Page 21 of The Ruthless Rivalry

I rolled over, squinting at the slivers of daylight pushing their way through the curtains. The dull glow of another gray morning filtered in, and I couldn’t help but notice how still everything felt. The rain’s rhythm had slowed, a lullaby in its own right. I sat up, my body stiff but not quite exhausted.

I glanced at Dolores, stationary at her usual spot by the window. The Legacies might have been sleeping easy, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t even bring myself to walk through the woods last night. The thought of being alone out there, without any real sense of safety, felt stupid. It was dark and stormy. I had made my own escape just fine—thanks to the piano, even if I hadn’t played.

I decided it was just something to focus on, something to drown out the thoughts gnawing at me. But the real escape, the one I needed, had been that small, quiet rebellion I’d left in the dining hall. It wouldn’t solve everything, but it was a start.

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated that I’d spent the night lying in bed half-conscious, letting the storm of thoughts get to me. My eyes flicked to the clock.

I jumped out of bed and quickly changed into my uniform for my morning class. It was Monday, which meant my seminar on Altair’s History with Professor O’Donnelly and Sylvester was my first class of the week.

I grab the giant book and tuck it under my arm before opening my door to leave. My book bag that I’d originally brought withme from home had been rendered untouchable by the Legacy boys. As a result, I was forced to continue to carry everything with my hands. On my way out, I spotted a note attached to the wooden frame of my door. My teeth clench as I realize it’s a personal summons from Chancellor Maxwell herself. The scheduled time exactly ten minutes after my class lets out, as if she couldn’t be more predictable.

The perfect start to another glorious week here at Altair.

I crumple the note in my fist, shoving it deep into my blazer pocket. Chancellor Maxwell can wait, and honestly, I’m not even sure if I’ll show up. She may have stood up for me once, but after last night? Who knows where we stand now. I’ve got more important things to focus on, like making sure those Legacies regret ever crossing my path.

As I make my way across the sprawling campus, the crisp air nips at my cheeks, and it’s starting to get a bit chillier. The rain had mostly stopped during the time it took me to change, now only a light mist drifting through the air. It clung to my skin, like the weather couldn’t decide if it was going to pour or give up entirely.

Students milled about, laughing and chatting, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. I spot Bishop and Ophelia near the fountain, their faces betraying whatever nonsense they’re discussing. Ophelia’s expression is tight, her frustration clear, while Bishop stands there, as emotionless as ever. The sight of them sends a wave of raw heat through me, especially Bishop. He’s the reason this all went down, and yet he acts like he’s untouchable.

As I walk past them, I don’t slow down. My eyes betray me, flickering toward Bishop. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. The smirk on his face widens, smug and self-satisfied, a look that’s designed to get under my skin.

Ophelia, notices. She’s quick like that. Her sharp eyes thin, and I can already tell she’s about to sink her claws in. She flicks a glance at Bishop—he’s still watching me—and then turns back to me, like she knows she’s about to have her fun.

Ugh, I should’ve just kept walking.

“Jealous?” she asks, flipping her hair over her shoulder, clearly emphasizing her meticulously perfect appearance. “You always look so... exhausted, like effort’s a foreign concept to you. Maybe if you spent less time looking like you crawled out of a dumpster… but then again, only trash lives in Prescott dormitory,” she sneers, loud enough to catch the attention of a few passing students.

Her words sting, but not enough to make me react. I’ve been here before. Let her take her shot; she won’t land it.

I let a low chuckle slip from my mouth, turning just enough to catch her eye, my expression steady. “Hey, Prescott dormitory has got its charm. Mildew, rats, and peeling paint—it’s practically a luxury. Wanna join for a sleepover? I’m having a few rats over tonight. I’m supplying the room, and they’re bringing whatever mildew they can find from the walls for face masks.”

Her face screws up in disgust, and she doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, with a sharp exhale, she mutters, “You’re disgusting.”

I let the contempt on my face show plainly, my lips curling in a sneer as I respond with a biting, “I’ll pencil you in as a maybe.”

Bishop’s smirk widens, that self-satisfied look settling into place, like he knows exactly how much my words—and my reaction—are getting under his girlfriend’s skin. It only seems to make him more insufferable. He watches me with that smug, untouchable air.

I don’t bother holding back. My face says everything. As I turn and walk away, I can feel his gaze on my back—sharp and certain.

Whatever. If he needed my fury to feed whatever ego trip he was on, he could choke on it.

“Watch where you’re going, mudslide,” a student sneers as I enter the main Altair building.

The assembly hall where Professor O’Donnelly maintains her class is mercifully empty when I arrive. I slide into a seat, dropping the heavy book onto the small pull-out table with a satisfying thud. As I wait for class to begin, my mind wanders back to the events since I arrived. The pranks, the sabotage, the humiliation. Ironically, this is where it all began for me: my first full day here, when the Legacy boys made it clear what I should expect the moment I was forced to come to this school.

Each memory sharpens my anger, stoking the flames of revenge that smolder within me. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely notice as other students begin to file in, their chatter filling the once-quiet room.

I snap back to reality as Professor O’Donnelly strides into the room, heels clicking like a metronome of impending boredom. She’s followed closely by Sylvester, who’s juggling a stack of papers and wearing that usual look of smug assurance—like the world already handed him a trophy just for showing up.

I still can’t believe I ever let myself get caught up enough to hook up with him. A lapse in judgment, temporary insanity—whatever it was, it wasn’t happening again.

“Good morning, class,” Professor O’Donnelly announces, her tone crisp as she sets her materials on the podium. “Today, we’ll be discussing the aftermath of the first Altair Games. Please open your textbooks to page 402.”

As I flip through the pages, I catch Sylvester glancing at me. His confidence has faltered, replaced with something morehesitant. Curiosity? Guilt? A flicker of decency trying to make a comeback?

Seriously, if these Legacies stared any harder, I could start charging tuition.

I lean back in my chair, stretching just enough to tap my pen against the desk. This class was going to be endless; I could feel it.

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