His Rival, His Mate

Chapter 3: The Fall before the Rise

The world didn’t stop turning. The sun didn’t flicker. The clouds didn’t part in revelation.

But mine did.

For a long moment, after seeing that ugly 47% stamped beside my name, I stood still like someone had unplugged me from the universe. Like everything had frozen in a moment I couldn’t rewind.

I had studied. I knew the answers. Every formula, every explanation—burned into my brain after sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled mornings. This wasn’t just a bad grade.

Something was wrong.

Then, like a bucket of ice down my spine, my phone rang.

It was Mom.

Her name blinked on the screen. I hesitated before picking up.

“Hello?”

There was silence for half a beat.

Then—cold, clipped words.

“Imogen. The school just called. They want us to come in… with you. They said it’s urgent.”

My chest tightened. “Why? What happened?”

“They didn’t say much. Just that it’s about today’s exam and that you’re involved in something serious.” Her tone wasn’t the usual gentle kind. It was confused. Stiff. On edge.

Dad’s voice came faintly in the background. “What’s going on? Is she alright?”

“I’ll explain when I get home,” I whispered. “Please—just wait for me.”

But I already knew.

Something awful was coming.

⸻

That afternoon, we sat in the conference room. The windows were shut, the air thick, and the guidance counselor’s tea smelled like dried socks.

Principal Harrow sat across from us, a folder in front of him with my name printed on a tab. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer water. He didn’t even say hello.

Beside him, Mr. Feldman—my calculus teacher—looked pale and uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Thank you for coming,” the principal began. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

My parents nodded, but I said nothing.

“There has been an allegation of academic dishonesty involving Imogen during the final exam. I need to make it clear that, while we are still investigating, the initial evidence presented is… concerning.”

I blinked. “What evidence?”

Mr. Feldman slid a sheet across the table.

It was a screenshot of someone’s notes—answers to our exact exam questions, complete with problem-solving steps and final solutions.

Typed. Highlighted. Neat.

“With a timestamp,” the principal added, tapping it. “From your school-issued cloud account. Uploaded just one day before the final.”

“That’s not mine,” I said, instantly. “I didn’t upload this. I didn’t even write that file. I don’t type my notes—ask anyone.”

“We’re aware you’re a high-performing student,” he said. “That’s why we’re proceeding carefully. But we also have to take this seriously. If more evidence confirms misconduct, we’ll have to consider academic penalties—including *ehem*.”

My mom flinched. My dad sat straighter in his chair. We knew what he meant in that cough.

“Imogen would never do that,” Mom said. “You know she’s worked hard for everything. We see her study for hours at home. She’s applying to MIT for heaven’s sake.”

“She also failed the test,” Mr. Feldman murmured, almost apologetically. “That part… lines up.”

No. It didn’t.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I snapped. “I don’t even know how to access my files from school. Someone planted this.”

The principal folded his hands. “We’ll continue to investigate. But until then, we expect you to attend classes. Your status will remain under review.”

Like a ticking bomb.

Like I was a criminal walking freely… until the sentence dropped.

⸻

When we got home, I went straight to my room. I barely made it past the door before the tears came—hot, stupid, angry tears that blurred everything.

Mom followed, her hands awkwardly hovering near my shoulders. “Sweetheart—”

“I didn’t do it!” I cried, my voice cracking. “I swear on everything—I didn’t cheat. I would never risk everything for one exam. You know me.”

She wrapped her arms around me tightly, like she could squeeze the pain out of my bones.

“I know, Immy. I know.”

But her voice had cracks, too. Doubt? Worry? I couldn’t tell.

And that broke me more than anything else.

⸻

The next morning, I didn’t want to go to school.

I felt like a walking scandal. Everyone would know. Or guess. Or pretend to sympathize while secretly celebrating.

But hiding would only make it worse. So I got dressed. Head down. Hoodie up. War paint in the form of under-eye concealer and fake bravery.

I walked into school like a ghost.

By the time I reached my locker, whispers had already begun to bloom in the hallways like toxic flowers. Stares. Snickers. One girl actually pointed and then quickly pretended she hadn’t.

And then there was Melissa.

Of course.

She was waiting by my locker, leaned against it like a smug statue. In her hand was her phone, held loosely—but the screen faced outward, like she wanted me to see.

“Immy,” she said sweetly.

I didn’t answer.

She tilted the screen toward me. “You’ve gone viral.”

There it was—my name, my name, on a student forum. Next to a post titled “Imogen Schreave Exposed: Cheater Gets What She Deserves”. Underneath were images. Blurred screenshots. A few lines of commentary. Hundreds of replies. Laughing emojis. Snake emojis. Crying emojis.

And worst of all—likes.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Who would even do this?” I whispered.

Melissa leaned in. “Tsk-tsk. Isn’t it tragic? I mean, you study so hard… just to end up like this. You must’ve really panicked, huh?”

She was glowing with victory. And then, as she turned away, she tossed her final dagger over her shoulder:

“Maybe next time, try cheating better.”