Falling for My Elite Rival

CHAPTER THREE

I finish my presentation with eleven seconds to spare before the fifteen-minute time limit.

The applause that follows is immediate and genuine—not the polite clapping Valentina got, but actual enthusiastic response. I see the scholarship committee members nodding to each other, making notes. A woman in the front row who I recognize as a Columbia admissions representative is leaning forward, actively engaged.

I did it.

Against every impossible odd, with forty-five minutes and a missing USB and help from the last person I expected, I actually did it.

"Thank you, Ms. Ribeiro," the showcase coordinator says from the side of the stage. "Excellent presentation. We'll now take a brief five-minute break before our final presenter."

I walk off stage on shaking legs. The tech person removes my microphone. Someone hands me a bottle of water that I grip with trembling hands.

Tally appears out of nowhere and throws her arms around me.

"Oh my God, Mara! That was AMAZING!" She pulls back, her dark eyes shining. "You were incredible up there. Like, I knew you'd be good, but that was—" She makes an exploding gesture with her hands. "The scholarship committee was eating out of your hand."

"Really?" I'm still trying to process that it's over, that I survived.

"Really. That part about your uncle? I saw people tearing up. And your policy recommendations at the end?" Tally shakes her head in admiration. "You didn't just analyze the problem. You gave them the solution. That's how you win."

Isac appears next, pushing his glasses up his nose. "She's right. That was exceptional, Mara. Especially the comparative data on the crisis response teams. The way you structured that argument was brilliant."

"Thanks." I take a sip of water, trying to ground myself in the moment. "I just—I can't believe I actually pulled that off."

"What do you mean?" Isac tilts his head. "You've been preparing for months."

I haven't told them about the missing USB. Haven't told anyone except Enzo. Part of me wants to keep it that way—if I start talking about sabotage and mysterious disappearances, it sounds paranoid. It sounds like I'm making excuses in case I don't win.

"Nothing. Just nerves." I change the subject. "Is Karina around?"

Tally's expression shifts slightly. "She was sitting with Valentina's group during your presentation. Didn't come find us after."

Something about that bothers me, but I don't have time to analyze it because the lights are dimming again and the coordinator is introducing the final presenter.

"And now, our last presentation of the evening: 'Architecture as Community Building: Sustainable Design for Socioeconomic Integration,' by Enzo Luciano Tavares."

I should leave. Should go find my mother in the audience, accept congratulations, get as far from this stage as possible.

Instead, I stay.

Enzo walks onto the stage, and I'm struck by how different he looks under the lights. More confident than I've ever seen him in class. More relaxed than during Academic Decathlon competitions. Like this—presenting research he actually cares about—is where he belongs.

His first slide appears, and I understand immediately why he seemed so natural helping me rebuild my presentation.

These slides are gorgeous. Professional-level design work with architectural renderings, community planning diagrams, and data visualizations that would fit in an urban planning master's thesis, not a high school showcase.

"Architecture," Enzo begins, his voice steady and clear, "is often seen as the domain of the wealthy. Luxury condos, corporate headquarters, monuments to excess. But what if we reimagined architecture as a tool for social equity? What if the buildings we design could actively break down socioeconomic barriers instead of reinforcing them?"

I'm transfixed.

He walks the audience through case studies of mixed-income housing developments that actually work. Explains the design principles that make shared spaces feel communal rather than segregated. Shows data on how thoughtful architecture can reduce crime, improve educational outcomes, increase social mobility.

But it's not just the content that's impressive. It's the passion.

This isn't Enzo Tavares, legacy student going through the motions of academic excellence. This is someone presenting work they actually love. Work they've clearly spent months—maybe years—thinking about.

"My grandfather was an architect," Enzo says, and his voice softens slightly. "Luciano Tavares. He immigrated from Italy with nothing and built a career designing affordable housing for working-class families. He used to tell me that every building is a choice—a choice about who belongs, who's valued, who's welcome. And those choices shape communities for generations."

A slide appears showing an old black-and-white photo of a man in work clothes standing in front of a construction site. Even from the back of the auditorium, I can see the family resemblance.

"He taught me that good design shouldn't be a luxury," Enzo continues. "It should be a right. Everyone deserves to live in spaces that are beautiful, functional, and dignified. Not just the wealthy. Everyone."

The conviction in his voice does something to my chest. Makes it hard to breathe for reasons that have nothing to do with my own presentation anxiety.

He transitions into his policy recommendations—zoning reform, public-private partnerships, incentives for mixed-income development, architectural education programs for underserved communities.

When he finishes, the applause is thunderous. Even more enthusiastic than mine, if I'm being honest.

And I'm not jealous. I'm... impressed.

I've spent three years competing against Enzo Tavares. Three years comparing test scores and debate rankings and Academic Decathlon results. Three years seeing him as the obstacle between me and valedictorian.

But I've never actually seen him. Not like this.

Not as someone who cares about the same things I do—equity, justice, making systems work for people instead of against them. Just from a different angle.

He walks off stage to more applause. The coordinator announces that results will be shared within the week, thanks everyone for coming, dismisses the audience.

I should find my mother. Should accept congratulations from teachers. Should network with the scholarship committee members who are lingering near the stage.

Instead, I push through the backstage area looking for Enzo.

I find him near the props storage, pulling off his presentation microphone and talking to Mat Borges.

"—seriously, man, that was incredible," Mat is saying. "When are you going to tell your dad that's what you actually want to do?"

Enzo's expression shutters. "It's not that simple."

"It literally is that simple. You just presented a thesis-level research project on architecture and community design. To an auditorium full of people including university representatives. That's not a hobby. That's a calling."

"Mat—"

"I'm just saying. At some point you have to stop living his dream and start living yours."

They both notice me at the same time. Mat grins. "Ribeiro! Your presentation was killer. That uncle story at the beginning? Chef's kiss." He makes the gesture. "Anyway, I'm going to find the refreshments. You two enjoy your academic rival bonding or whatever this is."

He leaves before either of us can respond.

Suddenly it's just me and Enzo in the dimly lit backstage area, and I don't know what to say.

"Your presentation—" I start.

"Yours was better—" he says at the same time.

We both stop. The corner of his mouth lifts in that almost-smile.

"You first," he says.

"Your presentation was incredible. The architecture, the community design principles, the way you connected it all to socioeconomic integration—" I shake my head. "I had no idea you were working on something like that."

"Thanks." He looks almost embarrassed. "It's been a long-term project. My grandfather's work inspired most of it."

"He taught you well." I pause. "Does your father know? That you want to study architecture?"

Something crosses his face. Pain, maybe. Or frustration.

"No. And he can't know. He has... different plans for me."

"What kind of plans?"

"The kind where I follow exactly in his footsteps. Pre-law, corporate firm, partnership by thirty." The bitterness in his voice is sharp. "Architecture is a hobby, not a career. At least according to Vicente Tavares."

"That's not fair. You're brilliant at this. Anyone watching your presentation could see—"

"It doesn't matter what anyone sees. It matters what my family expects." He stops himself, like he's said too much. "Sorry. You didn't come back here to listen to me complain about my privileged problems."

"They're not privileged problems. They're just problems." I lean against the wall next to him. "Having money doesn't mean your family's expectations don't suck."

He looks at me, really looks at me, and something shifts in the air between us.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For earlier. For not making this weird."

"Weird how?"

"The whole academic rivals thing. I help you, you succeed, now we're supposed to go back to pretending we don't exist outside of competing for the same rankings." He shakes his head. "I don't want to do that anymore."

My heart does something complicated in my chest. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know." His eyes are on mine, intense and uncertain. "But I know I'm glad I helped you tonight. And I'm glad your presentation went well. And I'm glad we're talking like this instead of just—" He gestures vaguely. "Being enemies by default."

"We're not enemies."

"Aren't we?"

"No." The word comes out firm. "We're competitors. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

I think about it. "Enemies want each other to fail. Competitors just want to win. It's not the same thing."

Enzo considers this. "So if I win the showcase award tonight, you won't hate me?"

"I'll be disappointed I didn't win. But I won't hate you." I pause. "What about you? If I win?"

"Then the right person won." He says it like he means it. "Your research was personal and rigorous and exactly what that scholarship committee wants to fund. If you win, it's because you deserve it."

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight.

"You still didn't tell me," I say. "Earlier, in the computer lab. You said you should tell me something about tonight, about my USB. Then we got interrupted."

His expression changes. Becomes guarded.

"Enzo—"

"Mara!" My mother's voice carries from the main backstage area. "Minha filha, where are you?"

I close my eyes briefly. "I have to go. My family's here."

"Of course. Go." But he catches my wrist gently before I can leave. "Mara—just be careful. Okay? Your presentation didn't disappear by accident."

The words send ice down my spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean someone took it. Someone who wanted you to fail. And I don't think they're done trying."

"Who?"

He releases my wrist. "I don't have proof. Just a suspicion. But watch yourself. Especially around—"

"Mara!" My mother appears around the corner, her face lit up with pride and joy. "There you are! You were magnificent!"

She pulls me into a hug, and over her shoulder I see Enzo step back, giving us space.

When I pull away and look for him again, he's gone.

But his warning echoes in my head: Someone took it. Someone who wanted you to fail.

I push the thought away. Tonight was a success despite everything. I delivered my presentation. I impressed the scholarship committee. I survived.

Whatever Enzo suspects, whatever danger he thinks I'm in—it can wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, I'm going to celebrate.

Two hours later, after accepting congratulations from teachers and hugging my Avó and promising my mother I'll get proper sleep tonight, I finally check my phone.

There's a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: You were incredible tonight. I mean it. Whatever happens with the results, you should be proud. —ET

I save the number to my contacts. My finger hovers over the reply box.

What do I say? Thank you for helping me? Tell me what you know about my missing USB? Explain why my academic rival suddenly feels like something else entirely?

Instead, I type: Thank you. For everything. I owe you.

His response comes immediately.

Enzo: You don't owe me anything. But if you want to pay me back, there's a Academic Decathlon practice Monday after school. Coach wants to start state championship prep. We're supposed to be partners.

My stomach flips. Partners. With Enzo Tavares.

Me: I'll be there.

Enzo: Good. Because you're the only person who can keep up with me.

Me: Pretty sure I'm the only person who can beat you.

Enzo: We'll see about that, Ribeiro.

I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand and a smile on my face I don't quite understand.