Page 30 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“Reminds me of someone else I know, always behind a lens,” she teases, reaching out to pinch my cheek. I scowl and pull away, but there’s no mistaking the playful glint in her eyes.

“Will Ophelia be joining us for dinner tonight?” she asks, her gaze already scanning over my shoulder, as though she expects her to come through the door any second.

I sigh, a little exasperated. Just then, I hear a snort. Looking up, I spot Blair descending the stairs, her steps purposeful.

“Mom, when are you going to let go of this obsession with Ophelia?” she says, an edge to her voice.

“What are you talking about?” My mother’s response is perfectly innocent, as if she doesn’t already know. “I just think she’s a great match for Bishop.”

A crease forms between Blaire’s brows, but there’s a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface. We all knew how my sister felt about my girlfriend. It wasn’t just the constant frustration Ophelia displayed when Blair had to ask Ophelia to repeat herself, but how it made Blair feel, how the repeated requests subtly undermined her confidence.

Blair doesn’t like talking about it, but we all know. It’s one of those things that’s hard to explain without sounding like you’re making excuses. She has a processing difficulty that makes it harder for her to follow speech in noisy environments, or pick up on similar-sounding words, though she hears perfectly fine.

We’ve all adapted in different ways. But Blair, true to form, leans into what she wants. Right now? She wants to leave my girlfriend out of this conversation, and she’s made that more than clear. She’s never been shy about expressing it, even in front of Ophelia herself.

I swipe at my forehead in frustration, stuck between my mother’s relentless matchmaking and Blair’s obvious disdain. “Mom, can you just drop it?” Ophelia may be with me, but it’s not because I’m genuinely invested. I’m with her because it suits my mother’s vision of what’s “appropriate,” and frankly, it’s the easiest option. I don’t care for her, not really. I need someone who’s obedient, and Ophelia fits that bill. But God, does she ever make it hard to feel anything for her but indifference.

“Ophelia is a fine girl from a respectable family,” my mother says, her voice a rehearsed melody. “She would fit in perfectly with our social circle.”

Blair, reaching the bottom, lets out an exaggerated sigh. Her long dark hair, streaked with two stripes of white, sways with every step, as if it too is rolling its eyes. “Mom, seriously? Ophelia’s about as thrilling as watching a pot of water come to a boil.”

I can’t help the small smirk that pulls at my lips, but I quickly hide it before my mother sees. Blair’s dead on; Ophelia’s personality is like wet cardboard.

“Blair!” My mother’s sharp tone cuts through the air, full of authority. “That’s no way to speak about someone, especially a friend of the family.”

“She’s notmyfriend,” Blair declares flatly, her voice dripping with disdain as she locks eyes with my mother.

“You’d actually have to leave this house to make friends,” our mother retorts, the kind of tough-love lesson she thinks is helping Blair grow. But she doesn’t realize how it sounds.

Instead of responding, Blair takes a slow step back, her shoulders stiff but not quite retreating. She doesn’t storm off. She’s more confident than that. But her silence speaks volumes, a quiet hurt that hangs between us.

Blair’s silence lingers in the air, but the moment passes quickly as the grandfather clock chimes, signaling it’s time for dinner. My mother shifts her weight, brushing off the tension like it’s nothing more than a brief storm. “Well, we can’t let the food get cold. Bishop, Blair, let’s head to the dining room.”

I glance at Blair, who’s still holding her ground, but she doesn’t protest. She just gives me a small, unreadable look and turns toward the door, her movements stiff but dignified. I follow her, unwilling to show my own discomfort.

We make our way to the dining room, the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filling the space as the long, polished table gleams under the chandelier’s light. The Ashbourne mansion’s dining room is always meticulously arranged, which is a sharp contrast to the tension that occasionally fills it.

I’m about to pull out a chair when the sound of footsteps from above signals Dad’s return. The familiar sound of his tread on the stairs makes my mother straighten, her features softening just a touch. She’d never admit it, but she’s aware enough to recognize she needs him here to balance out the weight of these moments.

Dad enters, his presence instantly calming the room. “What’s all this? Having dinner without me?” He grins, kissing our mother on the forehead. He’s always been the one to bring a bit of lightness into this house. A contrast to the walls of the Ashbourne mansion, clad in rich, dark wood that seem to absorb the light, casting the room in a shadowed elegance. It’s not that he doesn’t have his faults; he’s just a quieter kind of man than our mother.

I take my seat, glancing around at the familiar surroundings. The conversation flows easily, despite the usual undercurrents, and I can feel the quiet comfort of being with my family. It’s not perfect, but it’s our rhythm.

Mom fills the space, talking about the upcoming board meetings she’ll be attending at Altair University. “I’ll be at the next few meetings for the carnival approvals,” she says, her tone light but carrying a familiar authority.

Blair perks up slightly at the mention of the carnival, the faintest spark of interest in her eyes. “That sounds fun.”

“Well, maybe if you had enrolled last year like you were supposed to, you could actually enjoy the festivities,” my mother replies, her voice calm but firm, as if it’s simply the next logical point in the conversation.

Blair’s posture stiffens at once, and though her face betrays only the briefest flicker of irritation, the weight of the words hits harder than I think my mother intended. There’s always that undercurrent of disappointment—never direct, but always lingering in the way she speaks to Blair.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” she mutters, her tone sharp. They’ve had this same conversation dozens of times before.

Before the tension can settle too deep, Dad steps in, his voice light and calm. “Well, there’s plenty of time left for that decision to be made.” He turns to Blair with a smile. “Maybe you’ll surprise us and enroll after all.”

Blair huffs but a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, a silent acknowledgment that Dad’s tried to ease things.

I take a slow breath, watching the interaction between my parents, feeling that familiar mix of distance and connection that defines our family. I push my plate aside, my mind drifting. “Sly and the guys on the swim team were talking about doing a dunk tank for the carnival,” I say, breaking the silence with something neutral to shift the focus.

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