Cassian had already known she would score full marks on the examination.
That part had never been in doubt.
What he had not known—what even he had not anticipated—was the existence of a bonus question placed deliberately at the back of the paper, nor that she had been the only one to attempt it, let alone exceed expectation.
As Professor Valmont's explanation replayed across the screen, a faint smirk touched Cassian's lips.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
"This woman…" he murmured almost to himself.
From Rafe's vantage point, the sight was rare enough to register.
Cassian did not smile easily. He certainly did not smile at televised ceremonies. Yet there he was, seated in a high-rise office overlooking the city, watching a school broadcast with the focus of a man tracking market volatility.
And smiling.
Rafe tilted his head slightly, observing him with quiet amusement.
"You look like a proud parent at a recital," he said dryly.
Cassian didn't bother denying it.
"She exceeded the framework," he replied evenly. "That's not common."
"No," Rafe agreed. "It's not."
Before the moment could settle further, a discreet knock sounded at the office door. An assistant stepped inside, tablet in hand, posture formal but cautious.
"Sir," she said respectfully, "the executive board is asking if you're ready for the call. If not, they would like an updated time."
Rafe glanced at the clock automatically.
The meeting in question was not minor. It involved a contract valued in the billions—an acquisition negotiation months in the making.
Cassian did not look away from the screen.
"Inform them I'll call personally," he said calmly.
"Yes, sir."
The assistant hesitated for half a second, clearly aware of the weight of what was being postponed, then nodded and exited quietly.
Rafe waited until the door shut before speaking.
"You rescheduled a billion-dollar contract to watch a school broadcast," he said slowly.
On the screen, Mira was once again in close-up, her composed profile captured beneath the academy crest.
Rafe exhaled lightly. "You know she's about to collect admirers, right? Top scorer, bonus question genius, and she looks like that? Campus is going to implode."
He said it lightly, almost teasingly. "Give it a week. She'll have suitors lining up."
He expected a neutral reaction. Perhaps even agreement.
Instead, he was met with a stare that could have frozen steel.
Cassian's eyes shifted slowly from the screen to him, the faint smirk long gone.
The room temperature seemed to drop.
Rafe blinked once, caught off guard.
"…What?"
Cassian didn't answer immediately, but the message was unmistakable.
The dominant tyrant of the room was not amused.
Rafe's realization dawned a second too late.
Ah.
He lifted both hands slightly in surrender. "Right. Not funny."
Cassian returned his gaze to the screen, expression once again composed, but something had sharpened beneath it.
Rafe cleared his throat softly.
Noted.
A billion-dollar contract could be rescheduled.
But the idea of someone else orbiting Mira Vale?
That, apparently, was non-negotiable.
--
The murmuring inside the auditorium gradually subsided as the program moved forward. The air shifted with anticipation, a different kind of energy gathering now that the rankings had been revealed. There was still something left—something ceremonial, expected.
The speech.
Traditionally, the honor belonged to the top scorer. It was a moment the academy treated with quiet reverence, a symbolic passing of intellectual authority from the institution to its brightest new mind. Students straightened in their seats. Parents leaned forward. Even faculty members seemed more attentive.
When the host stepped back onto the stage and adjusted the microphone, the room stilled almost instantly.
"And now," the speaker began, voice clear and measured, "we proceed to the address traditionally delivered by the highest-ranking student of this year's cohort."
A ripple of excitement passed through the rows.
"They're going to make her speak?"
"Already?"
"I want to hear her talk."
"Let's see if she's as composed with a microphone."
The speaker paused just long enough to build expectation.
"This year," he continued, "we have decided to do things differently."
A faint murmur broke out immediately.
"Differently?"
"What does that mean?"
"In recognition of the exceptional performance demonstrated by our top candidates, the academy has determined that the address will not be delivered by a single student."
The room grew still again.
"Instead, this year, the honor will be shared among the top three."
For a split second, silence held.
Then the shockwave rippled outward.
"All three?" someone repeated, disbelief edging their voice.
"Wait—what?" another student whispered, half-rising in their seat as if they had misheard.
"That's never happened before," a boy muttered. "It's always been top one. Always."
Across the aisle, two girls exchanged glances.
"So Seraphine is speaking too?"
"I thought she wouldn't, since she placed third."
A quieter voice chimed in, laced with understanding. "They can't exactly sideline a Duval."
"That's what I'm saying," her friend replied under her breath. "You think the academy would let that slide?"
A low murmur of agreement traveled down the row.
"Looks like tradition bends when it wants to."
"Or when it has to."
A low, knowing whisper moved through a cluster of students near the aisle.
"Well, the academy wouldn't skip a Duval."
"Of course not."
"I guess they were going to get their speech from her regardless of placement," someone added.
"So much for rankings," a boy muttered.
"Or maybe they're trying to balance things," another student suggested, though the word felt carefully chosen.
"Balance?" someone echoed under their breath. "That's strategic."
"Strategic how?"
"As in, keep everyone satisfied. The top scorer speaks. The scholarship genius speaks. And the legacy family speaks. No one leaves feeling sidelined."
Several students exchanged subtle glances.
"They can't afford to alienate the Duvals."
"And they can't afford to ignore the girl who just outperformed their exam."
"So they share the stage."
"Interesting," someone observed.
Another student leaned closer to her friend. "And here I thought the Duval speech wouldn't happen this year."
Her friend arched a brow. "You really believed that?"
A faint, knowing smile spread across her lips, slow and deliberate.
"Looks like the academy still wants one."
A quiet hum of agreement followed.
"They weren't about to let that stage go Duval-free."
"Not with half the front row tied to that name."
They straightened in their seats as the program continued, the implication settling between them with quiet clarity.
Because no matter how extraordinary the outcome had been, no matter how decisively new talent had risen—
The academy had made sure an old name would still be heard.