12. Alex
Chapter 12
Alex
I keep my eyes fixed on the water as it gently sloshes against the pool’s edge.
The natatorium is eerily peaceful, but I’m not surprised.
It’s Friday night, and most of the students are probably off enjoying the party by the shoreline.
Sylvester had extended an invitation, but with most of the students gone, I saw it as the perfect opportunity to keep moving—quietly, carefully—staying just enough steps ahead that no one would think to look in my direction.
Before coming here, I ended up attending the dorm meeting.
Part of me just didn’t want to deal with my RA’s attitude if she was late for her other plans, but a larger part of me was simply bored and had nothing else to do.
Besides, the later I waited to head to the natatorium, the less likely I was to run into other students.
During the meeting, we were told that extensive renovations would be taking place throughout our entire dorm facility in the upcoming months.
We were advised to expect increased noise around the building during this time.
The students had mixed reactions—most were excited about the much-needed updates, but no one was looking forward to the nonstop construction.
I couldn’t help but find the timing odd.
Prescott dormitory had been falling apart since the day I arrived, and now, suddenly, someone cared enough to fix it?
No announcement, no petition, no warning—just a quiet decision made behind closed doors.
Odd. But not my current priority.
With a grin on my face, I stepped back to admire my masterpiece.
The university’s swimming pool now had white “ice caps” scattered throughout, thanks to the fire extinguisher from Prescott Dormitory.
In the center of it all, a toy yacht—slightly too large for its own good—bobbed proudly on the water, with Sylvester’s black Speedo flapping as its flag in the breeze.
I’d “borrowed” the Speedo and some petroleum jelly after sneaking in to wipe down not only Sylvester’s uniform, but also the others.
I wasn’t taking any chances.
If they tried to replace Sylvester’s, I wanted to make sure they’d all be messed up.
The thought of sharing a Speedo sounded disgusting to me, but I wasn’t sure what those swimmers got up to in the locker room.
Better safe than sorry.
I wore gloves that I had swiped from the supply closet when I was cleaning the fountains.
Ironically enough, I’d found both the boat and petroleum jelly inside the Bedlam tent.
Did I want to know why Alfie had gotten the jelly?
Absolutely not.
The boat continued to drift lazily around the pool, proudly displaying “S.S. Leaky Legacy” in bold letters on its hull.
A trail of petroleum jelly dripped behind it, creating a faint shimmer in the water.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of the swim team arriving and seeing this unexpected addition to the pool.
Perfect.
Before I walked away, I caught a glimpse of my distorted reflection in the still pool water.
For a moment, I barely recognize myself as my face suddenly morphed from my own to my mother’s.
The person staring back at me looked different—harder, colder.
A ringing sound echoes in my ears, vibrating softly.
I quickly blink and push away the unsettling sensation, focusing on why I’m here.
The Legacies deserved it; every last one of them.
I shake off the eerie feeling and turn away from the pool, my footsteps echoing in the empty natatorium as I make my exit.
The ringing in my ears fades, replaced by the soft hum of the building’s ventilation system.
As I push open the doors, an onslaught of cold rain hits me, drenching me in an instant.
I step back under the awning, irritated by the sudden downpour.
I huddle there, trying to stay dry, when I hear footsteps approaching.
It’s Sylvester, running toward me with his usually styled blond hair now plastered to his forehead by the rain.
He grins at me and offers a friendly hello, but I shoot back a sarcastic remark, crossing my arms to keep the cold at bay.
Despite my obvious hostility, Sylvester chuckles, clearly unfazed by my attitude.
“What brings you out in this weather? Another late night swim?”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask, my voice laced with a sharp edge.
The thought of him stepping into that pool right now makes me tense, but I hide it.
If he goes in there now he’ll know without a doubt it was me who set him up, and Maxwell already threatened me about behaving.
He leans over, trying to get a better look behind me, but I react instinctively, shifting my weight to block his view.
The last thing I need is him discovering what I set up inside.
But it backfires, because somehow I end up wedged tightly between him and the corner, trapped with no way out.
Sylvester’s smile deepens, his eyes gleaming as if this whole situation has suddenly shifted in his favor.
I refuse to budge, even though I can feel the heat of his gaze on me.
This isn’t how I expected things to go, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Sylvester leans in slightly, his smile turning teasing.
“You know, you’re not making this easy on me,” he says, his voice light, playful, as if we’re sharing an inside joke.
He reaches a hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear, but I angle my chin just enough to avoid his touch.
I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Don’t you have professors to flirt with?”
His grin doesn’t falter.
“You know it’s not like that,” he fires back, his voice a little lower now, a hint of sincerity threading through the playful banter.
“So what’s the real reason you’re here? Besides checking out my personal space?” I ask, stepping slightly to the side to put more distance between us.
He frowns, his expression shifting for a moment—hurt, maybe?
I can’t quite tell, and I don’t really care either way.
The Legacies have caused me more than enough misery.
“I saw you over here and wanted to make sure you were alright. It’s late, and you’re alone.”
I scoff, letting out a dry laugh.
“You? After everything you and your friends have pulled? No thanks. I’d rather risk the rain.”
“What, you think you’re better off out here in the storm? You really don’t want my help?”
I scoff, unable to hide my disgust. “If you said that to Professor O’Donnelly, how do you think she would respond?”
He smirks, unfazed, clearly enjoying the back and forth.
“I’m pretty sure she’d find me charming, just like everyone else does.” Sylvester steps a little closer, his grin widening.
“In fact, you found me endearing once too.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s no edge to it, not pushing too hard, just enjoying the moment.
I raise an eyebrow, making sure my expression stays cool.
“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
His grin falters for a split second, but then he recovers, still leaning in.
“You sure about that, babe? I’m not that easy to forget…”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the air, sharp and teasing.
“Well, well. What’s going on here?”
Ophelia steps into the scene, sliding under the awning, her gaze flicking between us with a knowing smirk.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asks, her voice laced with a knowing edge, as if she’s caught us in something she’s eager to hold over our heads.
I quickly step out of the tight space between Sylvester and the corner, putting some distance between us.
His grin slips, replaced by a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
Was it aimed at me or her?
Probably both. He turns to Ophelia, his displeasure evident.
“What’s the deal, Ophelia? I thought you were keeping Bishop entertained for the rest of the night?” His gaze sweeps over her, his voice laced with mock curiosity.
“Didn’t think he’d ditch you so soon.”
The jab is like a slap to her face, and I can feel the tension crackling in the air between them.
I watch Ophelia’s expression shift, her posture becoming more defensive.
Sylvester’s words clearly hit a nerve.
But something else lingers in the air, something I didn’t expect.
It’s the way he said it, like it was some sort of jab at Bishop, and the thought of Ophelia being with him, even for a moment, causes an unexpected pressure in my chest. A flare of unwarranted jealousy stings me, sharp and unwelcome, burning hotter than it should.
It’s ridiculous. Why should it matter to me who my shadow spends his time with?
The moment hangs in the air, thick with unspoken words, as Sylvester and Ophelia exchange a charged look.
Ophelia’s lips press into a thin line, but her calm exterior betrays the simmering frustration underneath.
She doesn’t snap at him, though.
Instead, her gaze shifts to me.
“I actually came to find you, Alex,” she says smoothly, her voice taking on that sickly sweet tone that reminds me too much of my mother when she wanted something from me.
But there’s something about the way her eyes drift to the sky that raises a flag.
“There’s someone who’s, uh, in need of help. Someone…who swallowed something they probably shouldn’t have down at the shoreline,” she adds with a slightly forced casualness, but I can hear the uncertainty in her words.
What? No mudslide nickname tonight?
“Swallowed something?” I repeat, not bothering to mask the skepticism in my voice.
“Why did you feel the need to go trudging through the rain to find me because of that?”
“Yeah,” Sylvester agrees, equally wary.
“It’s, uh, plant-related,” she says, almost too quickly, like she hadn’t had time to properly form the story before spitting it out.
For a brief moment, I can see the cracks in her confident facade, but then it’s like she collects herself, sliding back into her usual sharp, smirking demeanor.
“And since you’re Altair’s resident plant girl, I volunteered to come and find you. To see if you could, you know, help.”
She steps closer, voice dripping with insincerity as she eyes me with that knowing look.
“I mean, you wouldn’t want someone to die, right? You are the expert, after all. Not like you’ve got anything better to do out here.”
Her gaze flicks to Sylvester, that same accusing look she had when she first approached, as if she thinks she’s caught us in some sort of act.
She doesn’t say anything more, but her eyes linger on him for a moment, sharp and pointed, before they shift back to me, sweet but venomous.
“So, are you going to live with the chance of someone’s death on your conscience, or are you going to help?”
Before I can even think, Sylvester opens his mouth, his voice dripping with annoyance as he shoots a look at her.
“Ophelia, you can’t—”
I cut him off, not in the mood to hear whatever he’s about to say.
I can make my own decisions.
Stepping forward, I address her directly, my voice flat and matter-of-fact.
“I’ll help.”
“You will?” Sylvester’s voice is thick with surprise, just as Ophelia’s expression shifts into something calculating and smug.
“I’m sure you will, won’t you? Such a good little plant girl,” she says, her words dripping with forced politeness.
I squint at her, something about the way she’s speaking is too rehearsed, too insincere.
It doesn’t sit right with me, but the last thing I need right now is to leave someone hanging.
Even if this feels off, I can’t ignore the possibility that someone might actually need help.
My eyes tighten. “Do you need the help or not?”
Sylvester’s gaze flicks between me and Ophelia, uncertainty clearly written on his face.
“Alex, are you sure you want to do this? I just came from the shoreline, and—”
Before he can finish, Ophelia steps in, her voice smoother now.
“You know, it’s really good of you to be so willing to help,” she says.
“I mean, who else could handle it but you, right? You wouldn’t want anything to happen to someone, especially not with that much expertise under your belt.” She lets the words hang in the air, eyes glinting with that familiar condescension.
“You wouldn’t let someone suffer when you have the power to fix it.”
The pressure in her words lingers, and I force myself not to react.
I know exactly what she’s doing, she’s trying to guilt-trip me into agreeing without thinking it through.
But I won’t back out now, not when someone could be in real danger.
That’s where we’re different.
The rest of the Legacies—especially Bishop—would cut someone down without a second thought, leaving them to sink just to prove a point.
But I’m not like that.
I don’t walk away when someone’s in trouble.
I deal with it.
“I’ll help,” I say again, my voice steady but sharp.
Sylvester immediately steps forward.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No,” I interrupt.
“I can handle it myself.”
I turn back to Ophelia, who’s been watching the exchange with an almost predatory grin.
Her eyes narrow just a bit, but the smile doesn’t waver.
Without a word, she grabs my arm, tugging me firmly toward the edge of the awning.
I’m almost taken off guard by her sudden forcefulness, but I don’t resist. The rain is coming down in sheets now, and Ophelia seems intent on dragging me out into the downpour whether I like it or not.
“You’ll be fine,” she says, her voice clipped.
“Come on, don’t want to waste time in the rain.”
Wasn’t she the one who complained and threw a fit over her shoes and blazer getting ruined by a few drops of water during our first Oceanic Reflection class?
Now she couldn’t care less?
The rain soaks through my clothes almost instantly as we step out from under the awning, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of annoyance at the way she’s practically pushing me forward, as if I don’t have a choice in the matter.
But I swallow it down.
This is what I signed up for, after all.
What I agreed to—despite the fact that it’ll probably end with me on the wrong end of some joke.
The kind that never lands in my favor.
As we set off across the rain-soaked campus, the two of us no doubt make an odd procession—Ophelia leading the way with quick, purposeful strides, me trailing behind her.
“Over here,” she calls, and leads us away from the surprisingly decent crowd of students who don’t seem to mind the rain.
But I guess if you’ve gone here long enough, the rain sort of becomes like a constant companion, the type that you might grow weary of at first, but over time, you learn to coexist with and even maybe find comfort in its unending presence.
Ophelia continues to guide us past a few firepits in the sand, now reduced to smoldering embers since the downpour.
We continue down the shoreline until we reach a spot near the rocky water’s edge, far away from the main group.
A dense scent of cigarette smoke immediately fills my nostrils, the sharp smell is a stark contrast to the lingering scent of burning logs we had passed earlier.
As I draw in a breath, the unmistakable scent of smoldering tobacco stings my nose, and everything clicks into place.
I should’ve known. Of course Bishop had a hand in this.
I wasn’t fooled—I knew this was a bad idea, but I figured there was a chance someone might actually need help.
But here I was, dragged out in the rain like some pawn in their little game.
It’s a set-up, and I’m more frustrated at myself than I would ever admit.
I look over at Ophelia, who’s already a few steps ahead, but her smug little smile isn’t lost on me.
She knows exactly what’s going on.
My stomach tightens, a mix of frustration and disbelief.
“Really?” I mutter, and Ophelia catches it.
She looks over her shoulder at me, a little too pleased with herself.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her tone light, as if she isn’t fully aware of the situation she’s just dragged me into.
“Don’t you want to help someone who needs it?”
My eyes shift down the shoreline, looking for the figure I already know is lurking in the shadows.
Sure enough, there’s Bishop standing near the rocks, his silhouette almost blending into the night, if not for the cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers.
I turn toward her, my irritation no longer bothering to stay under wraps.
“This is ridiculous,” I snap.
“You dragged me out here in the rain with some lame excuse about helping someone? Do you really not see that he’s just using you?”
She shrugs, the motion casual, like she couldn’t care less.
The lack of concern in her expression makes my frustration flare.
Of course, why would she care if Bishop manipulates her?
He gets what he wants, and she’s eager to play along.
“You wanted me here, Bishop?” I say, my tone flat and unamused.
“Well, you’ve got me. Hope it was worth dragging me out in the rain.” I add, not bothering to mask how annoyed I am because at this point, what’s the difference?
At my comment, Bishop flicks the cigarette butt to the side, that all-too-familiar smirk on his face.
“Relax, troublemaker. It’s not like that.”
I laugh bitterly.
“Really? ’Cause I’m starting to get a pretty clear picture of how this all works.”
The rain continues to beat down on us, but I can’t bring myself to care anymore.
This whole situation was a set up, and I’m done pretending it’s anything but.
It doesn’t matter what Bishop or Ophelia think they’re getting from this.
I’m over it. Over him .
Bishop lets out a low chuckle, clearly savoring every second of my irritation.
His steps are slow and deliberate, as if he’s relishing the discomfort he’s causing.
“You don’t have to worry about me keeping you here long. I know how you feel about water.”
Is he serious?
Is he actually enjoying this?
Is this all just some kind of entertainment for him?
I can’t tell if I’m irritated by the situation, or if it’s the fact that he looks so amused with himself.
“Just thought you might want to see this.” He waves a hand dismissively in Ophelia’s direction, his tone dripping with nonchalance, like this entire thing is beneath him.
A wicked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Then, as if to add insult to injury, he winks at me.
Is he openly flirting with me right now?
Or is he just seeing how far he can push me?
I shift my weight, not even trying to hide my indifference.
“And why exactly would I care about any of this?”
His smirk widens, and I can see the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes, his gaze still locked on me as though I’m the only thing worth his attention.
The words drop from his lips like a careless afterthought.
“We’re breaking up, Ophelia.” He says it like he’s ordering a coffee, blunt and uncaring.
Time seems to stretch, and for a brief moment, I watch Ophelia freeze.
She doesn’t react right away, her lips parting slightly as if the words haven’t quite registered.
The silence hangs there, suffocating, while I too, process what just happened.
It’s as if the whole scene suddenly goes in slow motion, everything else around us blurring in comparison.
I snort under my breath, feeling like an unwanted guest at some twisted dinner party, forced into the corner while everyone else continues on with their lives.
I feel it before Ophelia does—the tension in the air, the weight of what just happened.
I don’t need to process it; I know exactly what Bishop is capable of.
His cruelty is second nature by now.
But that doesn’t stop the sting, especially not when he’s so blatant about it.
And then it hits me.
It’s like a gut punch, and suddenly, everything clicks into place.
This…this is his turn in this fucked-up game of foreplay we’ve been playing.
He’s not just breaking up with her.
He’s making a show of it—right in front of me.
He’s actually flirting with me, in front of her, and he doesn’t give a damn.
He’s enjoying this, every last second of it.
I can feel the heat of his gaze, the possessiveness, the arrogance in his posture, like he’s daring me to react, knowing full well that nothing I do will change anything.
It’s a game to him, and the fact that I’m caught in the middle of it only adds to the thrill.
Does he expect me to get sucked into this mess?
I can feel the weight of his stare on me, like he’s waiting for me to break, to react the way he wants—like he’s already calculating the exact moment when I’ll give him what he’s looking for.
It’s a sick game to him, and somehow, I’m still playing.
I should be disgusted.
I should be furious, maybe even feel something more than this twisted mix of annoyance and…
something else. There’s a flicker of heat crawling beneath my skin, the kind that makes my stomach turn and my chest tighten.
I’m not supposed to feel this way.
I should be appalled by what just happened, but somehow, I feel drawn to it.
Or worse, to him . That sharp, possessive glint in his eyes is enough to make my pulse race, and I hate myself for even noticing it.
I can feel him watching me, studying me, waiting to gauge my next move, like he’s somehow in control.
And fuck, maybe he is.
Does he think he’s won already?
Does he think I’m going to react to this mess the way he expects?
Or is it something else he’s hoping for?
I swallow hard, pushing down the flicker of heat that refuses to die.
I want to despise him, I should despise him.
He’s a bully. He’s cruel, manipulative, and treats people like pawns in a game he gets off on.
But damn it, there’s something about him, something about how effortlessly he commands a room that pulls at something deep in me.
I won’t let him see that, even though I know better, even though I should be disgusted by everything about him, there’s this twisted part of me that’s just…
not.
Does he want me to beg him to stop?
To ask for his attention?
To get sucked into his pathetic little drama and show I care?
No.
I’m not that weak.
I won’t let him break me.
Even if his words and his gaze—that goddamn look in his eyes—make it so hard to stay indifferent.
I can’t even wrap my head around what just happened.
He’s literally just broken up with Ophelia right in front of me.
Right here. Right now.
He’s not even trying to hide the fact that this is messed up.
His cruelty doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
And Ophelia? She’s standing there, silent, not fully processing what he’s just done.
How she’s the actual pawn in this stupid back-and-forth between us, not me.
Ophelia is paralyzed, Bishop’s face unreadable, and me, stuck somewhere between disbelief and indifference.
I can almost hear her thoughts screaming, trying to piece together how she’s been caught in this messed-up triangle.
Ophelia stands frozen for a long moment, her lips trembling as she tries to process the words Bishop just delivered.
Her eyes dart between him and me, and it’s almost like a switch flips in her head.
For a brief second, there’s a flicker of disbelief, then her face hardens, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and hurt.
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes her lips, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You think this is funny, Bishop?” she spits, her voice shaking with barely contained rage.
“You think it’s a fucking joke to humiliate me in front of—” She cuts herself off, her eyes darting over to me with a dangerous glint.
“In front of mudslide ?”
Bishop looks bored, the smirk never leaving his face.
He looks like he’s waiting for something to happen, a bored observer at his own drama.
“You really are something, aren’t you?” she scoffs, her voice dangerously low.
“You can’t really be breaking up with me right now.”
Bishop barely reacts, his expression unchanged.
A slight smirk curls at his lips as he glances at her, dripping with a mix of boredom and arrogance.
“Ophelia, don’t kid yourself. I’ve been over you for a while now,” he says, his voice casual, as if explaining something obvious.
“I just thought it’d be more fun this way.”
“Fun? Fun? ” she seethes, her anger rising.
Bishop merely shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.”
Her eyes dart to me, and the moment she sees me, the rage shifts, settling into a more malicious, calculated fury.
Her smile is cold, sharp.
“I saw you, you know. You and Sylvester at the natatorium. Under the awning, just earlier.”
I feel the sting of Ophelia’s words, but it’s not the first time.
Still, something about the accusation feels different now.
It makes me feel exposed, vulnerable, even though I know I didn’t do anything wrong.
In a twisted way, I’m a victim here, same as her.
But Ophelia’s venom is as sharp as a whip, aimed squarely at me.
Bishop’s eyes shift, a small change in his expression that signals the first flicker of interest throughout this entire mess.
It’s not directed at Ophelia, not at the breakup, but at something else—something new.
His chin tilts slightly, a barely noticeable gesture, but it’s enough to change the dynamic.
Ophelia, sensing the change, looks toward him, but he doesn’t react.
His gaze lingers on me instead, drawn to the accusation she just hurled my way.
I’m confused. The guy literally just broke up with her in front of me, and now he’s acting like I’m the only one who matters.
The intensity in his eyes isn’t something new, but there’s something different about it now.
More focused, more…possessive, maybe?
It’s hard to ignore, especially when I shouldn’t care at all.
But here I am, caught under the weight of his gaze, trying to make sense of why it affects me, even though I know better.
Bishop’s eyes stay locked on me, the intensity in them growing, and his voice cuts through the air, casual but laced with something harder, something commanding.
“Is that true?”
There’s a shift in his posture, as if he’s measuring my response, gauging how I’ll handle this.
His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t soften.
It’s like he’s daring me to deny it.
It’s unsettling, how easily he pulls me into his orbit with just a glance and a question.
“It’s true. I saw them,” Ophelia confirms, and I notice a slight tic in his jaw, but other than that, he gives nothing away.
Then, without warning, Bishop takes a step back, his eyes flicking briefly to Ophelia before returning to me.
He tilts his head slightly, the rain dripping down his face as he stands there, completely unfazed by the downpour.
It’s like he’s in his own world, completely detached from everything happening around him.
The cool, casual arrogance in his demeanor makes my pulse spike.
“Is that so?” he says, his voice faint, as if he’s not speaking to anyone in particular.
It’s almost like he’s talking to himself, yet I feel every word like a challenge.
“Well, isn’t that a fun new development.”
I don’t bother confirming or denying her statement.
Instead, I lift my chin, continuing to hold his gaze without hesitation.
There’s a stubbornness in me that refuses to break, and I know he’s the same.
We’re like a pair of locked gates, refusing to open and find a way through.
Let him think what he wants.
Nothing happened, and even if it had, it’s none of his business.
Bishop doesn’t wait for a response, just turns away, walking down the shoreline, his shoes squelching in the wet sand, as if he’s the one controlling the pace of this entire situation—like he always does.