Page 10 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“Impressive, isn’t it?” my father whispers, a hint of pride in his voice.

I incline my head in agreement, unable to form words. The opulence of it all makes me feel small, out of place, more than I already was at Altair. I was a fraud.

I spot Bishop and the other Legacies on the far side of the room, gathered around a table set apart from the others. A separate group encircles them, exuding an air of quiet exclusivity. They were older, well-dressed individuals I didn’t recognize, but their subtle arrogance—the way they carried themselves—told me they were likely their parents.

Were those the same people my father had allegedly betrayed during his own Altair games, by choosing my mother instead of them?

As if reading my thoughts, my father’s hand tightened on my arm as he followed my gaze. “Come on,” he says, guiding me away from the Legacy group. “Let’s find our seats.”

We weave through the crowd, my father nodding politely to a few people who seem to recognize him. I catch snippets of whispered conversations as we pass.

“Isn’t that…”

“…thought he’d never show his face here again…”

“I bet his daughter is just like him…”

I try to ignore the stares and hushed voices, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other. The dull ache in my head has intensified, and I’m starting to regret agreeing to attend this ceremony. But had I really agreed?Capitulatedwould be a more accurate word.

Finally, we reached our assigned table at the very front of the room. As we sat, I noticed the place cards adorned with the Altair crest—a golden eagle in flight. The irony wasn’t lost on me, considering what I had done with the golden flag. Setting it free in my own twisted way.

I took a quick glance at the list of names. They all belonged to other founding families—Ashbourne, Oliveri, Whitlock. This was the Legacy table. The one where my father and I were clearly outcasts.

Great. Just great.

I shot a glance at my father. He looked calm and composed, like nothing was bothering him. But I knew him better than that. His eyes flickered for a moment, a hint of uncertainty beneath his practiced smile, before he settled into his seat. Me? I was already bracing myself for whatever was about to come.

“Prescott,” a deep voice called out, slicing through the tension in the air. I turned to see Bishop approaching our table with an older woman following behind him. His usual coldness was there, but there was something else too—something in his eyes that made me uneasy. “I see you managed to crawl out of your hospital bed long enough to grace us with your presence.”

I clenched my jaw, barely holding it together. His words felt like a mockery, and my pulse quickened with the urge to lash out at him. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I kept my gaze steady, though it took everything in me not tolet my fury show. He had no right to speak to me like that after everything he’d done.

The woman with him, hair the same shade of brown as Bishop’s, but longer and styled, greeted my father. “Magnus,” she said, taking a sip of her champagne. “It’s been quite some time.”

“Fran,” my father replied briskly, his tone giving nothing away. But I noticed the slight twitch in her expression at the sound of his voice—like there was some unspoken history between them.

I watched the interaction unfold, Bishop’s eyes flicking between my father and me. His smirk grew, his usual indifference hiding whatever game he was playing.

“Back already?” he said, tilting his head slightly. “The Prescott’s do have a history of making a swift exit—nice to see tradition’s still going strong.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze, the weight of his stare almost suffocating. “I’m sure I’m nothing short of glowing,” I said, my tone sweet but sharp, the words laced with sarcasm.

Bishop’s eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked like he was enjoying the spectacle.

“Funny,” he murmured, “how it’s always the pretty ones who think they can get away with everything—until they don’t.”

I felt my father’s hand stiffen on the back of my chair.

I didn’t look away. “Then I’ll enjoy it while it lasts,” I said, calm, unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”

Bishop’s smirk deepened, his gaze flicking to my father for a moment before returning to me. “How do you know I’m not already?” he said softly, voice laced with something just shy of a threat. “You’d be surprised what you can enjoy... when the right moment comes.”

Before I could say anything more, another man approached and casually wrapped his arm around Bishop’s mother. “Francesca, dear, they’re calling us back for pictures.”

“Right.” She nodded, before turning to my father. “This is my husband.”

The man extended his hand, and my father took it firmly. “Ronan Ashbourne,” he introduced himself, his tone warm and polite, not quite as sharp as his family members. There was a softness in his demeanor that set him apart from the rest.

I could tell he wasn’t the same type of cold, calculating figure as the others, but there was still something restrained about him.

---