Mated To The Crippled Alpha-Chapter 97: She Is Watching

Camilla stumbled back a step, like the ground had shifted under her feet. The color drained from her face. For a second, she looked like she’d seen something that shouldn’t exist.

All it took was one quiet sentence from me. Soft. Precise. And she unraveled.

She stood frozen, eyes darting, breath uneven. I could almost feel the panic rolling off her, sharp and sour in the air. After a few seconds, she forced herself to speak.

"Ms. Ashbourne," she said, trying to sound calm. Failing. "What kind of joke is this? Why would I withdraw from the competition?"

She raised her voice on purpose.

Just loud enough.

People nearby turned their heads. Whispers spread. Eyes locked onto me. Her words twisted the moment, made it look like I had cornered her. Like I was trying to push her out.

The mood flipped fast.

Murmurs turned into accusations. Her supporters started shouting. Insults flew my way like stones. The space between us grew tense, crowded with noise and judgment.

Security rushed over. The host followed, hands raised, trying to settle everyone down. Camilla shot me a smug glance, her lips curling slightly.

This was her strength. Not skill. Not creativity.

Control.

She fed off reactions. Bent emotions to suit her. And right now, the crowd was exactly where she wanted them.

Off to the side, Vivian scoffed loudly. She crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"She has nothing of her own," she said coldly. "So she plays dirty. How embarrassing."

Fiona didn’t even bother looking up. She sat there, inspecting her nails like this was all beneath her.

"Camilla will win," she said lazily. "The campaigns are already ready."

Vivian nodded, proud. "Look around. Her people are everywhere."

And they were right. The room buzzed with belief in Camilla’s victory.

What none of them knew was that the outcome had already shifted.

Camilla knew it too.

That was why she copied.

She couldn’t match me. Not in vision. Not in depth. Not in instinct. So she studied me instead. Every piece I ever made. Every stroke. Every habit.

She didn’t come here to compete.

She came to imitate.

As the start time drew closer, I bent down to tie my laces while passing her station. When I straightened, I leaned in just enough for her to hear.

"Camilla," I said quietly, "Elena is watching."

The effect was instant.

She had been rinsing her brushes. Her hands froze. The cup tipped over, water spilling across the table. She looked up at me, eyes wide, pupils blown with fear.

I took my seat and spun a pen between my fingers, relaxed. I could almost hear the storm raging in her head.

Does she know?

How much does she know?

Do I still use them?

She knew she couldn’t win with her own work. Her colors were weak. Her concepts hollow. They had no bite.

But if she used mine and the truth ever surfaced everything she built would collapse.

Still... to the world, Elena was gone.

And gone people don’t speak.

That’s what she was telling herself now. That silence would protect her.

She was wrong.

But I didn’t look at her again. I wasn’t here to tear her down.

I was here to reclaim myself.

There was no theme for the competition. No limits. No rules shaping creativity. Just raw freedom.

To me, it felt like stepping into open ground with no one above me. No one holding the leash.

Perfect.

I already knew what I would create. The image had lived inside me for a long time. Bright. Fearless. Alive.

When my brush touched the surface, my hand moved without hesitation. Each line flowed into the next, steady and sure. The camera above zoomed in, capturing every stroke, every detail.

At first, my strokes looked messy. Rough. Untamed.

The comments came fast.

"What kind of mess is that? A child could do better."

"So this is the real her. Those earlier works? She must’ve had help."

I heard Monica laugh softly behind her hand.

"I told you she wouldn’t last," she said, full of spite. "This isn’t art. It’s chaos. Look at Lincy instead. Graceful. Proper. Real talent."

Lena shot her a sharp look. "Then why aren’t you up there judging?"

Grant’s voice cut through them all. Calm. Firm.

"Enough. Just watch."

Vivian chuckled, clearly amused. "If Ms. Ashbourne focused half as much on her work as she does on drawing attention, maybe she’d be interesting. But Camilla?" She smiled smugly. "She’s born for this."

I didn’t react.

I kept moving.

The brush followed instinct, not planning. No outline. No hesitation. Each stroke answered the one before it, like a pulse finding its rhythm.

Slowly, the laughter faded.

The chaos began to settle. Shapes surfaced. Meaning took form.

Someone in the crowd stood up suddenly. An older man. Sharp eyes. Steady hands.

"This isn’t random," he said, clapping once, then again. "This is control."

Murmurs spread.

"She didn’t sketch anything... she’s building it straight from her head."

"That’s not paint. That’s a story."

People leaned forward. The room grew quiet, pulled toward the screen as if something alive was unfolding. It felt like watching a heartbeat appear where there had been none.

The piece I submitted earlier was called New Life.

But this one had a different name.

Twin Souls.

Light and shadow shared the same space. Endings and beginnings pressed against each other.

On one side, dark water lilies drifted downward, sinking. Heavy colors. Deep grief. You could almost see a woman folded inside them, letting go.

The other side broke open with color.

Bright. Warm. Alive.

Some people saw a hand reaching down. Others saw wings brushing the surface. Everyone saw something different.

Rescue.

Healing.

Rebirth.

"I see forgiveness."

"I see hope."

"It feels like breaking free."

When I placed the final stroke, the room exploded.

People stood. Applause rolled through the hall, loud and real. It wasn’t just the finished piece. It was the journey they’d witnessed. The becoming.

I was the first to finish.

Across the room, I caught Camilla shifting in her seat. Her confidence cracked just a little. She felt it the shift in the air, the way the attention no longer belonged to her.

Only then did I step back and look around.

That’s when I saw it.

Camilla’s piece.

Perfect. Polished. Too perfect.

It was Elena’s work.

One of the old ones.

She’d memorized every line. Every shade. She’d recreated it beautifully. And she’d fallen straight into the snare.

She thought I came unarmed.

She was wrong.

Lincy, on the other hand, was unraveling. She was still working while most had finished. Her movements grew rushed. Unsteady.

She forgot to clean her brush.

A dark streak cut through her canvas.

Gasps rippled nearby.

She tried to fix it. Covered it. Mixed too much. Pushed too hard. The colors dulled, the life draining out of the piece with every frantic move.

Grant pressed his fingers to his temples.

Monica forced a smile. "She’s just nervous."

Grant exhaled. "Good thing she’s not the focus today."

Near the front, Lena’s eyes shone. Tears slipped free as she whispered,

"Riley... you were incredible. I’m so proud of you."

I met her gaze and smiled softly.