The Case Against Valencia

Adverse Ally

The Sterling Law library was less of a study space and more of a mahogany-walled cathedral where silence was a religion I only occasionally practiced. It smelled of expensive wood polish, old paper, and the kind of high-stakes anxiety that gives you permanent forehead wrinkles before you’ve even passed the Bar.

Usually, I didn’t mind the atmosphere. The silence felt expensive, and the weight of the leather-bound books made me feel like I was finally becoming the person my father’s last name promised I would be.

"Val, look," Chloe whispered, nudging me as we rounded the corner of the north wing. "There isn’t a single table. Not even in the basement. This is literally a humanitarian crisis."

"Disastrous," Gigi added, checking her reflection in the glass of a rare books case. "We should just go to Sant Ambroeus. I can’t focus when the vibes are this rancid. It's like the air is eighty percent desperation."

I scanned the room until I spotted a small table tucked away in the back. There was one open chair, currently being guarded by a guy who looked like he’d been living in the stacks for a week. He was hunched over a pile of texts, battered headphones clamped over his ears. He had this mess of long, dark hair that fell over his face, entirely too much hair for someone trying to look professional at a top-tier law school. It was black and slightly wavy, tucked behind one ear in a way that looked effortless and deeply annoying. He wore a charcoal sweater that had seen better decades and looked like a gritty extra from an indie movie about a tortured genius.

I walked over, the sharp clack of my heels cutting through the silence like a metronome. He didn’t look up. I waited three seconds, the polite limit, before clearing my throat.

"Excuse me," I said, keeping my voice soft. "Is this seat taken?"

Nothing. I tapped the edge of the table with a manicured nail. He jerked his head up, and those dark, tired eyes narrowed behind thick-rimmed glasses. He looked at me, then at my silk scarf, then back at my face. It wasn't a look of admiration. It was the look you give a very expensive, very irritating obstacle that had just wandered into your path.

Without saying a word, he reached down and swung a stained canvas bag onto the empty chair. The bag looked like it had been through hell and back.

"Yes," he said, his voice raspy and dry as if he hadn't spoken in days.

"It is."

I stared at the bag, then back at him, feeling the heat climbing up my neck.

That was embarrasing to say the least.

"Oh? And did your bag take the LSAT to earn a spot in this library? Because last I checked, backpacks don't have a 170 score."

He let out a short, sharp scoff and didn't even bother to reply. He just pushed a strand of that long hair out of his eyes and went back to his notes as if I’d suddenly become invisible.

RUDE.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, turning on my heel. I wasn't going to start a scene over a guy who clearly not worth my time. My time is too precious for him.

"Forget him," I told the girls as we headed for the exit. "He looks like he’s one bad grade away from a total collapse anyway. I’ll just study on the quad."

The courtyard was better, honestly. I sat on the grass, carefully, because this wool skirt was fresh off the runway, and let the garden ground me. But I couldn't stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me. It wasn’t just that he was rude; it was that he looked at me like my very presence was an insult to the law.

An hour later, the bells of the clock tower signaled the start of Torts. The lecture hall was a sea of navy blazers and bored expressions. Professor Vaughn stood at the lectern, looking like he was about to enjoy himself way too much.

"The Chancellor’s Cup is the premier proving ground for this school," Vaughn began. "This year, I am choosing your partners based on opposing strengths. I want friction. I want debate."

To anyone outside these ivy-covered walls, the Chancellor’s Cup probably sounds like a glorified debate club. To me, it’s survival dressed up in tailored suits.

It’s a Moot Court competition, which is basically a fake trial, but the pressure is very real. We argue a fictional case in front of actual high court judges, the kind of people whose decisions shape real lives. Every word matters. Every pause is judged. You’re expected to think faster than your opponent and sound unshakably confident while doing it.

Winning isn’t just about getting a trophy. It’s a shortcut to the top. The best law firms start watching you, remembering your name, treating you like you already belong. A win can set up your entire career before you even graduate.

And in my family, losing isn’t an option.

My father won the Chancellor’s Cup. My grandfather won it too. The Sterling name is practically carved into the base of the trophy. So when I step into that courtroom, I’m not just competing against the other teams, I’m carrying a legacy. If I lose, it’s not just my failure. It’s a public crack in a family tradition that’s never been broken.

To outsiders, it’s a competition.

To me, it’s pressure, pride, and reputation all fighting for the same breath.

He started reading names. My heart hammered against my ribs. I just needed someone manageable.

Please

"Valencia Sterling," Vaughn called out. "You’ll be partnered with Aster Montgomery."

Now who the hell is that?

My stomach did a literal freefall. I looked toward the front row. Sitting there, leaning back with a pen tucked behind his ear and that long, dark hair messy against his collar, was the guy from the library. He didn't turn around, but I saw his shoulders go rigid.

As the lecture ended, I marched down to the front. "So," I said, crossing my arms. "I guess your bag didn't get the invite to the Cup after all. I guess you're stuck with me."

He finally looked at me, a cold smirk touching his lips. "It wouldn't matter if it did. We both know you'll get the highest mark regardless of who does the work......your name is already on the trophy, isn't it?"

I blinked, taken aback. "If you think I'm just here for the photo op, you're deluded. I don't need a name to out-research you."

He stood up, gathering his books. "8:00 PM. Library. Don't be late, Sterling. I don't carry dead weight, even if it is draped in Versace."

Dead weight?

I showed up at 8:00 PM sharp. I’d swapped my heels for loafers and my blazer for a cream cashmere sweater, my version of "dressing down."

Aster was already there, surrounded by a fortress of case law. He hadn’t even cleared a space for me.

"I’ve already structured the argument," he said, not looking up. "I’ve divided the tasks based on... let’s call them 'individual capacities.' I’ll be handling the primary briefing, the constitutional analysis, and the liability research."

I opened my MacBook. "That's quite a lot for one person. We’re a team."

Finally, he looked at me, his gaze sweeping over me with a dismissive flick. "I’m aware. But my scholarship doesn't have room for mistakes...."

Does he thinks I am that dumb?

He slid a thin, stapled packet toward me. "You can handle the formatting. Double-check the Bluebook citations for the footnotes and make sure the table of authorities is in alphabetical order. It’s tedious, but it’s hard to mess up."

I stared at the packet. He was giving me the legal equivalent of coloring within the lines. "Formatting? You want me to spend three hours on font sizes?"

"It’s important work," he said, humoring me like a child. "It keeps things pretty. And you’re very good at 'pretty,' aren't you?"

The condescension was so thick I could taste it. He spent the next hour explaining basic legal terms to me as if I were a freshman. He even explained what a tort was. I sat there, barely answering, just nodding as I formatted his brilliant, arrogant notes.

By midnight, I was exhausted.

Aster capped his pen and stood up. "We're ahead of schedule. Keep the file. I'll review your formatting in the morning."

He disappeared into the stacks without a goodbye. I walked out to my car, the cool night air hitting my face. Usually, I felt invincible, but tonight, a nagging doubt settled in my chest.

I looked at my reflection in the window, the perfect hair, the expensive clothes. I looked exactly like the girl everyone expected me to be. For a terrifying second, I wondered if I really was that dumb, or if I was just letting him believe it because it was easier than fighting back.