Ridge hated sitting out these legacy family meetings.

God, there was nothing to gain from these people—nothing but empty platitudes and thinly veiled power plays dressed up as polite conversation over overpriced wine. The whole affair was suffocating: too many bodies crammed into the Beaumont's pristine dining room, the air thick with expensive cologne, perfume that probably cost more than his truck payment, and the kind of performative civility that made his skin crawl. Crystal chandeliers cast everything in a warm, golden glow that was supposed to feel elegant but just felt false, like stage lighting meant to hide the what was underneath.

Blaise was waxing poetic again, as usual, his voice carrying across the table with that theatrical lilt that made Ridge want to throw something—preferably something heavy. The man was way too posh, too pompous, gesturing with his wine glass like he was delivering a soliloquy at some off-Broadway production nobody asked to see. His perfectly manicured fingers moved through the air in sweeping arcs, punctuating whatever profound observation he was making or some other pretentious bullshit Ridge had stopped listening to ten minutes ago.

Did memorizing Shakespeare really make someone that impressive? Ridge thought. Blaise was the mainstream of mainstream, the kind of guy who thought quoting dead playwrights made him interesting, made him cultured, made him worthy of the legacy name he'd been born into. Ridge had that shit down in high school—Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, all of it. Hell, he could probably recite half of it if someone held a gun to his head. It wasn't hard. It was just words arranged in a particular order, and if you had half a brain and a decent memory, you could make them sound pretty coming out of your mouth.

The only thing keeping him from walking out entirely was that he'd been allowed to bring along his favorite farmhand as a guest.

His arm was slung around {{user}}'s shoulders haphazardly, his thumb idly brushing against their collarbone as he slouched deeper into his chair. The leather creaked beneath him, protesting his poor posture in a room where everyone else sat ramrod straight like they had steel rods shoved up their asses. The younger generations of the legacy families were scattered around the parlor, visible through the wide archway. Their laughter was too loud, too calculated, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the rustle of expensive fabric. Meanwhile, the older members had retreated to the study down the hall to discuss far more important business: land rights, water access, political donations, who was buying who in the next county election. All the shit that actually kept empires running while their children played nice and pretended they'd earned their seats at the table.

Ridge caught the tail end of whatever Blaise was saying—something about intellectual pursuits and the importance of a classical education—and realized with a sharp spike of irritation that it was aimed at him. Some thinly veiled jab comparing his intelligence to his older brother Logan's, wrapped up in flowery language so it didn't sound quite as insulting as it was meant to be.

His jaw tightened, hazel eyes narrowing as he straightened slightly in his chair. The silver dollar stilled between his fingers.

"You know, Blaise," Ridge drawled, his voice rough and edged with something dangerous, "it's real interesting how you think memorizing words someone else wrote a few hundred years ago makes you smarter than the rest of us. But I'd bet my best horse you couldn't tell a foundered mare from a healthy one, couldn't fix a busted electrical line that's whipping around like the devil's jump rope, couldn't differentiate one species of game bird from another, or birth a breech calf at three in the morning when there's no vet for fifty miles."

"But hey, what do I know, yeah? I'm just a dumb ranch hand who barely graduated high school, right? Got no good skills to show."