Page 70 of The Ruthless Rivalry

As if on cue, Ophelia walks by, her eyes catching mine as I stand there cursing out birds. She smirks, shaking her head. “Talking to the birds now, huh? Maybe they’ll give you some advice on how to avoid being so gullible next time.”

She walks off a moment later, practically beaming like she’d just scored a personal victory.

“Awesome,” I mutter to myself. “Just what I needed.”

I drag my feet as I make my way back to my dormitory, now with added pain to accompany my current misery. The aspirin I had taken just moments ago seems insufficient to relieve this new discomfort. Finally, I reach my dorm room and immediately remove my uniform blazer, not bothering to change out of my skirt and polo shirt underneath, before crawling back into bed. Just then, the loud rumbling sound of several power tools echoes through the hallway outside.

Can’t I catch a break today?

I groan and pull my pillow over my head, trying to muffle the noise. But it’s no use. The drilling and hammering seem to penetrate every surface, vibrating through my mattress and into my bones. I reluctantly drag myself out of bed and stumble to the door, ready to give whoever is making this racket a piece of my mind. That is, assuming I don’t explode like a shaken can of soda first.

With a heavy sigh, I force myself to sit up. The room spins for a moment before settling. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room and wince. My hair is a tangled mess, and there’s an angry red welt forming on my cheek where the branch hit me.

Lovely.

As I yank open the door, I’m immediately met with a cloud of dust and the sight of two maintenance workers tearing away the hallway ceiling and walls. They barely glance at me as they continue their work, the noise even more deafening now that there’s no barrier between us.

“Excuse me,” I try to shout over the construction. “What’s going on?”

One of the workers, a burly man with a thick mustache, pauses long enough to answer. “Old pipe burst. Gotta replace this whole section before we can update the rest of the building. Shouldn’t take more than a few weeks on your level.”

“A few weeks?” I exclaim, my voice cracking. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The worker shrugs, seemingly indifferent to my distress. “Sorry, kid. Orders from above. We’ll try to keep it down during quiet hours.”

I slam the door shut, wincing as the sound reverberates through my aching head. A few weeks of this? It’s barely been five minutes and I’m already at my wit’s end. I collapse back onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow to muffle a frustrated scream. I know Victoria mentioned renovations happening in our building, but why did they have to start today of all days?

As I lay there, drowning in my own misery and feeling sorry for myself, I make the decision that I can’t handle it anymore and seek refuge in the only place I think I might be able to find some comfort.

I head out, but the relentless sun up above? It’s like someone decided to turn the brightness up on everything. I squint and throw my hand up to shield my eyes, cursing under my breath as the sunlight punches me right in the face.

But then I see it—Bishop’s dorm, looming just ahead. I stop for a moment, watching the building from across the fountain. A strange, foggy thought brushes the back of my mind—something about the party…and my mom? A piano, maybe? It’s like waking up from a dream, the details slipping away just as quickly as they appear. I blink, trying to shake it off, but it lingers for just a second.

No, that doesn’t make sense. I must be mixing up what happened at the natatorium.

I exhale sharply, dismissing the thought entirely.

I turn away, my eyes moving forward, focusing on the path ahead stretching out before me, leading toward the greenhouse. The air is still, but at least the walk doesn’t feel as oppressive as it did last time. I feel a sense of relief with each step. The quiet here is different. Calmer. Not like the heavy, unsettling silence of the night when I found the notes. No, this is just…still. The kind of stillness I could actually use right now.

I’m almost there.

When I push open the door to the greenhouse, the damp air hits me immediately, and it’s like stepping into another world. The sun’s still blazing outside, but in here, it’s different—softer, gentler. The plants greet me like old friends, their rich, earthy scents wrapping around me like a blanket. This is where I belong.

The hum of the outside world fades away, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the soft chirp of birds somewhere far off. The light filters through the glass roof, casting dappled patterns across the edges of plant pots, the glossy green leaves of ferns and vines. It’s like the sun here is finally tolerable. I let out a deep breath and let my shoulders relax, my body sinking into the rhythm of the place.

This is what peace feels like.

I wander through the aisles of plants, the feel of the familiar soil beneath my fingers grounding me in a way the chaos of campus never could. There’s a certain magic in these plants—something about their stillness, their quiet growth, their resilience. I let the calm wash over me, finally able to breathe without the constant hum of noise or the pressure of having to think about…well, everything.

But the longer I stay, the more something nags at me. It’s subtle at first—just a flicker of a thought—but it keeps creeping back. The sundial. Every now and then, I catch myself glancing toward it, and each time, the feeling tightens in my chest. It’slike when you have an itch but can’t quite reach it. You think it’s gone, but then it flares up again, persistent and irritating.

I stop at one of the plant shelves, running my fingers gently over the smooth, cool surface of a nearby pot, trying to ignore the tug of that thought. But it’s impossible. It lingers, quietly pulling at the back of my mind.

I glance back toward it. The light reflects off the surface, casting shifting patterns onto the stone floor. There’s something about the way it sits in the middle of the room, commanding attention without saying a word. It’s unsettling. But not in a way I can pinpoint.

A flicker of memory—my hand, the sharp edge of the sundial, the blood—it all rushes back, my fingers instinctively moving to the small mark on my skin, where I had cut myself that day. I press my fingers against the spot, tracing the faint scar. The memory of that moment floods my mind again—the rush of curiosity when the room below opened up. A room that wasn’t supposed to exist. I pull my hand back quickly, trying to ignore the slight pulse of unease that flares up within me.

I shake it off.Focus, Alex.

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