Chapter 1 The Rival Nobody Asked For.
My name is Ada Eze and I do not lose.
Not in physics, Not in further math's, Not in anything that requires putting my head down and out working everyone in the room or class, where ever. That's the deal I made with myself the day I walked into Crestwood Academy on a full scholarship while other kids paid 2 million naira per term like it was nothing.
So i am seventeen. Valedictorian for three years straight. And this term, I was going to crush everything so MIT would have no choice but to take me.
That was the plan until Tunde Bakare walked in.
First day of SS3, third term. Lagos heat was insane, humidity sticking my uniform to my back. Miss Gloria stood at the front of the class in her usual starch-stiff blouse, holding a file like it personally offended her.
"We have a new student," she said. "Transfer from King's College, London. Some of you may know the family name."
Then he walked in.
Tall. Dark. Jaw sharp. He had that careless rich-boy walk, like the world owed him something. His uniform was ironed but his tie was loose, top button undone. He didn't even look at the class. Just dropped into the empty seat behind me like he'd been there forever.
"Mr Bakare," Miss Gloria said dryly. "Care to introduce yourself?"
He leaned back. "Tunde. I don't do introductions."
Kemi, my best friend, immediately typed into her phone and showed me: Rich, rude, and ridiculously fine. God has favorites o.
I rolled my eyes.
Everyone already knew the Bakares. Billionaire oil money. His older brother, Dele Bakare, was a Crestwood legend—perfect grades, perfect attendance, now studying law at Cambridge. Parents whispered about Dele at PTA meetings like he was the second coming.
Tunde, according to rumors, was the disappointment. Expelled from two schools in the UK. Fights. Skipped classes. The kind of boy mothers warn their daughters about.
I decided he wasn't my problem.
Then Miss Gloria announced the first test.
"Pop quiz on SS2 further maths integration. No warning. No excuses."
The class groaned. I smiled. Integration was my thing.
Thirty minutes. I finished in twenty-two, checked my work twice, and handed it in feeling that familiar calm.
Two days later, Miss Gloria posted the scores on the board.
1. Tunde Bakare – 92%
2. Ada Eze – 90%
I stared at the board. The numbers didn't change.
Behind me, someone laughed. Low. Deep. I turned around.
Tunde was leaning against the window, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face. He hadn't taken a single note in two days. He'd slept through third period. I watched him scroll through i********: during Miss Gloria's lecture on parabolic equations.
And he beat me.
"How?" I said. It came out sharper than I meant.
He shrugged. "Maybe you're not as smart as you think."
Kemi grabbed my arm before I could say something I'd regret. But I saw it. The flicker in his eyes. Like he was hiding something. Like the 92% wasn't luck—it was a warning.
That afternoon, Miss Gloria called me to her desk after class.
"Eze," she said, not looking up from her marking. "You're angry."
"I'm not angry. I'm confused."
"Same thing for a girl like you." She finally looked at me. Miss Gloria is thirty-two, young for a teacher, but she has this way of seeing through you. "The regional science fair is in six weeks. I've chosen the pairs for the rocket project. You and Bakare."
My stomach dropped. "No."
"It's not a question."
"He doesn't even try."
"Exactly." She leaned forward. "Figure out why. That's your real project."
I walked out of that classroom ready to scream. The hallway was empty except for Tunde, leaning against the lockers like he owned them.
"Heard we're partners," he said.
"Don't sound so excited."
"I'm not." He pushed off the wall, walked past me, then stopped. "You and me? This project is already failing."
I wanted to tell him off. I wanted to remind him that I had a scholarship on the line, a mother working double shifts cleaning rich people's houses just to afford my transport fare, a dream that didn't have room for rich boys who didn't care.
But when I turned around, he was already gone.
And I swear—his notebook had fallen out of his bag.
I picked it up. Opened it without thinking.
Inside were equations. Not just integration. Quantum mechanics. Orbital dynamics. Stuff I wouldn't learn until first year university.
Written in his handwriting. At 3am, according to the timestamps in the corner.
He wasn't dumb. He was hiding it on purpose.
But why?
I tucked the notebook into my bag. He came back five minutes later, face pale. "Give it back, Eze." I looked him in the eye. "Tell me why you're pretending to be lazy, or I show Miss Gloria every page
