Page 74 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“Yes,” Sly chimes in. “And that’s not even the best part. When I finally found her, she was stuck there, red-faced and panicking. She begged me not to tell anyone, but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to even consider it.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “It took us nearly an hour to get me unstuck. We had to use an entire bottle of cooking oil from the kitchen.”

Cam raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just ask the staff to help?”

“Would you want people seeing you like that?” I respond in my defense. “We were trying to sneak without anyone noticing, but of course, the house was full of staff running around. We might’ve gotten away with it, but I was caught on the way back to my room.”

“Was your hair alright?” Cam asks, instinctively reaching up to adjust his own dark locks.

“My hair was a disaster, but you?” I give him an exaggerated look of sympathy. “You probably would’ve had a meltdown.”

He shoots me a look, his expression sharp and confident, like he’s already imagining how he’d handle the disaster of messy hair. He smooths his hair again with a decisive motion.

Sly is practically howling with laughter now, clutching his sides at the memory. “It was priceless, Cam! Picture Sutton—all dignified and proper, with her head wedged between the rails like some sort of demented owl.”

“Go ahead, laugh all you want,” I mutter, though a small smile creeps onto my face at the ridiculousness of the situation. “But it can’t be any worse than how you did in fencing tonight.” I toss back at him.

Cam loses it, his laughter spilling out uncontrollably as Sly’s face shifts from amusement to a more resolute expression, clearly trying to keep his composure. After a moment, Camwipes a tear from his eye, still grinning. “I don’t know about that. At least Sly’s embarrassment was confined to just me. You had to face others covered in cooking oil.”

I groan again, the memory of the servants’ barely concealed grins still fresh in my mind. “Don’t remind me. I smelled like a greasy kitchen for days.”

My body shudders involuntarily at the recollection. To this day, anytime I get a whiff of the overpowering scent of cooking oil it makes my stomach churn.

Cam leans back in his chair, still chuckling—right as the weakened legs give out beneath him with a violent CRACK. The collapse is instant and chaotic: wood splinters, silverware clatters, and Cam crashes to the floor in a heap of limbs and shattered furniture. The noise is so loud, so sudden, it cuts straight through the usual clamor of the dining hall like a knife.

Conversation dies mid-sentence. Forks freeze halfway to mouths. For a suspended moment, the entire room is silent—stunned, breath-held silent. Even the ever-clanking kitchen doors seem to hush.

Then the first gasp breaks the stillness. A snort. A muffled giggle. And suddenly, like a dam giving way, the room erupts—scattered laughter ringing out across the hall, rising in volume as students turn to stare.

“What the hell—?!” Cam shouts, flailing upright, his face flushed and furious, bits of chair still hanging off him like sad, broken armor.

He jumps to his feet, spinning and looking down toward the nearest tables. “You think that’s funny?” he snaps, voice sharp and cutting.

For a second, the laughter falters. A few students glance at each other, uncertain. The silence returns—but this time, it’s thinner, tenser.

From somewhere near the back, a voice pipes up, high and clear over the hush: “Hey it’s not just you. I think maybe one of the Leaky Legacy Twins pissed themselves—smells like boiled diapers down the hallways in the dorms!”

Laughter explodes anew, louder than before. A few students even slap the table. Someone mimics a gagging sound, exaggerated and theatrical. No one looks away in shame or apology—they’re watching Cam now with something bordering on open amusement, yes, but also something bolder. Bolder and aimed not just at him, but at all of us. The Legacies.

My stomach knots. I glance around the room, trying to read the faces. There’s a strange energy hanging in the air—sharp, almost electric. They wouldn’t have dared say something like that a few months ago. What’s going on with the students lately? When did we stop being feared... and start being fair game?

The room settles down after Cam’s outburst, but the atmosphere is still charged, buzzing with that faint, new energy. The moment lingers, awkwardly, before Sly drapes an arm over my shoulder, his usual ease returning as if nothing happened. But I can sense a subtle edge to his touch—like he’s trying a little too hard to pretend things are fine.

“Come on, sis. You have to admit the banister ordeal was pretty funny. And hey, at least you learned an important lesson about spatial awareness.”

I elbow him in the ribs, forcing my focus away from the twisting in my stomach. “And you learned a lesson about showing off in fencing, I hope?”

“Alright, alright,” Sly concedes, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I admit defeat. Anyway, we came to see if you wanted to join us for dinner, but it looks like you beat us to it.”

I glance at the half-eaten sandwich still on the table from my lunch, suddenly realizing how long I’ve been up here sketching.The quiet feels heavier now, and I wish the tension would just break already. “I guess I lost track of time.”

Concern creeps into Sly’s voice. “Have you been up here all day? You know it’s not healthy to skip meals, especially with all the training we’ve been doing lately. The extra cardio is going to catch up to us if we’re not careful.”

I roll my eyes, brushing off his worry. “I’m fine, really. Just got caught up in a new design idea.”

“You always say that.” Sly crosses his arms. “You need to take care of yourself. You’re going to pass out in the middle of the Altair Games, and then what? Who’s going to save your butt then?”

“Pfft, I’m not going to pass out. I’ve got this under control.” I wave him off, trying to sound casual. “Besides, we’ve all been pushing ourselves hard lately, trying to be ready for whatever’s coming.”

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