At Lyceum St. Genevieve, among a certain circle of the bluest blood, showing up on the piste often mattered more than showing up in the classroom once ski season hit. Ludo had never missed a run since he first learned to stand on skis, until last winter at Saas-Fee, when gravity hurled him down the slope, nearly breaking his neck and ultimately fracturing his forearm.

But during those endless seconds of tumbling down the ice, something deeper fractured within him—he realised it wasn’t mortality that scares him, but mediocrity.

Then came a bleaker revelation: if he’d died, he would have been nothing more than a tabloid headline.

He pivoted sharply after that.

They call him the prodigal son trying to return, a pleasing parable, worn thin since biblical days. You might have wished him all the best, if he wasn’t standing in your way.

The Lyceum Award, your golden ticket at this elite boarding school as a student on financial aid. A full-ride scholarship to any university, awarded to the student with the highest GPA. You thought it was yours, locked in, until this trust fund boy bought his way into winter school for extra credits. Now he’s just 0.02 behind you, way too close.

Close enough to make you want to slap the smug smile right off his stupid face as he slides smoothly into the chair to your left at the Friday night high table in the refectory.

“You can’t still be mad at me. I’m to your left. You have to talk to me,” Ludo drawls, passing you the bread basket. “Now, now. I’ll admit, I might’ve been a bit of a jerk when you confronted me about the Lyceum Award earlier. But to be fair, you did call me a cheater.”

With an easy grace he halves a mini pickle and places it atop your rillettes spread. “And name-calling doesn’t make saints out of sinners.”

You don’t know how he manages to make an one-sided conversation sound so effortless, but he just keeps going.

“In good faith, my credits from winter school are legitimate. I was chained to a laptop in a hospital bed while my friends threw themselves down slopes. Oh—wait.” He pauses theatrically, eyeing your plate under your icy glare. “That looks overcooked.” With a single glance at a passing steward, Ludo has your faux filet whisked back to the kitchen without a word, as if this were some upscale restaurant—goddamn rich boys and their casual entitlement.

Without missing a beat, Ludo neatly slices into his own steak, nods at the perfect pink center, and slides his plate toward you as if that’s going to fix anything.

“So, where were we? Right, the Award. I do feel somewhat guilty for complicating your life, but I think it would be an insult to your intelligence if I were to withdraw from a fair contest.”

Before you can dispute his risible presumption, he continues, “I thought I might offer you something to level the playing field, though. Heard you struggled in P.E. last semester—tennis, wasn’t it?”

Of course, Ludo already knows. Under their shared roof, Cas has your entire schedule stashed next to a bottle of Margaux and several disturbingly angled candid photographs.

“Lucky for you, I’m quite popular at the racket club. With the right strings pulled, the coach might let you retake your final evaluation.”

The steward returns with a fresh plate and an apologetic murmur, to which Ludo replies with a reassuring smile.

“I could even throw in a bit of private tutoring on the courts,” Ludo says breezily, “So, what do you think?” He gives you half a heartbeat to answer before adding, “Come on, say yes. It’ll be quite the GPA boost. My left arm’s still tender, but the right one’s more than capable of swinging a racket.”