24. Sutton
Chapter 24
Sutton
T onight had surpassed my wildest dreams. Our joint booth was a smash hit with the students, the line snaking through the trees at one point as everyone eagerly awaited their turn.
The amount of praise I’d received from classmates, professors, and even board members was more than I could have imagined.
The carnival had been in full swing for hours now, and most of the targets had been hit.
We’d given out a plethora of prizes.
Amid the crowd, my attention drifted to the stage where Bishop and Alex were currently up there doing improv.
The theme of their skit was “frienemies,” so it was no surprise to see them go back-and-forth, tossing sharp-witted jabs at each other, each one landing just a little too close to the bone.
Their exchanges were laced with mockery, but something in the way they delivered them felt more real than the crowd likely realized.
The crowd erupted in laughter as Alex called Bishop a “trust fund baby who still thinks his allowance is a paycheck,” and Bishop shot back with, “at least I’m not still getting my wardrobe approved by my mom.”
The back-and-forth continued, each insult sharper than the last, but the audience was so caught up in the act that they didn’t seem to notice the underlying hostility.
Finally, the performance wrapped up, the crowd clapping loudly, and the two of them exited the stage in opposite directions—Alex with a tight-lipped smile and Bishop with his jaw set, his posture stiff.
I turned back to the booth, catching Cam’s eyes as he handed a student a prize.
“That’s another one down. I think we had one of the most successful booths of the night,” he says, rotating his wrist in one direction while I do the opposite.
I laugh, agreeing with him, and complete our childhood handshake by rotating my arm to meet his thumb.
Just as we finish, I hear footsteps approaching from behind, and Reith steps up to join us.
“Hey, mind if I give it a shot?” he asks, glancing over the setup.
But just as he gets in position, he stumbles over a loose cord, nearly tripping.
Cam scowls.
“Watch where you’re going,” he says, his tone carrying an edge of irritation.
Reith, unbothered, shrugs it off with a grin.
“Guess the cord just wanted some attention,” he says, then adds under his breath, but not low enough that Cam can’t hear, “Not as much attention as your friend’s new hair color, though.”
My lips curl into a small, amused grin.
Cam’s face, however, shoots even further into a frown, his brows furrowing.
Reith, sensing an opportunity, doesn’t let up.
“But hey,” he adds, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, “it could be a new trend. Maybe someone else will start a hair color revolution too.”
I laugh softly, catching Cam’s less-than-enthused glance.
“Come on, Cam, you know you’d rock it. Reith’s just poking a little fun.”
My friend grumbles under his breath but doesn’t say anything more.
With a slight huff, he hands the bow to Reith, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary.
“Here. You’re up,” he states, clearly still irritated.
Reith takes the bow with a dramatic flourish, grinning wider now.
“Thanks, I’ll make sure to give it the attention it deserves.”
Reith steps up to the line, ready to take his shot.
He eyes the targets with a practiced focus, then draws the bowstring back.
It flies, sharp and precise, and lands dead center in the bullseye.
“Well, that was something,” I say, still processing how effortlessly he hit the mark.
Cam, who had been watching intently, crosses his arms and glances at the screen, his lips pressing into a tight line.
He clears his throat and starts to read aloud the prize Reith had won, the words feeling heavier than usual.
“Congratulations,” he says, though his tone is subtly clipped.
“You’ve, uh, won a date with Sutton, I guess.”
Reith turns to me, his grin widening as he returns his bow.
“Well, looks like I’ve won myself a date,” he says, voice dripping with playful humor.
“It would seem so,” I say, it had been hours but I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Cam had put each of our names up on the target board.
Reith’s dark eyes sparkle as he grins.
“Lucky me,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or sincere.
“I was hoping I’d win something good tonight.”
Okay, definitely not sarcasm.
“Congratulations, Reith,” Cam cuts in dryly, though his lips twitch with an almost imperceptible smile.
“But there is a very long line, and you’re holding it up.”
Reith, not at all fazed, peers behind him before looking back in my direction.
“We can work out more permanent details another time, but I’m thinking coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” I agree.
He gives me a nod in confirmation before walking away, but Cam’s gaze follows him for a moment too long.
As he turns his attention back to face me, I catch a slight tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re the one who put my name in this game, you know,” I remind him casually as I hand a bow and arrow to the next person in line.
Cam’s expression shifts, and he gives a short, tight laugh.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d end up winning a date with the person who could’ve caused us a power outage.” His tone is defensive, like he’s trying to brush it off.
“It was an accident,” I say dismissively before I hand over another prize to the student in exchange for their bow.
“It’s just coffee, Cam. It’s not a big deal.”
The lines around his mouth deepen.
“The games are coming up, Sutton. We can’t have distractions.”
“But it’s fine for you and Bishop and Sly to juggle dates and school, right? You and the other Legacies manage to multitask just fine, but the second I get offered coffee, it’s a problem. ” I say, leaning in slightly, but keeping my voice firm.
“Seems like a bit of a double standard to me.”
Because that’s all those boys did—worry.
As a Legacy, guys usually steered clear of me—either too afraid to approach because of my family name or intimidated by those I associated with.
But the Legacy guys, the ones who were supposed to be my friends, were different.
Or at least, that’s what they’d always convinced me of.
They looked out for me, especially Cam.
It was always Cam—my friend, the protector, the one who made sure I didn’t step too far out of line.
They all did, in their own ways, but Cam was the one who felt like he had the most responsibility when it came to keeping me in check.
And even though I knew it came from a place of care, there were times it felt like more of a leash.
As much as I hated to admit it, I had fallen into the role of the compliant one, the one who didn’t argue, who always gave in when things got tough.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have my own thoughts—of course, I did—but when it came to the guys, I just didn’t fight it.
Maybe it was easier to not argue.
Maybe it was easier to be the one they didn’t need to worry about.
Easier for them, easier for me, too.
The one place I felt truly free, though, was in my art.
My paintings and drawings were the only things I had that didn’t come with anyone’s expectations attached.
No one told me what to create.
When I picked up a brush, it was just me—my thoughts, my hands, my colors.
Art had become my act of rebellion, my one space where I could exist fully as myself, without restriction.
It was the only time I could break free, even if just for a moment, from everything else that was expected of me.
I ignored how his comment stings more than it should, pushing aside the feeling that comes with knowing I’m still so easily molded into their expectations.
I focus on reading the prize off the screen for the next student, handing them their reward—a plush Altair eagle.
I watch as they walk away, then turn back to Cam.
“Don’t make it sound like I’m a child who needs to be protected from everything,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I expect.
My voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of my frustration.
“I can handle a cup of coffee without it being some big distraction.”
Cam looks at me, his brows pinching, but I don’t give him the chance to respond.
I shift my focus to the next student, ready to hand out another prize, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest—the one that says just let it go, Sutton.
Just like always, I can feel myself slipping into the role I’ve always played.
“Besides, I know you’re only upset because you got stuck with Victoria as your date, and she doesn’t swing your way,” I retort defensively, trying to make light of the situation.
My tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it.
I’m not sure who was more displeased by the situation—Cam or Victoria’s girlfriend.
I glance at him, watching his jaw shift at my words.
“It’s not about who I got, Sutton. It’s about you being too busy with all these distractions when we have bigger things to focus on.”
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“You can’t tell me you’re not more worried about your own situation than mine. You’ve been looking at this carnival as some kind of game, but now that you’ve been dragged into it, you’ve forgotten that, because of you, we all have a little fun mixed in with the work, right?”
I give him a nudge with my elbow, trying to further lighten the mood, but Cam’s expression doesn’t shift.
Instead, he just sighs, glancing away, clearly frustrated.
“Let’s just get through the night, okay?” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s conceding.
It’s the way he always does when he’s trying to make peace, but it only feels like a reminder that nothing has changed between us.
I nod, turning my attention back to the next student in line, but my mind is still on the unspoken expectations that hang in the air of being a Legacy.
As I hand over the next prize, something catches my attention.
A faint, odd smell drifts toward me, something faintly burning.
It’s not enough to make me panic, but it’s enough to make me wrinkle my nose.
I glance over at Cam, tipping my chin.
“Cam, did you leave your hair straightener on again? I swear, there’s that same singed smell in the air.”
He shifts uncomfortably and looks over his shoulder, clearly not registering my attempt at humor.
“What?”
I chuckle, shaking my head, but the smell seems to be getting stronger.
I follow his gaze, wondering if there’s something going on behind us, and that’s when I hear it.
A crackling sound. It’s faint at first, but unmistakable.
Before I can say anything, Cam spots the source.
Both of us turn simultaneously, our gazes locking on the giant circus tent just beyond the booth.
What we thought was an insignificant crackling turns into a full-blown burst of orange flame rising rapidly from the side of the tent.
The fire is spreading fast, and the bright light from the flames casts an eerie glow over everything.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, my heart leaping into my throat.
Cam’s face shifts from annoyance to sheer panic.
His eyes widen as he processes the fire quickly growing out of control.
“Sutton you need to get out of here! NOW!” he shouts, his voice sharp with urgency.
I freeze for a moment, my heart pounding as the flames lick higher and higher into the night sky.
It feels like everything is happening too fast, and I can’t seem to move.
“Go! Get away from the tent!” Cam yells again, turning toward the students and shoving them toward the exits.
But there’s no time.
The fire is moving too quickly.
I manage to snap out of it for just a second, moving to the next student, pushing them away.
“Go, go! The tent’s on fire!” I shout, my voice laced with panic.
But the words feel hollow, almost drowned out by the crackling of the flames.
I glance back, and the next thing I see makes my blood run cold.
Sparks are flying from the LED wires of our booth, sizzling as they catch the heat from the spreading fire.
I watch, frozen, as the flames dance dangerously close, threatening to engulf everything.
“Cam!” I shout, but he’s already turned, yelling at the other students to run.
My chest thumps as I watch the wires snap, another cable catching fire, and I realize it’s heading straight for me.
It’s not just the booth or the tent anymore.
The whole area is at risk.
“Sutton!” Cam’s voice rips through the chaos, and I barely register the urgency until I feel him grabbing my arm, yanking me away from the scene.
“What are you doing?” he snaps, his grip tightening.
His eyes blaze with fear, and in that moment, I see nothing but concern.
“We need to move— NOW !”
I blink, dazed, still unable to tear my eyes away from the scene behind me.
Our booth, the one we’d worked so hard on, is already starting to go up in flames.
I watch as sparks fly and the bright, electric glow of the lights is replaced by a wave of fire.
The whole thing is collapsing, the flames rising higher with every second.
“Cam!” I gasp, but he’s already pulling me away, dragging us.
My legs feel like they’re made of lead, but I don’t fight him.
He’s not letting go.
Just as we clear the area, my eyes flicker back toward the fire, and the booth is completely consumed now.
A tight knot forms in my chest, but before I can process it, I’m swept off my feet, my body pressed into a strong embrace.
“Sutton!” Sly’s voice sounds in my ear, thick with concern.
I feel his arms tighten around me, the familiar warmth of my twin brother surrounding me like a shield.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to feel the safety of his hug, but the panic and shock still hang in the air.
The fire is still raging, the smoke stinging my eyes, but in this moment, it’s his grip on me that grounds me—reminds me that no matter how much chaos surrounds us, we’re together.
“Are you okay?” Sly asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at me, his face pale.
But the moment I nod, he’s already looking toward Cam, who’s still shouting orders at the remaining students to get to safety.
The night had spiraled out of control so quickly, and yet, here we were.
Despite it all, we were alive.
But as I glanced back at the chaos, the flashing lights, and the thick, black smoke curling into the sky, I couldn’t shake the fear that things weren’t over yet.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the acrid scent of smoke still clings to the air, stinging my nose and making my throat tighten.
My heart is racing, my mind still replaying the chaotic moments as I glance back at the fire one last time.
It’s hard to shake the feeling that something’s not right, something more than just the fire itself.
I turn to Sly, looking for some kind of solid ground in this sea of panic.
“Where’s Bishop?” I ask, suddenly aware that I haven’t seen him anywhere.
I look around the area, but there’s no sign of him.
Sly scans the chaotic scene as he speaks.
“Just missed him. He’s taking his mom to the car. The smoke got to her—had her coughing pretty badly. Seemed like the flames got pretty close to him, too. His clothes were singed, pretty tattered, actually, looked like he’d been caught right in the middle of it.”
I blink, my gaze instinctively following the direction Sly had pointed to, but Bishop’s already gone.
The more I think about it, the stranger it seems. I’m still wrestling with the feeling that something’s off, but before I can say anything else, my eyes drop down to my own appearance.
I’m covered in ash, my clothes have the faint smell of smoke, and my hair is a tangled mess.
But I don’t feel singed.
Nothing about me looks like I was anywhere near the fire.
I’m just…shaken.
I take a steadying breath, forcing myself to focus on the situation at hand.
“Okay, good,” I say, feeling some relief, but my twin doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he’s just not acknowledging it.
His attention is already focused on our parents, who are pushing their way through the crowd toward us.
Our parents arrive, their sharp eyes scanning the chaotic scene before landing on us.
My mother, always poised, takes in the disaster with the kind of detached professionalism she’s known for.
Her gaze lands on me first, narrowing slightly as if she’s evaluating whether I’m truly okay or just shaken up by the situation.
“Sutton,” she says, her voice clipped and cool.
It’s more of an assessment, as if she’s already checked me off her mental list of things to do.
There’s no softness to it, just a sense of practicality.
“You’re not hurt?” My father’s voice is low and sharp, the kind that doesn’t offer any reassurance.
It’s more of an inspection, a demand for answers.
“I’m fine,” I reply quickly, glancing at Sly, who looks just as fine.
“Good,” my mom says, her eyes briefly scanning me again before moving to my twin.
She inspects him in much the same way, only having a bit more warmth, making sure there’s no visible damage.
Then, without another word, she shifts her attention to the scene unfolding around us.
Fire trucks have finally arrived, and the flames are mostly under control, but the devastation is still palpable.
But my mind can’t focus on the chaos.
It keeps going back to the wire.
If I’d seen it earlier—the exposed cable near our booth, the one that led to our power source …
Maybe if I had…
I swallow hard, trying to push the thought aside, but it lingers, gnawing at me.
What if the fire started because of that?
What if it was my fault?
I barely register the sounds around me until I hear Chancellor Maxwell’s voice nearby.
She’s speaking with a firefighter, and my attention snaps toward them.
“We have one person for sure,” the firefighter says, his voice tired but authoritative.
“We’re still searching for others. We’re going through the debris, trying to make sure no one else is trapped. There was a lot of power running through this area tonight.”
I freeze, my stomach dropping at the mention of possible casualties.
People could be trapped?
The guilt sinks deep, and my thoughts start spiraling.
What if it’s my fault?
My father, ever the pragmatic one, turns toward my mother, his face hardening as he overhears the conversation.
“This is exactly why we never wanted you involved in these…artistic pursuits.” My father’s words strike like a fist. The sharpness of his voice, the harshness of his tone—it’s not just an accusation, it’s condemnation.
“If you hadn’t insisted on being wrapped up in all of this—whatever this art nonsense is—we wouldn’t be here right now, watching this mess.”
The words hang in the air, and my stomach twists.
Art . I had always known they didn’t understand my passion for it, but hearing them blame it now, so coldly, as if it was the root of all the destruction—it stings in a way I hadn’t expected.
My father doesn’t even look at me; his focus is on the bigger picture, the chaos.
My mother finally speaks, her expression tight and clinical as she surveys the scene.
She doesn’t even need to look directly at me before she adds her own damning words.
“Your father’s right,” she says flatly, her tone so clipped that it feels like a slap.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t insisted on getting involved in all these... creative endeavors. You’ve always been reckless, Sutton. Always thinking you can handle it, but look where it’s gotten us.”
The guilt hits me like a physical blow, pressing the air from my lungs.
My chest tightens as her words settle in.
It’s all my fault. I pushed for the installation, for the booth, for something bigger.
I wanted it to be perfect, to prove that I wasn’t just a Legacy— I wanted to be more .
But now it’s gone horribly wrong, and I can’t escape the suffocating thought that if I hadn’t been so persistent, none of this would have happened.
If I had just listened.
If I had just been more like them—more compliant.
I feel my shoulders sag, feel myself slipping into that old role—the role I’ve always played so well.
The one where I just comply, just let things unfold as they’re expected.
The role where I swallow my own thoughts, my own voice, and let the world tell me what’s right.
This is my fault , I think again, the thought circling like a song stuck on repeat.
I open my mouth to say something—to explain, to argue, to push back —but nothing comes out.
My mind goes blank. The words I want to say, the rebuttal I could have given, seem to disappear in the wake of my guilt.
What’s the point of speaking when, deep down, I wonder if they’re right?
Maybe if I had just stayed out of it, maybe if I had listened to them when they told me not to get involved, maybe…
maybe none of this would have happened.
Sly catches my eye, his expression caught somewhere between concern and helplessness, but he doesn’t say anything.
Not that it would really matter.
The blame is already mine, and no amount of explanation can change their opinion on that.
I feel myself folding again, because what’s the point?
In the end, I’ll always just give in.
My father steps forward, his face a mask of disappointment.
“Sutton, we’ve been patient. We’ve allowed you to pursue this…hobby. But it’s time to face reality. You have responsibilities as a Legacy.”
The surge of defiance I feel is nothing but a fleeting spark, wilting instantly under the weight of his gaze.
It’s a brief, futile rebellion that crumbles in the face of his piercing scrutiny.
“Have you finally come to your senses?” he asks, his voice dripping with disdain, the superiority in his tone suffocating.
I stand there, crushed by their expectations, the pressure to conform, to fit the perfect mold of the Legacy they’ve always wanted.
It threatens to drown me, and I do nothing to stop it.
“Yes,” I say quietly, my eyes moving over the wreckage around me, the chaos, the burning remnants of what I thought could be something real.
“I’ll give it up.”
My mother’s face softens for a split second, a rare moment of relief washing over her.
“You’ve made the right decision. We’ll get you back on track. Don’t worry.”
But worry is all I can do now.
As they begin discussing their version of my future, my retreat is slow and silent.
Each word they speak tightens the walls I’m building around myself, enclosing the part of me that still aches to create, to be something more than what they want me to be.
To be free.
The words taste like ashes in my mouth—bitter, suffocating, a death sentence for any hope of self-expression I might have had.
I can feel Sylvester’s shock, his quiet approval burning into me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
Instead, I stare at the smoldering remains of my dreams, watching as the last embers of my passion flicker and fade away, consumed by the weight of everything I’ve allowed them to take from me.
And as the fire dies, so does the last bit of the person I used to be.