal charges” swirl in the air, gaining volume.

Before I can protest further, a shrill voice cuts through the growing chaos. “What in the world is going on here?” Chancellor Maxwell steps into the courtyard, her eyes immediately surveying the scene.

I spot Bishop among the Legacies, standing at the center of it all. His face is a perfect mask of feigned concern, but there’s something in his eyes—something darker, almost triumphant. His gaze flicks toward me, then back to the fountains, and I realize: this is his turn. His opening move in this twisted game he’s cornered me into playing yet again.

“Chancellor,” Bishop steps forward, his voice smooth and dripping with insincerity. “It appears someone has vandalized the fountains, and curiously, the one person we literally have standing before us red-handed, is none other than Prescott.” He gestures in my direction, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

I glance down at my hands. The faded traces of red staining my palms are undeniable. I don’t even know how they got there, and despite the nurse’s best efforts, they’re still there—lingering like a confession of guilt.

Maxwell’s gaze sweeps over the red-spewing fountains, then lands on me. Her gaze sharpens, chilling the air between us. “Miss Prescott,” she says, her tone sharp and unforgiving. “It seems you have some explaining to do.”

I open my mouth, but before I can speak, my father moves in front of me, his hand settling on my shoulder. “Chancellor, I can assure you my daughter had nothing to do with this,” he says firmly, his voice filled with authority. “She’s been with me all evening.”

Maxwell’s eyes flicker to him, considering his words. I feel the heat of the moment rise as all attention shifts back to me.

Sutton speaks up from the back of the crowd, her voice casual but pointed. “I’ve noticed Alex hanging around the art building for weeks now. Probably where she got the paint for all of this.” She sounds almost too sure of herself.

Anger flares inside me, but I keep my composure. Sutton’s accusation isn’t entirely wrong—yes, I’ve spent time at the art building, but not for the reasons she’s insinuating. The first timewas to help her with supplies, and the second was to get back at her group for making my life miserable. Red paint was never part of the plan, but it seems they’ve been waiting for the right moment to set me up.

Alfie stirs on the ground, groaning as he regains consciousness. He blinks up at the sky, disoriented. “Whoa,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “What happened?”

He sits up, still looking dazed. The tension is thick enough to slice, and Chancellor Maxwell’s piercing gaze settles back on me.

“Is this true?” she asks, her voice laced with suspicion.

“Yes, I’ve been at the art building recently,” I say, my voice firm and unwavering. “But not for the reasons Sutton is implying. I was there to help carry supplies weeks ago. Nothing more.”

Sutton’s expression falters for a second—a brief flicker of panic—and then she quickly masks it with a look of cool indifference.

I meet Chancellor Maxwell’s gaze. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to fight for my place here, and it won’t be the last. I’m too stubborn to back down. To let Bishop win.

“It’s true,” Alfie says, slurring a bit as he stumbles to his feet. “I saw them together at the art building. Sutton asked for help.” He comes to my defense, albeit in his own strange, roundabout way. “I was out that night when I found this adorable little dented paper clip, just wedged between some dirt in the cobblestone. I thought it was so cute! Like a tiny treasure, you know?” he goes on, miming with his hands like he’s holding something precious, but by now, everyone’s attention has shifted elsewhere.

The Chancellor turns to Sutton, her gaze sharp. “Is this information correct?”

Before Sutton can respond, Bishop interrupts, confident and measured. “That merely suggests Prescott would be aware of where the paint was kept.”

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