A Mate To Three Alpha Heirs-Chapter 28: Cheating Candidates

{Elira}

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My pencil hovered over the first page, heart drumming so loud I feared those around me could hear it.

’Focus, Elira,’ I told myself, pushing out every thought except the paper in front of me.

There were four subjects. My gaze swept across them quickly: Economics, Calculations, History—and then... Essay.

My breath caught in my throat.

The Essay topic leapt at me, the letters swimming for a heartbeat before settling into cruel clarity:

"Why do you want to get into ESA?"

For a long, frozen second, I just stared.

’It’s the exact same topic Zenon made me write,’ I realized, a strange tightness forming in my chest.

My thoughts tangled, breath shallowing.

Zenon is the Dean of Studies... Did he know this would appear? Did he deliberately make me prepare?

But... why?

Zenon had been so cold, harsh, and sharp with his words. Yet now, this felt almost as if... as if, in his own cruel way, he had prepared me—shielded me.

’Is he truly as heartless as he seems?’ The question prickled in the corners of my mind.

A glance up startled me. The massive timer on the stage had already started counting down. Five minutes had already passed!

Panic tightened around my throat.

Stop thinking, Elira. Just write!

My pencil flew to the page. Words tumbled out, not perfectly, but truthfully. My story, my reasons, my dreams—not of pity, but of rising, ruling, and making meaning of everything I had survived.

Twenty minutes later, I let out a quiet breath, my hand cramping as I moved on to the next subject.

Around me, the air was thick with tension, pencils scratching, and the soft hiss of paper turning.

Then—a commotion.

My gaze snapped up. Near the side row, three candidates were being pulled to their feet by the invigilators.

One of them shouted something. But their protests were cut short. Their answer sheets were ripped, torn clean in half, fluttering like wounded birds before hitting the floor.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

The invigilators guided them out, faces pale and furious, shoes scraping against the marble floor.

The hall quieted, but my heart kept pounding.

’I’m not guilty. I did nothing,’ I reminded myself, but the fear clung stubbornly.

Then, from the speakers above, the woman’s voice returned—calm, cold, and almost amused:

"Candidates, anyone caught engaging in malpractice will not only be escorted out, but blacklisted by ESA for at least five years. The opportunity to surrender any material has already passed."

Her tone turned sharper:

"Focus on your exams. Time is moving quickly. If there’s more disturbance, drown it out and keep writing."

And finally, softer, almost taunting:

"Good luck... on not getting caught. Though I doubt that."

A quiet shiver crept down my spine. But I gripped my pencil harder and bent back over my paper.

Just focus, Elira.

I dove into my third subject. Halfway through, another wave of noise broke out. I didn’t look properly, but I heard voices raised—five candidates this time.

One of them yelled that it wasn’t true, but an invigilator’s calm reply cut through the noise, and soon, papers were shredded and more footsteps echoed out of the hall.

The whispers returned like an angry hive, but I kept writing, my pencil smudging faint graphite across my hand.

Don’t look. Just write. Remember what Lennon and Rennon said.

I turned to the last subject: questions on pack distribution, resource management, and governance. My pulse steadied—Rennon taught me this.

My pencil flew across the page. I almost forgot the room, the candidates, and the time.

Then, from nowhere, the air shifted.

A quiet, powerful presence moved next to me.

My fingers froze mid-sentence. Slowly, against every instinct, I lifted my gaze.

Zenon stood beside my desk, his eyes lowered to my paper. His brows were furrowed, and his mouth was set in a sharp line.

The urge to yelp crawled up my throat, but I bit it down, staring at him wide-eyed.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even look directly at me. After a breathless moment, he turned and walked away, his coat brushing softly past my shoulder.

I let out a shaky breath. My chest felt tight and hot.

Why was he looking at my answer sheet? And when did he even walk up to me?

I guessed that I had been too engrossed answering the questions.

But Zenon stopped three rows ahead, standing behind a female student with short dark hair. His shadow fell across her desk.

"Stand up," he instructed in a low commanding tone.

The girl stiffened. Slowly, reluctantly, she stood, glaring over her shoulder.

"Why?" she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. "I’m not doing anything!"

Zenon’s gaze stayed cold, unblinking. He lifted her answer sheets and, without a word, handed them to an invigilator who had already walked up to them.

The girl’s face twisted, her voice rising louder, "I’m not doing anything! You can’t—"

Zenon’s tone, quiet but steely, cut across her words: "Enough. Leave the hall."

She refused, shouting louder, drawing eyes from every row.

My pencil hovered uselessly over my page. ’What is happening?’ I couldn’t focus anymore.

Two invigilators approached her from either side, their hands out to guide her away, but she slapped their arms, shouting at the top of her voice.

But Zenon raised a single hand. The invigilators froze.

His gaze never left the girl. Calmly, almost gently, he spoke: "Since you refuse to leave and think me blind... lift your skirt and show them what you wrote on your thighs."

The silence was instant and absolute.

My breath caught, my heart thudding painfully.

The girl’s eyes widened, and her face went white.

Around us, some students gasped, others covered their mouths.

Even seated, I felt the weight of Zenon’s authority.

She didn’t move. She was frozen, ashamed, and trapped.

I swallowed hard, pulse racing. ’Moon Goddess... what is she hiding?’

But Zenon didn’t step closer, didn’t raise his voice further. His cold calmness was scarier than anger.

And in that moment, every candidate in that room understood: nothing escaped his eyes—and nothing, absolutely nothing, was forgiven.

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