All Chapters of MISTRESS OF THE GAME: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The Voice InsideThere was a voice inside me. I didn’t know when it had started speaking, or if it had always been there, small and quiet like a seed under the dirt. But lately, it had begun to grow louder.It didn’t speak in full sentences. Not always. Sometimes it was just a feeling. A tug in my chest. A shift behind my ribs. It told me when to run. When to stay still. When to speak. When to bite my tongue.And lately, it was whispering something new.More.It said it when I walked past the school down the street and saw students laughing on the steps, tossing their backpacks around like the weight of them didn’t matter. It said it when I passed the library and saw the glass doors glowing with warmth and rows of books that didn’t cost five dollars at a clearance sale. It said it when I looked in the mirror and realized my eyes weren’t afraid anymore. Just... searching.The voice said I could be more.But wanting more didn’t change anything, not at first. I still worked long nights.

Wearing Normal After the challenges, and errors from the scholarship management, I finally got the scholarship to study business administration at the mountain top college one of the best at the Hill city, the good news was that, Sheila was still at the college too. Although she was close to finishing while I was just starting, it meant we would see more often. The scholarship covered all cost, it even covered some clothes for me. But there was no stipend for me so I still had to work to eat. I used to think being invisible was the safest thing in the world. At Lockwood, blending in kept you out of trouble. At school, it made the whispers fade. At work, it meant fewer questions. I’d become so used to folding myself into corners that when I finally stepped into a world that looked at me, I didn’t know how to look back. The campus was bright. Too bright. People laughed too easily. No one looked like they’d ever been locked in a wardrobe, or had to lie about their name to get a j

Top of the ClassThere’s a certain type of attention that feels like sunlight and fire at the same time.It started with a grade. One exam. Just a mid-semester paper in a course I didn’t even like. The lecturer handed it back, face blank as always, and moved on. But I saw the red ink: 97 at the top corner. The highest in the class.People noticed.“Who’s Marie?”“She’s in the front row, right? Doesn’t talk much.”“She’s the one always reading alone.”I felt their eyes before I heard their words. Whispers trailing behind me like shadows. Some people congratulated me. Others just stared, like I had tricked them somehow. Like I wasn’t supposed to be good at anything.I didn’t say much. I didn’t smile. I just folded the paper and tucked it deep in my folder.But inside, something tightened. Something shifted.It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t even relief.It was proof that I existed. That I could win without talking. That even if I said nothing, the world still had to see me.The praise didn’t s

The Vanishing Groom.Just like that, weeks turned into months, and months slipped into semesters. I barely noticed how fast time was flying because I lived buried under textbooks, lecture notes, and the constant hum of assignments. Yet, when the grades came, I still managed to earn the highest GPA in my department. By the end of the session, I held the second-highest CGPA in my level. It felt surreal.“She’s not even human,” one of my classmates whispered one day when results were posted.I laughed and shrugged it off, but the truth was, I worked myself half to death to stay afloat.Success came with its own price. Suddenly, my name carried weight. Invitations kept coming in. Birthday parties, talent shows, dinners, even church programs. Some I declined politely, some I promised to attend only to back out last minute, and some, I allowed Sheila to drag me to.One such event was the bonfire night, after the basketball team brought home a gold medal in the national competition.The fiel

One Day at a TimeI started counting again.Not in the old way, not the way I used to count bruises or nights I cried myself to sleep. I wasn’t counting losses anymore. I was counting days I woke up without dread pressing down on my chest. Days I didn’t flinch at sudden sounds. Days I spoke and didn’t hate the sound of my own voice.Today was day sixteen.Sixteen days without panic spiraling in my throat. Sixteen days of drinking tea in the morning without looking over my shoulder. Sixteen days of walking home alone and not checking behind me every block.It wasn’t magic. I wasn’t healed. But I was living. One day at a time.I’d learned that healing didn’t look the way I thought it would. There were no trumpets. No lightning bolts. No sudden moment where everything just clicked into place. It was slow. Boring sometimes. Painfully ordinary. But in that ordinariness, I found something I never had before peace.Until the letter came.It wasn’t from anyone I knew. The envelope was plain.