7. Bishop
Chapter 7
Bishop
I park my car and enter Ashbourne mansion, a place I’ve called home my whole life.
Its rooms and hallways stretch before me like the fading petals of a flower, still graceful, but slowly curling in on themselves, as though the house itself carries the weight of time.
My mother is standing by the door, her smile warm, but her presence commanding in a way that feels natural.
Even in the soft light of the foyer, there’s something about her—graceful, but never weak.
“Bishop!” she exclaims, stepping forward to pull me into a hug.
“Is Dad back from his trip?”
“You know how he is,” she says.
“Always off chasing some elusive idea, perfecting things to the last detail. He’s still holed up in his office, but he’ll be down for dinner soon.”
Typical of him, but her voice holds no frustration.
She’s used to it. Nothing, not even long absences from my father or any challenges she faces, ever seems to shake her.
Not even the memory of her greatest betrayal at the Altair games.
A moment she’s long since learned to bury behind a calm facade.
One I was still trying to rectify.
“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 not my friend,” 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.
Blair looks vaguely interested for a moment, her chin resting on her hand.
“A dunk tank? That sounds like something they’d try.”
Dad chuckles at the idea, but Mom, ever the strategist, leans in.
“It could be fun if they pull it off. But knowing Sylvester, it’ll probably turn into a fiasco.” She waves a hand, dismissing it.
“Although, something like that would certainly stir up some attention.”
“Speaking of attention…” Dad stretches the words out, as though testing the waters.
“It was nice finally meeting Magnus the other day. You know, after hearing so much about him over the years.” His tone is light, almost too casual, but I would be a fool to believe it’s all innocent.
Mom’s gaze sharpens slightly, knowing it too.
“Magnus Prescott?” She tilts her head, like a cat sizing up its prey.
“I suppose it was inevitable I’d cross paths with him eventually.”
I can feel my jaw tighten at the mention of that name.
The name of the man who abandoned his team—my mother included—during the Altair games.
I don’t say anything.
Instead, I just focus on the glass in front of me, willing my grip to loosen around its base.
“What about his daughter, though? Alex, right? How’s she doing after that fall she took?”
The mention of Prescott hits like a jolt of electricity in the room.
My grip tightens around my glass, knuckles nearly white as I fight to keep my cool.
Mom’s gaze sharpens, though for different reasons.
She’s always had an eye for anything that could reflect on her own legacy at Altair.
Alex’s every move is a reflection of the Prescott name, and right now, that’s the last thing I want to talk about.
Blair, sensing the shift in the air, perks up with a sly smile.
“Alex? You mean the girl Bishop can’t stop complaining about? I’m sure she’s a real gem, but she can’t be any worse than Ophelia.”
I feel my jaw tighten, the air around me cooling.
“I’m not always talking about her,” I snap.
Blair doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with a grin that’s almost mischievous.
“Really? Because if I had a dollar for every time you mentioned her name, I could probably buy a mansion next door to this one.”
Mom raises an eyebrow, but Blair doesn’t break eye contact, a challenge hanging between us.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, and I can feel my irritation bubbling to the surface.
So what if Prescott’s been consuming my thoughts more than anyone should ever admit?
It’s not like I’m some lovesick idiot.
I want her gone—out of Altair, out of my life.
She’s a problem I need to eliminate, but every time I see her, it’s like an itch I can’t scratch.
That night outside the natatorium, though…
Fuck. That moment sticks with me like a goddamn poison.
Her face so close, eyes daring me to make a move.
My body betrayed me, yet again.
She doesn’t even know how close she came to being fucked up against that wall.
My blood was burning, a wildfire, and it took everything I had to hold back.
All because my stupid body wasn’t listening—hadn’t been listening—since she showed up in my life.
I swear I could feel her breath even now…
the heat between us, my cock hardening like it knew what I really wanted.
That almost kiss… I couldn’t even move.
I had been frozen, caught between the fight for control and the need I couldn’t deny in that moment.
Prescott all but dared me with those notes.
Notes she knew I’d find in her mailbox.
Each of them tangled with hints of all the shit she’s into, the kind of stuff that makes a guy like me lose his fucking mind.
Was any of it even true?
Or was she just fucking with me, messing with my head because she knew it would get to me?
Either way, it worked.
It’s like she wanted me to unravel, to let the bastard inside me take over.
That twisted edge she showed, the dirty shit she tried to hide—it’s crawling under my skin, screwing with my thoughts.
I can’t even tell if I want to be angry at her for playing this game, or if I’m just pissed at myself for letting it get to me.
But still…I can’t stop thinking about it.
I can’t stop thinking about my little troublemaker.
Blair’s voice pulls me back into the moment, her words slicing through the fog of my thoughts with pinpoint accuracy.
“Seriously, though, can she really be worse than Ophelia? At least Alex has…charisma. Or more than two brain cells to rub together and better at pondering something besides shoes and designer labels.”
Before I can respond, my mother’s voice cuts in, smooth and cold.
“How would you know, darling? You refuse to attend Altair, remember?”
Blair’s expression falters for just a second, the bite of her own words suddenly losing its edge.
Dad, ever the peacemaker, offers a soft chuckle.
“Well, at least you don’t have to deal with any of this mess, huh?” He shoots Blair a playful grin, trying to steer things back to safer territory.
Blair, however, doesn’t back down, her head tilts slightly as she leans forward.
“You’re right. I don’t have to deal with the Legacy drama—but I’m also not stuck in a never-ending loop of watching people like Ophelia prance around thinking they’re the next big thing.”
Mom’s gaze sharpens, her tone clipped.
“Enough. You’ll have plenty of time to focus on your future when you decide to stop avoiding it.”
Blair bites back a retort, but I can see the way her jaw tightens.
She’s frustrated, not just with the world, but with our mother’s unyielding push to follow a certain path.
“I’m not avoiding it,” Blair mutters, though I can tell she’s not entirely convinced of her own words.
She fidgets slightly, the words coming out a little jumbled as she tries to gather her thoughts.
“I just don’t need our last name to feel like I’m somebody.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
My own thoughts flicker back to Prescott, to the way she’s wormed her way into my mind, making me think things I’ve never thought about before.
Mom sighs, her voice softening but still firm.
“The world doesn’t care what you want, Blair. It’s what you’re expected to do. You’re letting them win by avoiding it. The fear, the noise, the crowds…they make you feel small; they make you hide. But you’re an Ashbourne. You don’t let fear dictate your life.”
She leans forward, her gaze unwavering, her words carrying the familiar weight of expectation.
“Challenging yourself—showing the world who you really are—that’s how you win. Not by running away from what scares you.”
For a moment, there’s only the weight of her gaze, pressing down on me with everything she hasn’t said.
There’s love there too, wrapped up in the steel of her words.
Our mother is trying to protect her, even if my sister doesn’t always see it that way.
Blair shifts in her seat, her hands unconsciously tapping against the table as if she’s trying to anchor herself.
“I just…don’t think that should define me,” she mumbles, eyes flicking between Mom and me.
She’s struggling a little more now to keep the conversation flowing smoothly, her voice cracking with an emotion she’s not used to showing.
Dad’s eyes soften. “We just want what’s best for you, Blair. We love you.”
Blair crosses her arms, her brow furrowed as she takes a moment to think.
“Fine,” she mutters, tapping her fingers against her arms. “If I’m going to consider going to Altair to make everyone else happy, I think I should get something out of it.” She glances at me, her expression turning manipulative.
I raise an eyebrow, catching the shift in her tone.
“What do you want?”
She shrugs, all faux-casual, but there’s a spark behind it.
“I don’t know. Maybe a peace offering from my brother.”
I snort.
“You’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve given you like... twenty peace offerings since you learned to talk.”
“Yeah, and most of them sucked. I want something real this time.”
I give her a look.
“You do remember it’s Mom who is pushing for you to go to Altair, right? I don’t even know why you’re bargaining with me.”
Blair doesn’t miss a beat.
“Because Mom does guilt. You get leverage.”
There’s a brief silence.
Across the table, Mom sighs through her nose but doesn’t argue — mostly because Blair isn’t wrong.
My sister leans in, her eyes unflinching with that all-too-familiar glint of someone sure they can get their way.
“Well, we both know you’re practically having an emotional affair anytime you’re with a camera, Bishop. So how about you give me one of yours?” she asks, a sly smile curling the corners of her lips.
I wave my hand, already over it.
“Take your pick. You know where my room is.”
Blair scoffs, not buying my nonchalance for a second.
“No, I’m not talking about the ones upstairs in your old room. I’m talking about the one you cart around campus with you. The one you won’t even let Dad get near anymore.”
I raise an eyebrow, a short laugh escaping.
“Not happening.”
Blair’s smirk doesn’t waver as she leans in, not backing down.
“Why not? Seems like a fair trade. I go to Altair, I get the camera. I make all these memories to show Mom how much fun I’m having, and you get to have me around, annoying you every day. A win-win, right?”
I lean forward, my eyes glinting.
“You really think you can make demands like that, and I’ll just roll over?”
Her cocky grin falters for half a second, but she recovers quickly.
She feels the pressure, but she’s not backing off.
“Come on, Bishop. You’ve practically built a shrine for that thing. What’s the big deal? Why’s it so important to you?”
I fold my arms. “Why am I the one being punished here? Mom and Dad are the ones begging you to go, not me. Shouldn’t they be offering up sacrifices?”
Blair just shrugs, breezy and insufferable.
“Maybe, but their stuff’s boring. Dad has cameras. You have obsessions. That’s what makes it fun.”
I stare at her.
“That’s not a reason.”
She pops a piece of bread into her mouth like the conversation’s over.
“It is to me.”
That camera’s been with me through everything.
It was my very first one.
Dad gave it to me the summer before I turned thirteen, right after he’d come back from his own photography trip.
It wasn’t just a gift; it was a lesson—wrapped in a worn leather bag, old but sturdy, he handed it to me with one rule: patience .
Wait for the shot, don’t rush it.
Over time, it became my thing.
I don’t care how many other cameras I get, that one’s different.
It’s the one I learned on.
The one that made me realize I could capture the world the way I see it.
I scoff, dismissing her ridiculous notion.
“You’re not getting my camera, Blair. Try again.”
She stares at me, not backing down, the wheels turning in her head.
But I’m already a step ahead.
With a smug grin, I lean back in my chair, knowing exactly how to push her buttons.
“Alright, how about this,” I say, my tone laced with mockery.
“What if I bring Ophelia here instead? Let her explain to you what Altair really has to offer from a woman around your age. Give you the full experience. Maybe then you’ll finally see what you’ve been missing.” I pause, letting the words settle, then raise an eyebrow.
“While she’s at it, maybe you two could go shopping, get your nails done. You two can really bond over all the…stuff you adore.”
My sister’s eyes tighten, and for a split second, I can see the flicker of irritation, but she’s quick to mask it.
“No,” she spits out, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
Mom, as expected, chimes in, completely on board with my idea.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea. It’ll give the two of you a chance to get to know each other better.”
Blair lets out a loud, almost derisive snort, making it clear she’s not having any of it.
“Absolutely not. I’d rather lose my hearing altogether. At least that way, I could express myself through hand gestures. The one with my middle finger seems like a universal one.”
I can’t help but chuckle softly at her response, savoring the fact that I’ve got her riled up, and I’m loving every second of it.
This was payback for her mocking me about Prescott earlier.
But no sooner do I have the thought than my sister’s brain hits the same twisted conclusion, and I see it in her eyes before she even says a word.
Her rebuttal fires off her tongue, her voice calm but calculating.
“What if Alex comes over instead?” she asks, knowing exactly how much that name rubs me the wrong way.
How this family feels about the Prescott’s, our history, and the whole thing that makes my skin crawl.
I stop mid-smirk, and for a second, I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed that she knows me so well or that she’s so bold with it.
“You’re kidding, right? You know the last thing you should want is her anywhere near this house.”
Blair sits up in her chair, clearly enjoying herself.
“Well, I could always stay here and continue to keep being the disappointment. Maybe I could learn a few things from Alex in that department.”
My blood runs cold.
This isn’t a game anymore.
Her eyes flicker with amusement as she watches me.
“So what’ll it be? Are you going to get her to come here or not?”
A slight twitch of my eyelid betrays my irritation.
This is more than I was willing to deal with.
I lean back, giving her a pointed look.
“You know, Mom could just force you to go to Altair.” No strings.
No Prescott.
Mom’s gaze flickers, hesitant, as she opens her mouth to respond.
“Bishop’s right, Blair. You don’t get to make all the demands here.”
The words are firm on her lips, but something falters—something I can’t quite place.
It’s as if the weight of the command feels heavier than it should.
Normally, Mom would push back with a force so strong it would crush any idea like Blair’s before it had a chance to settle.
But today, there’s something different.
A hesitation, a weariness that’s never been there before.
Before she can say more, Dad places his hand gently on hers.
His touch, calm and steady, grounds her, a silent reassurance between them.
“I think this could be beneficial for her, Francesca. A chance for Blair to see things from a different perspective. It might just be the push she needs.”
Mom’s gaze flickers to Dad, her lips pressing together, but she doesn’t pull her hand away.
The weight of his words seems to settle over her in a way that makes her hesitate.
There’s a moment when she almost argues, almost tells him no.
But she stops herself, her lips parting just slightly before closing again.
“I don’t like this, Blair,” she says, her tone betraying her usual strength.
“I don’t like the idea of giving in, but…maybe there’s something to be said for letting you see things firsthand.” Her words are tinged with an exhaustion I can’t ignore, a weariness that feels heavier than just frustration.
Blair leans forward, a victorious glint dancing in her eyes.
Her smirk widens as she senses she’s won, her gaze darting between our parents, clearly savoring the moment.
“What?” I ask, genuinely shocked.
This whole ridiculous charade shouldn’t actually be happening.
This isn’t like Mom—this isn’t how she usually operates.
She doesn’t back down, not from Blair, not from any of us.
What the hell is going on right now?
Blair just shrugs, her confidence unshaken, a smug glint in her eyes.
“Oh, nothing. Just making sure you understand that I’m not agreeing to anything, Bishop. You can bring Alex here, but don’t think that means I’m going anywhere.” She grins, clearly satisfied, as if the entire situation has already worked out in her favor.
She knows full well that getting Prescott to come here is a long shot at best. All this does is buy her more time to avoid going to Altair.
She’s got it all figured out, and she knows it.
“Don’t worry, Blair. I’m not promising anything. I’m sure Prescott will love the invitation. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with someone who can’t even be bothered to make a simple decision?”
Blair’s smile deepens, satisfied with the small victory.
“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
I despise Prescott and all that she represents, and now I’m supposed to—what?
—invite her over for tea or something?
I give a short, bitter laugh, but it’s more frustration than humor, staring off at nothing.
I’m so utterly confused by the turn of events.
I can’t decide whether to be angry, frustrated, or just bewildered.
I look over at my sister, her smile deepens as she leans back in her chair, arms crossed triumphantly.
Blair’s gotten what she wants…
and now I have to live with the consequences.