The cafeteria hummed with its usual morning rhythm—trays clattering, conversations bleeding into one another, the espresso machine hissing like a tired snake. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the scene and painting everything in that deceptive golden hour softness that made the world look gentler than it was.
She sat alone at a corner table, her back to the wall.
The exam results lay face-up on the table before her, the red ink stark against institutional white paper. 98%. Second place. Again. Her fingers rested on either side of the paper, not quite touching it, perfectly still, perfectly controlled.
Around her, life continued its oblivious march. A group of freshmen laughed too loudly at a joke she couldn't hear. Someone's phone buzzed insistently. A group of young women walked past her, laughing—"Hey! He's more handsome than I thought up close!" Normal. Everything was so catastrophically normal.
She hadn't moved in seventeen minutes. Hadn't blinked in what felt like longer. Her dark eyes—the kind that could pin you in place or slide right past you, depending on what she needed—fixed on those two digits with the intensity of someone plotting coordinates. Calculating distance. Measuring the gap between almost and everything.
98%.
The other paper—the one she'd glimpsed yesterday, the one that professor failed to deliver to its owner—had been perfect. 100%. Of course it had been.
Her coffee had gone cold. A single drop of condensation rolled down the side of the paper cup, slow and deliberate, like a timer counting down to something. The ice in someone's drink cracked with a sound like a bone breaking.
She finally blinked.
Two points. Two microscopic points between her and perfection. Between her and the girl who always, always came first. The girl everyone praised. The girl who made brilliance look effortless while she had to claw and scrape for every point, visible sweat and sleepless nights where the other one floated through on natural talent and charm.
The girl who wasn't here anymore.
She'd noticed the empty seat for days now. Front row, left side where the sunlight didn't reach directly, always. Now just vacant space. No dramatic goodbye, no announcement. One day she was there, the next she wasn't. People whispered theories—family emergency, transfer, breakdown from the pressure.
But she knew better. She knew running when she saw it.
Top of the class now. Finally. The crown she'd murdered sleep for, bled for, shaped her entire existence around—handed to her because the real champion had fled the arena. Her name would be first on the dean's list. Her thesis would be featured. Everyone would congratulate her.
And it meant absolutely nothing.
Outside, the sky was beginning to darken in a way that had nothing to do with the hour. The weather report had promised sunshine. They'd been wrong before.
Her phone screen lit up with a notification she didn't look at. The overhead lights flickered once—just once—but nobody else seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, and simply chose to ignore it, the way people ignore small wrongnesses that hint at larger disturbances.
She picked up the paper. Folded it once, then twice, with mechanical precision. The motion of someone who'd done this before—collected consolation prizes, second-place medals, close-but-not-quite validations. Slipped it into her bag next to a water-stained notebook and a photograph of them both from freshman orientation, when she'd still believed competition could be friendship.
When she stood, the chair legs scraped against the linoleum with a sound like a warning.
You don't just get to leave, she thought. You don't get to make me irrelevant by disappearing.
The first drops of rain hit the windows—sudden, hard, and wrong for a clear day.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked toward the exit, each step measured and deliberate. Students parted around her without thinking, the same way they always had. Natasha Ashford didn't need to demand space—people gave it automatically, instinctively recognizing something in her bearing that suggested moving aside was the wiser choice.
The hallway stretched ahead, fluorescent lights humming their monotonous tune. Her heels clicked against the tile with rhythmic precision. Third-floor physics wing, heading toward Advanced Quantum Mechanics. A class she'd never missed. A class where that empty seat waited.
She turned the corner—
And nearly collided with Professor Laura.
Or rather, where Professor Laura should have been.
The woman walking past was younger, unfamiliar, carrying a stack of folders with the harried expression of someone thrust into a situation they hadn't quite prepared for. Their eyes met for a brief moment. The woman offered an apologetic smile and continued past.
Strange.
Natasha filed the observation away and continued to the classroom. The door was already open, students filtering in with their usual pre-class chatter. She took her seat—second row, center, the position that communicated both confidence and attentiveness—and arranged her materials with practiced efficiency.
Notebook. Three pens, different colors for different purposes. The exam she'd just folded, now carefully smoothed flat again. A small act of control in a day that felt increasingly off-balance.
More students arrived. The usual faces, the usual dynamics. A few glanced at the empty front-row seat—that seat—with various degrees of curiosity or indifference.
The clock ticked toward the start of class.
And then the woman she'd nearly collided with entered the classroom.
She walked to the front with the slightly stiff posture of someone fighting nervousness, set down her folders on the desk, and turned to face the class. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Professional attire that was just a touch too formal, like she was trying to embody a role she hadn't quite grown into. Kind eyes, though. Uncertain, but kind.
The room quieted gradually, conversations tapering off as students registered the unfamiliar presence.
The woman cleared her throat softly. "Good morning, everyone. My name is Dr. Rebecca Chen." Her voice was steady despite the nervousness Natasha could read in the tension of her shoulders. "I'll be taking over this course for the remainder of the semester."
A ripple of confusion moved through the classroom. Murmurs. Questioning looks exchanged.
Dr. Chen's expression softened with something that looked like sympathy. "I know this is unexpected. Professor Laura has resigned from her teaching position, effective immediately."
The murmurs grew louder. Natasha felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Resigned?
"She'll be focusing her full attention on her research center," Dr. Chen continued, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the growing noise. "I understand this is unusual timing, but the administration felt it was important to ensure continuity for your studies. I've reviewed Professor Laura's syllabus and course materials, and I'm committed to maintaining the quality of instruction you've come to expect."
Research center.
The words echoed in Natasha's mind, sharp and insistent. What research center? Laura taught at the university. She'd been trying for months to get Laura's attention, to prove herself worthy of consideration for whatever mysterious projects Laura worked on outside of teaching. And now—
"Additionally," Dr. Chen said, and something in her tone made the room quiet again. She picked up a sheet of paper from her folder, reading from it with careful formality. "I've been asked to make an announcement regarding one of your classmates."
Natasha's hands stilled on her notebook.
"Maggie Whitmore has been recommended for early graduation by Aurora Space Research Private Limited—the research center under Professor Laura's direction." Dr. Chen looked up from the paper, a genuine smile touching her features now. "She has also been recruited as a research assistant with their team. The administration has approved her early graduation, and she'll be receiving her degree pending final thesis approval."
The words landed like physical blows.
Aurora Space Research.
Professor Laura's direction.
Recruited.
Research assistant.
Natasha's vision narrowed to a pinpoint, the edges darkening. Her carefully controlled breathing hitched once, then forced itself back into rhythm through sheer will. Around her, the classroom erupted into a chaos of reactions—surprise, confusion, scattered applause from people who'd apparently liked Maggie, pointed whispers about favoritism and unfairness.
She heard none of it.
Aurora Space Research.
Her father's company contracted with them. She'd seen the name on documents in his office, heard him mention it during business calls. Something about satellite coordination, asteroid tracking, atmospheric defense systems. A benefactor relationship. Her father helped fund their work.
And Laura ran it.
Laura, who Natasha had been trying to impress for two years. Laura, whose attention she'd been desperate to earn. Laura, whose research she'd wanted to join more than anything except perhaps reclaiming her place as the undisputed best.
Laura had chosen her.
Not Natasha Ashford, daughter of one of the program's primary funders. Not Natasha, who'd maintained a 98% average across every course. Not Natasha, who'd won three academic competitions and two athletic tournaments this year alone.
Maggie. The girl who'd stolen her spotlight. The girl who'd taken her father's approval. The girl who'd caught Ethan's eye. The girl who'd made her—for the first time in her entire life—feel like she wasn't enough.
That girl hadn't run away.
She'd been promoted.
Dr. Chen was still talking, something about the course schedule and adjusting to the transition, but the words were meaningless noise. Natasha's hand moved to her bag, fingers finding her phone by muscle memory alone.
She didn't wait for class to officially start. Didn't wait for a break or an appropriate moment. She simply stood, gathering her materials with movements that were too controlled, too precise, telegraphing the fury she was fighting to contain.
Dr. Chen paused mid-sentence. "Ms. Ashford? Is everything—"
"I need to make a call." Her voice came out level. Calm. A perfect mask over the storm building inside. "Family emergency."
She didn't wait for permission. Just walked out of the classroom with her head high and her shoulders back, every inch the confident, composed Natasha Ashford everyone expected to see.
The hallway was empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Her heels clicked against the tile as she walked—not running, never running, but moving with purposeful speed toward somewhere private.
A bathroom. The third-floor women's room, rarely used during this class period. She pushed through the door and confirmed it was empty before moving to the far corner, away from the entrance, away from casual interruption.
Her hands were shaking. She stared at them for a moment, watched them tremble with rage she'd been suppressing for three days, for months, for years of being second-best to someone who didn't even seem to try.
She pulled out her phone.
Found the number she rarely called directly because her father was always too busy, always in meetings, always prioritizing the empire over his daughter who couldn't quite live up to his impossible standards.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Ashford residence, this is Rupert speaking." The voice was crisp, professional—her father's personal assistant and gatekeeper.
"Rupert." She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. How controlled. Like she wasn't falling apart inside, like she wasn't feeling the careful architecture of her identity crumbling around her. "I need to talk to Dad."
"Ms. Ashford, your father is currently in a board meeting—"
"Now, Rupert."
The word came out sharp enough to cut. A command, not a request. The voice of someone who'd grown up with power and privilege and the expectation that when she demanded something, she received it.
"I need to talk to him now."
A pause. She could hear papers rustling on Rupert's end, the muffled sound of office activity in the background.
"Please hold."
The line clicked. Held music began to play—some bland, corporate-approved melody designed to soothe and pacify.
Natasha stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Saw herself—perfectly styled hair, makeup precise, posture impeccable. The image of success and composure.
The image of second place pretending to be first.
Not anymore, she thought. The determination settled over her like armor, cold and hard and unbreakable.
If Maggie Whitmore thought she could just disappear into her shiny new position, thought she could take what should have been Natasha's and leave her behind with this hollow, meaningless victory—
She had another thing coming.
The past doesn't let go that easily.
And Natasha Ashford never, ever accepted defeat.