Page 25 of Broken Rivalry

I manage a semblance of a smile in return. “Yes, apparently, my mother is missing me.” Bitterness seeps into my voice despite my best efforts.

If Arthur notices, he doesn’t show it. “I was about to announce dinner. I will set a plate for you.”

I nod, having timed my arrival to minimize the duration of this familial charade and follow Arthur to the dining room. The room is another display of affluence, with a long, mahogany table set with fine china and silverware, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in rich, dark velvet. The walls are adorned with portraits of stern-looking ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow me disapprovingly as I move.

My parents, impeccably dressed and seated with rigid posture, turn to regard me as I enter.

My mother, tall and slender, her blonde hair cascading in perfect waves down her shoulders, offers a faint smile. Her face, a meticulous canvas crafted by the region’s most esteemed plastic surgeon, flickers with a momentary surprise, quickly veiled by years of practiced stoicism. “Ethan, darling, what a delightful surprise,” she coos, her voice a gentle, rehearsed melody that barely brushes the surface of maternal warmth. Her eyes, however, betray a fleeting vulnerability, a silent whisper of the mother she might have been in a different life.

I don’t take it to heart. My mother has always been like this, emotionally distant and perpetually composed. A perfectly crafted doll, shaped and molded to meet the exacting standards of the man beside her.

I look at my father, who raises his glass of wine to greet me. “The prodigal son returns,” he says, dripping with sarcasm. “I almost forgot what you looked like.”

My jaw tightens, but I manage to keep my expression neutral, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. No, you can’t have, I think, because, unfortunately, I look just like you.

My father is tall and athletically built despite his age. His hair, now peppered with gray, and the lines etched into his face are the only discernible differences between us as I compare him to old photographs from his Harvard days. Back then, he was the revered captain of both the polo and fencing teams, a point he never lets me forget, especially given my preference for soccer—a sport he dismissively regards as proletarian, as he would say.

I nod in his direction and take a seat, feeling like an intruder in a home that should have been familiar. It’s a common misconception that I idolize my father, aiming to follow in his footsteps. In truth, my every action is a conscious effort to be anything but him.

The first course is served, a rich lobster bisque that wafts a delicate, savory aroma through the room. I find myself pushing the spoon through it absentmindedly, my thoughts still lingering on her.

My father clears his throat, drawing my attention.

“Yes, Father,” I say with a sweet tone that we both know is fake.

His lips purse with disapproval. Provoking him isn’t wise, especially since I’m in need of a favor, yet I can’t seem to be able to stop myself.

He sips his wine, his gaze piercing through me as he speaks. “A sophomore year at Silverbrook, yet whispers reach me that a major eludes your declaration, Ethan.” His voice, a calm yet sternly sharpened blade, slices through the ambient clinks of fine dining.

Here we go. I keep my expression neutral, though frustration starts to bubble into me.

“Options are still on the table, Dad. Exploring possibilities.”

His expression becomes one of challenge, a silent confrontation in the air. “I’m not sure what you have to weigh, son. The only acceptable options are business or law, and we both know that.”

My grip tightens around the silverware, but I maintain my composure. “I believe it’s also important to be adaptable, Father. Rigidity in one’s schedule or beliefs can be a downfall.”

He simply hums in response, sipping his bisque with a calculating light in his eyes, and I know that he is trying to find a way to force me into a choice he considers the only option.

My mother, meanwhile, remains silent, her eyes flickering between us as she sips her soup, a practiced smile still playing on her lips.

The main course arrives, a perfectly cooked venison, its rich, gamey aroma filling the room, accompanied by an assortment of meticulously prepared vegetables. But the luxurious spread before me does little to appease the growing tension knotting my stomach.

Casually, with an air of nonchalance I don’t feel, I set down my silverware and lean back. “Speaking of perspectives, do you know what happened to the Lockwoods after the junior year debacle?”

The reaction is immediate and palpable. My mother’s fork clatters against her plate, and she hastily tries to cover her surprise with a cough. My father’s posture stiffens, his eyes narrowing marginally as he meets my gaze.

“What do you mean?” His voice is steady, but I catch the briefest flicker of something concealed in his eyes.

I shrug, feigning indifference. “Poppy Lockwood joined Silverbrook, and it got me wondering.”

My father shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. “This is what happens when you join a second-class university. You mix with the slum.” His eyes harden. “Is she giving you a hard time? Causing trouble? Do you need me to get her transferred?”

“She’s not doing anything, and I’m sharing a house with Cole Westbrook and Liam Ashford. I’m hardly slumming it.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “That would not have happened at Harvard.”

“Stay away from the Lockwoods. Those people are bad news,” my mother chimes in, and I’m surprised she even has an opinion about anything.

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