The Bleak Beginning (Altair University #1)

17. Alex

Chapter 17

Alex

T he dining hall is alive with the energy of students eagerly devouring their meals before embarking on their weekend adventures. The clatter of cutlery and chatter of voices fills the space, creating a lively atmosphere.

Amidst the bustling crowd, I sit alone at a corner table, absentmindedly pushing a lump of mashed potatoes around on my plate, still trying to make sense of Sutton’s weird change in demeanor earlier today.

“Got room for one more?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” I stammer, quickly moving my things off the chair next to me. “It’s Aubrey, right?”

“Yep, from the Actors Guild. But you probably don’t recognize me without the signature orange stripes in my hair,” she says with a playful wink.

I wince as I recall the chaos that ensued during our short time together. “So how is Professor Blanchet?”

“Margot? She’s fine, all things considered. A bit shaken up, but she’s a tough old bird. Takes more than a rogue light fixture to keep her down,” Aubrey says with a chuckle.

I nod, relief washing over me. “That’s good to hear.” A part of me still feels bad about what happened.

As is reading my mind, Aubrey waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Accidents happen in the theater all the time. Besides, it’s given us some great material for our next improv class.”

I manage a weak smile, but my mind drifts back to Sutton. Aubrey must notice my distraction because she leans in, her voice lowering.

“So what’s got you looking so glum on a Friday night?”

I hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to confide in this near-stranger. But something about Aubrey’s friendly demeanor and the genuine concern in her eyes makes me decide to open up.

“My friend, she was acting odd earlier today.”

Suddenly, the doors to the crowded dining hall burst open and Sutton sweeps in, pointing an accusing finger right at me. Chancellor Maxwell and the three Legacy boys flank her. Her voice booms out. “It was her! Alex Prescott stole my credit card.”

The entire dining hall falls silent, all eyes turning to our table. I freeze, my fork clattering onto my plate as I stare at Sutton in disbelief. My chest tightens, and I can feel the blood draining from my face.

What is happing right now?

Sutton marches toward me, her eyes blazing with fury. “Don’t play dumb, Alex. I know it was you. My card went missing, and I have the receipts to prove you used it to steal my dress for the masquerade. Not only that, but there are other charges all over town.”

Chancellor Maxwell steps forward, her face stern and disappointed. “Miss Prescott, these are very serious allegations. I think it’s best if you come to my office to discuss this matter privately.”

Bishop shoots me a penetrating look as he steps forward, his voice dripping with disgust. “Why waste the time? I say let’s go straight to the source and find the evidence in her room. Knowing the Prescott family history, I’d bet money she’s already been taught how to steal and get away with it.”

I shoot up from my seat. “If I had a true thief’s skills, I would’ve stolen you some brains because you clearly need them.”

Bishop’s nostrils flare, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage at my retort. He takes another step toward me but I don’t move from my spot.

“You insolent little—” he starts, but is cut off by a sharp clearing of a throat.

“That’s quite enough,” Chancellor Maxwell interjects, her eyes wide at my outburst. “Miss Prescott, please come with me. The rest of you, return to your meals,” she says firmly.

Aubrey gives me a concerned look, but I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, as I follow Chancellor Maxwell out of the dining hall. The whispers and stares of my classmates follow me like a suffocating cloud. So much for making new friends.

Sutton falls into step beside me, her tone low and venomous. “You really think you can get away with this? You don’t belong here, Alex.”

I’m completely taken aback by this sudden change of events. Earlier we were having a great time together, and now she’s accusing me of stealing something that she offered to buy for me.

I square my shoulders, determined to maintain my composure. “Sutton, I did not take your card. I have no idea what kind of game you’re playing, but we both know that you purchased that dress for me.”

By the time we reach my room, the tension is palpable. The hallway feels smaller than usual, the walls closing in on me. Chancellor Maxwell stands behind me, her fingers steepled in front of her as she regards me with a mixture of concern and disappointment.

“The door, if you wouldn’t mind, Miss Prescott.” she says, her voice measured.

The added presence of the Legacy boys is suffocating. They trailed behind me the entire walk over like vultures, their disgusted expressions a mask for their true intentions.

“Now,” she begins, her voice stern but not unkind as our small group shuffles inside, “I want to hear both sides of this story. Miss Prescott, you first.”

I take a deep breath, willing my voice not to shake. “Chancellor, I swear I didn’t steal anything. Sutton offered to buy me that dress. I honestly don’t know why she’s saying otherwise now.”

Sutton scoffs, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her arms as she crosses them. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I buy you anything? You’re nothing but an insignificant, unproductive weight on this institution's shoulders.”

Her comment hits me like a slap across the face. I flinch but otherwise force myself not to react. The comment stings more than I want to admit coming from her.

Chancellor Maxwell’s eyebrows shoot up, her gaze snapping to Sutton. “The last part of your statement, Miss Oliveri, is unnecessary.”

I could have sworn I saw a flicker of guilt in her eyes before she quickly blinks it away. It was there and then gone in the next moment. But the damage has already been done.

The Legacy boys snicker behind their hands. Well, two of the three do. Being around Bishop it was like being caught in the crosshairs of a sniper, his gaze piercing and unrelenting, while his body was a statue of tension, ready to strike at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “But I don’t understand what’s happening. Sutton and I were getting along fine earlier. We went shopping together, she insisted on buying me the dress. I don’t know why she suddenly turned on me.”

“Turned on you?” Bishop asks, like he finds my comment amusing. “What gave you the impression an Oliveri would want to be friends with you to begin with?”

My head snaps toward Sylvester, feeling a wave of confusion wash over me.

“You didn’t know?” Bishop asks, and he has the audacity to seem surprised.

I didn’t know what? My mind races, bouncing between Sutton and Sylvester, trying to piece together fragments of information. The confusion must show on my face, because Chancellor Maxwell’s rigidness softens slightly.

“Miss Prescott,” she says, but I don’t miss how she subtly checks the time on her watch, “were you not aware that Sutton and Sylvester are siblings?”

“Twins,” Sylvester corrects from somewhere behind Maxwell.

My eyes are like two torches suddenly illuminating Sutton’s figure while a wave of confusion washes over me.

To her credit, she remains composed and unfazed.

I shake my head, feeling increasingly out of my depth. “I…I just thought Sutton was nice. That we were becoming friends.”

A cruel laugh escapes Camden’s lips. “Friends? With you? That’s rich.”

Sutton cocks her head to the side, “why would I want to be friends with you? The Prescott’s really are dumber than they look if you really believed that.”

My mind couldn’t understand how someone I considered a friend could suddenly seem like a stranger to me. My head was in turmoil, trying to make sense of this new version of Sutton.

Chancellor Maxwell holds up a hand, silencing all of them. “That’s enough. Miss Prescott, do you have any proof of your claim? Any witnesses who can corroborate your story?” she asks to get us back on topic.

I shake my head, attempting to rid myself of this sudden influx of information. That’s right. We had gathered here because of a stolen credit card and a dress.

I rack my brain, desperately trying to think of anyone who might have seen us together. “The saleswoman at the boutique,” I say, grasping at straws. What was her name again? Eloise? Eleanor? Whatever, it didn’t matter. “She saw Sutton buy the dress for me.”

Sutton lets out a derisive snort. “Please. As if some minimum wage retail worker would remember anything. Besides, I’m sure she sees entitled losers trying to scam their way into clothes they can’t afford all the time.”

I recoil at her words, my skin prickling with humiliation. Chancellor Maxwell’s gaze hardens but she doesn’t reprimand Sutton this time.

“Is there anyone else who can verify your story?” she asks me.

I shake my head, a feeling of defeat settling heavily in my stomach. “No,” I say, and I can hear the disappointment in my own voice.

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel the weight of everyone’s stares, their judgment pressing down on me like a physical force. Bishop’s smirk grows wider, more triumphant, with each passing second, his handsome features, remain cruel and self-centered as always.

“Well then,” Chancellor Maxwell says, breaking the tension. “I should like to go through your things then,” she says, before helping herself to my closet.

As the Chancellor rummages through my belongings, Sutton catches my eye. There’s a cruel glint in her gaze that I’ve never seen before, and it sends a sudden frost through my veins. How could I have been so wrong about her?

“Ah,” Chancellor Maxwell’s voice cuts through the stiff silence. “What do we have here?”

My stomach drops as she emerges from the closet holding up a garment bag. I swallow, recognizing it—the dress Sutton bought for me. Or at least, the dress I thought she’d bought for me.

Chancellor Maxwell unzips the bag, revealing the shimmering white and black ombre fabric within. “This appears to be the dress in question,” she says, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp.

Sutton gasps theatrically. “That’s my dress! She must have taken it when she snagged my card.”

I feel the blood drain from my face as I stare at the dress, my mind reeling. How could this be happening? I know I didn’t steal it, but it’s in my closet, damning evidence against me.

“I…I didn’t…” I stammer, but the words die in my throat.

Chancellor Maxwell’s gaze is piercing as she looks at me, her expression a mixture of disappointment and something else I can’t quite place. Pity, perhaps?

“Miss Prescott, this is a very serious accusation,” she says, her voice grave. “Do you have an explanation for how this dress came to be in your possession?”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. How can I explain something I don’t understand myself? The truth sounds like a lie, even in my own head.

“I think it’s pretty clear what happened here,” Bishop chimes in, his voice dripping with false concern. “Poor Sutton’s been taken advantage of.”

Sutton nods, pretending to wipe away tears that didn’t exist. “I just can’t believe she would do this to me,” she sniffs, leaning into Sylvester’s comforting arm.

I feel my world shifting, spinning out of control. The pieces fall into place, but they form a picture I can’t accept. Sutton and Sylvester…siblings? The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. How could I have been so blind?

The reality of my situation sinks in as I take in each of the Legacies. All four of them. This was a setup, a carefully orchestrated trap, and I just allowed myself to walk right into it without so much as a question.

“Chancellor,” I manage to croak out, “I swear to you, I didn’t steal anything. Sutton gave me that dress as a gift. She told me—”

“Oh please,” Sutton interrupts, her voice dripping with disdain. “As if I’d ever give a Prescott something so expensive.”

“This isn’t… It can’t…”

But Chancellor Maxwell is already shaking her head in my direction. “I’m afraid the evidence is quite damning. Not only have you been caught with stolen property, but I’ve also been informed there is proof of your transaction history as well.”

Sutton nods her head in agreement. “Sly, show them what you've got.” She turns to her brother and encourages him to continue. Sylvester reaches into his pocket and retrieves a few receipts, his face showing no emotion as he hands them over to Maxwell.

I force air out of my lungs as she scrutinizes the slips of paper, her brows furrowing in concentration. I want to scream, to grab those receipts and tear them to shreds, but I’m stuck in place, watching this plan unravel before my eyes.

“These appear to be receipts from several locations,” Maxwell says slowly, “all purchased with Miss Oliveri’s credit card.” She looks up at me, her eyes calculating. “And they’re all signed with your name, Miss Prescott.”

The room spins. This can’t be happening. I feel like I’m trapped in some twisted nightmare, but the faces around me are all too real, too cruel.

“I didn’t… I would never…” I try to speak, but my words are drowned out by Sutton’s dramatic sobs.

“I trusted you,” she wails, burying her face in Sylvester’s arm.

Chancellor Maxwell does something that surprises me then. “Miss Oliveri, could you kindly find a way to cease the theatrics for long enough to examine your dress? Your parents may indulge your dramatics, but I prefer facts over flair.”

Sutton’s sobs abruptly cease as she straightens up, her face a mask of confusion. “Examine my dress? Whatever for, Chancellor?”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Her tone is crisp, brooking no argument.

Sutton hesitates, her eyes darting between the Chancellor and me. A flicker of panic settles in her expression before she smooths it away with a practiced smile. “Of course, Chancellor. But I don’t see how this is relevant to—”

“Humor me,” Maxwell interrupts, her voice steely.

With visible reluctance, Sutton pulls out of her brother’s hold and slowly starts to examine the dress. Maxwell's eyes are fixed on Sutton, who is studying the garment with great attention. Her fingers move along the seams and material, carefully examining every detail. “It looks fine to me,” she confirms after a few minutes.

“Interesting,” Chancellor Maxwell murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. “In that case, it appears there is no need to continue with this questioning.”

Sutton’s mouth visibly hangs open, before she snaps it closed. “So that’s it?”

“That’s it,” she confirms. “Miss Oliveri, are you not aware I am the Chancellor of this school? The youngest in Altair’s history, in fact, when I took my seat.”

“Yes, I know that,” she confirms, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal.

Maxwell straightens out her jacket before turning back to her. “And do you not think I have more pressing matters to deal with than a stolen dress or card, when your family has more money than they know what to do with?” Her voice is calm but firm.

Sutton’s face flushes a deep crimson, her composure cracking. “But…but she stole from me!” she sputters, gesturing wildly in my direction.

Chancellor Maxwell raises an eyebrow, her gaze piercing. “Did she now? Because from where I’m standing, this entire charade reeks of something far more sinister than petty theft.”

The room falls quiet, the tension palpable. I can hardly breathe, my mind racing to catch up with this sudden shift.

“Chancellor, I don’t understand,” Sylvester interjects, his arm protectively going back around his sister. “Are you accusing Sutton of something?”

Maxwell’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile, her patience clearly wearing thin. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. But I do find it curious, Mr. Oliveri, that you and the other Legacies seem to have misjudged how long I have overseen this university.”

Sutton’s face pales, her eyes widening. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

Chancellor Maxwell continues, her voice steady and controlled. “You see, as I assume you are all aware, I have dedicated my last thirty years as Chancellor here at Altair University. Long enough to have seen patterns emerge, to understand the intricate social dynamics at play in this school. And long enough to recognize when a Legacy is trying to manipulate the system.”

Bishop’s face contorts into a tight ball of fury, every muscle straining to contain his anger.

His stare bores into mine, radiating a searing hatred that consumes every fiber of his being. In this moment, I’m nothing but a target for his venomous disdain. But I refuse to cower before him. Instead, I meet his gaze with unflinching bravery, my own eyes ablaze with defiance and determination.

My attention is abruptly pulled away from Bishop’s, severing the link in our silent war when Chancellor Maxwell turns to face me, her features relaxing a little. “Miss Prescott, I apologize for the stress this situation may have caused you. Rest assured, this will have no effect on your record or impact your eligibility for the games.”

I nod, still too stunned to speak as Chancellor Maxwell takes this as her cue and dismisses herself. The relief flooding through me is almost dizzying.

Bishop takes a menacing step forward. “You may have the Chancellor under your little thumb, but the rest of us see what you really are,” he growls. “A reject and a fraud. A nobody trying to play in a world you don’t belong in.”

I stand my ground. “I belong here just as much as any of you,” I say, surprising myself with the conviction in my words.

“That so?” Bishop asks, tone deadly calm.

“That’s right,” I say, my voice growing stronger with each word. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The gravity of the situation hangs heavy in the air, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. I can feel the weight of their combined stares, each Legacy sizing me up, reassessing the threat I pose.

Camden lets out a mirthless laugh. “You have no idea what you’re up against,” he sneers. “This isn’t some game you can win by batting your eyelashes at the Chancellor.”

“I’m not trying to win anything,” I retort, my frustration finally bubbling over. “I don’t want to play anything. Not this. Not your stupid games. None of it!”

“But you are playing,” Camden says, his voice smooth as silk but laced with venom. “The moment you stepped foot in Altair, you became a part of this game. Whether you like it or not.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say, my voice wavering slightly.

“None of us did,” Sutton snaps.

“Come on, let’s just go,” Sylvester says, nudging his sister towards the door.

The Legacies exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them that I can’t decipher. Then, one by one, they begin to file out of my room. The only one who remains is my shadow, too content in his designated spot in my personal space.

“No dramatic exit this time? No slamming of doors?” I comment. “I'm almost disappointed.”

“I thought I'd stick around. Give you a chance to catch up.”

“Catch up? With what? Everyone's already gone, so either you've found a new appreciation for doorways or you're avoiding admitting defeat.”

There's a subtle shift in Bishop's expression, his mouth twitching as he pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Actually, I'm just being polite. Since you seemed so eager to leave me provocative notes in your mailbox, I figured I'd return the favor. Consider it my form of foreplay.”

Provocative? That was one way to put it. Another word could be pornographic My intention was to make Bishop uncomfortable, but it seems to have the opposite effect. His pupils dilate, now matching the darkness of night.

“How do you know I left those for you specifically?” I challenge, my tone unwavering. “I could have a secret admirer you know nothing about, sending me their love notes.”

Bishop's body language betrays a hint of jealousy before he regains control. “Don't be absurd, Prescott. No one could ever love you.”

His words hit a nerve, even though I know they shouldn't, especially coming from him. But deep down, I know they're true. After all, even my own mother couldn't love me…

I cross my arms over my chest, “I wasn’t the one sneaking around and going through mail like some... criminal mastermind.”

He smirks, and it’s devilish. “Ah, but you’re the one who thought a mailbox was the perfect place to communicate. I’m just playing along.”

“Get out of my room,” I demand, and that curve of his lip only grows more sinister. Surprisingly, he obeys, leaving the note on a nearby table.

I stare at it for what feels like forever after he leaves, trying to calm my racing heart. Foreplay? Bishop really thought this twisted back-and-forth between us was foreplay?

Eventually, my thoughts settle enough that the curiosity overrides my anger and desire to take a match to the paper. I snatch it off the table and unfold it, recognizing immediately that it's a page from my own botany notebook. The same one he claimed he didn't have. The jagged torn edge and the familiar handwriting only further confirming my theory.

My skin goes cold with fresh rage. Bishop Ashbourne is a fucking asshole.