Page 90 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“Alexandra.”

I freeze, blinking in surprise. I turn to see my grandmother standing beside me. It’s still hard to wrap my head around the fact that I even have a grandmother, let alone one who’shere. Her gaze is steady, not warm, but not cold either. Though the faint uncertainty in her voice catches me off guard.

“It’s…just Alex,” I correct instinctively, a sharpness to my tone that I can’t quite hide.

I hate when people use my full name, because it always reminds me of my mother. She used to say it in a way that felt like a heavy, unspoken judgment, a reminder of everything I wasn’t. “Alexandra” wasn’t a name; it was a sentence, a marker for everything I failed to measure up to in her eyes.

She raises an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Just Alex,” she repeats, her tone neither approving nor dismissive.

I can’t help but feel a shift in the air as she stands before me. It’s strange—this woman is nothing like the kind, gentle figure I’d imagined when I thought of grandmothers. No soft, smiling face or warm arms that would pull me in for comfort. There’s no faint smell of baking cookies or homemade pies. Instead, she’s all sharp angles and unwavering presence, like someone used to commanding attention without having to say much at all.

I wonder if this is what my father’s side of the family is really like—this cold, intimidating, all business, no warmth.

“It’s, uh, nice to meet you,” I mumble, fumbling for something to say. It feels awkward, the words too light for the situation, too polite. I try to offer a small smile, but I’m not sure if it’s well-received.

She studies me for a moment, as if measuring something—measuringme. I almost wish she’d just ask me how I’ve been. But instead, she says, “I trust your time at Altair has been…comfortable?”

“Something like that,” I reply, still feeling the weight of her gaze on me. There’s no comfort in it, just an unspoken assessment that feels like I’m under a microscope.

There’s a pause before she speaks again, her voice quiet but carrying a different sort of weight now. “Your grandfather and I have been discussing this year’s gala. We plan to host it again, as is tradition.”

I nod slowly, unsure where this is going.

“We would be honored if you’d attend,” she continues. “It would mean a great deal to have you there—publicly rejoining the Prescott family.”

I blink, caught off guard by the suggestion. “You want me to come to a gala?”

“Yes,” she confirms, her tone as calm as before, though there's a quiet note of expectation beneath it. “We’ve already begun making arrangements. It’s an important event, and your presence would not go unnoticed.”

A gala? They want me to attend?

Something flickers in my mind—the article I’d seen back in the Vault. There’d been a photo of Bishop’s mother, standing beside my father. What had they called it again? The Annual Prescott Gala? I don’t ask if it’s the same one, but the name echoes in my head now, threading the past and present together in an unsettling way.

“Why?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

She doesn’t flinch at the question. “To acknowledge your place here,” she says simply. “To welcome you properly. You’re a Prescott, after all.”

She pauses, then adds, “Your grandfather and I have already taken steps to ensure your dormitory building is brought up to standard. It seems it had been left in rather poor condition.”

I frown, unsure what she’s getting at.

“We weren’t aware of the extent of the damage,” she says, a touch of something close to apology in her voice—though it vanishes quickly. “Bishop brought it to our attention. He said it wasn’t…reflective of what we would want associated with the Prescott name.”

Something twists in my chest at that. Bishop? Why would he say anything? Why now? Had they really not known how rundown the place was? Or had they known and just didn’t care—until it mattered?

Her words send a strange chill through me. I want to ask her more questions—what does that even mean, really? But something in the way she holds herself tells me that it’s not an invitation to be questioned. It’s an order, and that’s the end of it.

I stand there for a moment, trying to process everything, her cold eyes unwavering. “I see,” I mutter, not sure if I really do or not. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” I say, my voice firm and direct, not leaving room for negotiation.

Her expression tightens, and for the briefest moment, I can see frustration flicker in her eyes. She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can say a word, Bishop steps in, his presence looming behind me.

Without warning, he wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him in a move so sudden, so possessive, that I nearly stumble. The warmth of his body against mine sends an unexpected jolt through me, and I can’t help but feel the weight of it, even as I try to stay composed.

His voice is confident, almost too smooth, when he speaks. “What Prescott means is that she’s just not fond of big events.”He shoots me a pointed look, one that’s teasing and just a little too possessive. “She’ll be there. Don’t worry about it.”

I can feel his hand at my waist, still pressing me into him, and it’s far too intimate for comfort. Or at least, it should be. I swallow hard, trying not to let the warmth in his touch get to me.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, my grandmother’s eyes pinch slightly as she assesses the situation. There’s no softness in her expression, but she seems pleased with Bishop’s intervention. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corners of her lips. She doesn’t speak, but the satisfaction in her gaze is unmistakable.

---