The Rejected True Heiress (Liora) novel Chapter 119

Bianca

If I had to wait one more minute for the principal’s secretary to finish filing her nails, I might have bitten her.

Literally.

I’d had enough. I didn’t knock, knocking was for people who needed permission, and I never had. I shoved the door open with the heel of my hand, frames rattling on the wall.

“Bianca,” the Principal sighed, looking up from his paperwork with that weary expression he saved for people who could fund his retirement, but probably wouldn’t. “This is—”

“Urgent. Yes. I’m aware.” I shut the door behind me, gliding in like the room was staged for my entrance. “We need to discuss the warrior tournament.”

His pen froze. “Ah, yes. Callum filled me in. I was… surprised to hear you’re entering as well.”

I arched a brow. “And why is that?”

He chuckled nervously. “Because you’re the Alpha Female, of course. Such events are beneath you if you wish. More for your entertainment. But we’ll all be proud to see the Alpha perform—we’ve been waiting for a show like this.”

I tossed my hair over my shoulder. “Well, of course. Don’t sound so shocked. It’s the perfect stage for my many talents. The school’s name, my name—they’re practically the same thing by now.” I sat without being asked. “I expect full institutional support. Press coverage. A dedicated photographer, perhaps?”

“Of course, but Bianca—”

“—maybe even a pageant angle,” I cut in, waving a manicured hand. “You’ve said image doesn’t matter before, but in this event? It does. I intend to win both the fights and the public favor.”

He smiled, but I saw it—the calculation, the desperate search for a way to get me out of his office without scandal.

Good luck, buddy.

I smiled sweetly. “So I’ll need access to the advisory panel for… tactical refinement.”

Which is how, twenty minutes later, I ended up perched in the cramped office of Mrs. Calwin, the school’s so-called combat advisor, outlining my vision for what I generously called media-friendly dominance.

The place smelled of leather polish and tea, rows of battered training manuals lining the walls. A crooked poster of last year’s champion hung above the desk, the poor girl mid-swing, mouth frozen in an unflattering battle cry. Mental note: never let anyone photograph me like that.

Mrs. Calwin sat opposite, glasses low, scanning the neat stack of notes I’d slid her way. “I recommend a balanced approach,” she said at last. “Strength is one thing, but grace—”

“—is my middle name,” I cut in smoothly, crossing my legs. “Decisive strikes, minimal blood, enough flair to make them gasp. Something that looks incredible in slow motion.” I tapped the page. “And before you ask—yes, the hair will be lighter for the event.”

Her brows rose. “You’re… dyeing it?”

“Enhancing,” I corrected, like it was obvious. “White fur reads as divine—like the Moon Goddess herself blessed me. Heavenly. Untouchable. The moment I shift, the crowd will be blinded.”

Her lips thinned. “You know, appearance isn’t—”

“Oh, it’s everything,” I leaned in with my best smile. “People don’t remember technique, Mrs. Calwin. They remember moments. The image burned into their mind when someone wins. And mine will be unforgettable.”

She sighed like I’d just aged her a decade. “Just… don’t get so caught up in the performance that you forget the fight.”

“Please. I can multitask, I’m the female Alpha.” I slipped the notes back into my bag with a flick of my wrist, already thinking ahead to my other meeting later that evening, where a tasteful envelope would change hands to ensure my screening opponent was… let’s say, appropriately matched.

This wasn’t cheating. This was strategic curation. The kind of thing any Female Alpha worth the title would do.

Back in my dorm, Jessica lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me test hair swatches under the light.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify