Chapter 247: 247 | Davenports Don’t Finish Second

The helicopter touched down on the Davenport Industries helipad at exactly 3:00 PM. Blair’s stomach had been twisted into knots for the entire forty-minute flight, and the smooth landing did nothing to untangle them. Through the aircraft’s windows, she could see the familiar glass and steel tower stretching into the San Francisco sky like a chrome monument to her family’s empire.

Misato unbuckled her harness without speaking. The silence between them had stretched the entire flight, broken only by the helicopter’s rotors and Blair’s increasingly ragged breathing. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Monroe’s amber gaze and felt that unwelcome heat crawling up her spine all over again.

"Miss Davenport." The pilot’s voice crackled through the headset. "We’re cleared for departure when you’re ready to return."

"Thank you."

Blair stepped onto the concrete pad. Wind from the rotors whipped her platinum hair across her face, and she pushed it back with fingers that trembled slightly. The city noise hit her immediately after the enclosed quiet of the aircraft. Traffic, construction, the distant sound of ferry horns from the bay. All of it felt too loud, too sharp, like someone had turned up the volume on reality.

The private elevator waited thirty feet away. Polished steel doors that reflected her appearance back at her in fragments. Blair straightened her blazer and checked her reflection one more time. Perfect posture. Perfect hair. Perfect mask of confidence that didn’t quite hide the anxiety eating at her insides like acid.

Misato followed without comment. Her lime green eyes stayed forward, professional distance radiating from every line of her body. The red mark on her cheek had faded to a faint pink, but Blair could still see it. Still felt the sting on her palm from the slap she’d delivered without thinking.

The elevator rose silently through the building’s core. Floor numbers ticked past in glowing digits. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Fifty-two. Each number brought her closer to the penthouse office where Johnathan Davenport conducted business that shaped the hunter industry across three continents.

Blair’s chest tightened. Her father’s summons had been brief. Direct. The kind of message that didn’t allow for delays or excuses. Arrive at three. Bring the girl. We need to discuss your performance metrics.

Performance metrics. As if her life was a quarterly report that needed optimization.

The elevator chimed softly at floor sixty-three. The doors slid open to reveal a reception area decorated in marble and mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the bay. A secretary looked up from her desk, smiled professionally, and gestured toward the corner office.

"He’s expecting you, Miss Davenport."

Blair’s heels clicked against polished stone. Each step echoed in the too-quiet space. Misato’s sneakers made no sound at all, but Blair could feel her presence like a weight between her shoulder blades.

The office door stood slightly ajar. Through the gap, she could hear her father’s voice discussing commodity prices with someone over the phone. His tone carried the casual authority of someone accustomed to moving millions of dollars with a single conversation.

Blair knocked twice. Short, respectful taps that announced her presence without demanding attention.

"Enter."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office stretched forty feet in every direction, dominated by a desk that could have doubled as a small aircraft carrier. Behind it, Johnathan Davenport ended his phone call with a few curt words and set the device aside.

At fifty-two, her father remained an imposing figure. Silver hair perfectly styled. Suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars. Ice-blue eyes that missed nothing and forgave less. He’d been Platinum-tier for over twenty years, and power radiated from him like heat from a furnace.

"Blair." His voice carried no warmth. "You’re punctual. Good."

She approached the desk with careful steps. Every instinct screamed at her to maintain distance, but protocol demanded she come close enough for proper conversation. Her father gestured to the chairs arranged before his desk. Expensive leather that would swallow her completely if she let it.

"Sit."

Blair perched on the edge of the chair. Spine straight. Hands folded. The posture she’d learned at age six when formal dinners became lessons in corporate presence. Misato took the chair beside her, settling with the easy confidence of someone who’d never been trained to fear disappointment.

Johnathan’s gaze moved between them like a scanner recording data. Blair felt exposed under that scrutiny. Analyzed. Weighed against expectations that had been building since birth.

"Your performance has been... inconsistent."

The words landed like physical blows. Blair’s chest contracted. Her carefully maintained composure wavered for exactly three seconds before she reinforced it with pure willpower.

"Sir?"

"Second place. In Obsidian House." His tone suggested she’d announced her conversion to poverty. "You were beaten by a lottery winner named Monroe who couldn’t complete basic physical requirements three weeks ago."

Blair’s hands clenched in her lap. Heat rose in her cheeks. The memory of Monroe’s transformation played behind her eyes again. His body moving through those pull-ups like he’d been rebuilt from the ground up. The way he’d looked at her afterward. Confident. Almost predatory.

"It was a single evaluation, Father. An anomaly."

"Anomalies don’t exist in our business, Blair. Only preparation and failure." Johnathan leaned back in his chair. "Tell me about this Monroe."

Every muscle in her body tensed. The question she’d been dreading since the helicopter left the island. How could she explain Monroe without revealing the uncomfortable truth that he’d gotten under her skin in ways she didn’t understand?

"He’s nobody. A lottery winner from... I don’t remember where. Some small town. He got lucky with a few gate runs and thinks he’s special."

"Lucky." Johnathan’s voice carried skeptical undertones. "The boy who couldn’t run a quarter-mile is now outperforming students from guild families. That’s quite a stroke of luck."

Blair’s pulse kicked up. Her father knew more than his initial question had suggested. Of course he did. Information was his business. He probably had files on every student at the academy, complete with psychological profiles and performance projections.

"Sometimes people improve quickly under pressure."

"Sometimes. But rapid improvement usually requires external assistance. Drugs. Illegal enhancement procedures. Stolen abilities." His ice-blue gaze sharpened. "Has Monroe displayed any unusual capabilities?"

The question hung in the air like a trap waiting to spring. Blair felt sweat gather between her shoulder blades despite the office’s perfect climate control.

"Nothing conclusive."

"Meaning?"

"His technique is... aggressive. But first-years often compensate for skill deficiencies with raw power." The lie came smoothly. Too smoothly. Blair hoped her father wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in her voice.

Johnathan’s fingers drummed against his desk. A slow, rhythmic sound that filled the silence while he considered her response. Blair counted the beats. Seven. Twelve. Eighteen. Each one stretching her nerves tighter.

"Miss Sato." His attention shifted to Misato. "You’ve been training with Monroe’s squad. What’s your assessment?"

Misato straightened slightly. Her lime green eyes met his gaze without flinching. Blair envied that confidence. That ability to face authority without feeling like prey caught in a spotlight.

"He’s determined. Focused. His squad has good coordination." Misato’s voice remained professionally neutral. "They earned their ranking."

"Earned." Johnathan repeated the word like it tasted unpleasant. "Through legitimate means?"

"Yes, sir."

Blair held her breath. If Misato mentioned the attempted heist, everything would unravel. Her father would dig deeper. Ask harder questions. Eventually he’d discover whatever Monroe was hiding, and then...

Then Monroe would disappear.

The thought should have brought relief. Instead, her stomach dropped toward her shoes. She didn’t want Monroe to disappear. She wanted to beat him herself. Prove that his rapid improvement meant nothing against real talent and proper training.

She wanted to look into those amber eyes when he realized she was better than him. Always had been. Always would be.

"I see." Johnathan’s fingers stopped drumming. "Blair, you understand what this situation represents."

"A temporary setback."

"A public embarrassment. Guild recruiters are watching. IHC officials are taking notes. Your performance reflects on this family’s reputation." His voice dropped to the tone that had terrified her since childhood. Quiet. Disappointed. More cutting than any scream. "Davenports don’t finish second."

Blair’s throat constricted. She fought to keep her breathing steady, but panic clawed at her chest anyway. Her father’s disapproval felt like drowning in ice water. Complete. Suffocating.

"I’ll do better."

"You will. Because I’m assigning additional resources to ensure your success." Johnathan pressed a button on his desk. The office door opened immediately. "Come in."

Blair’s heart stopped.

Through the doorway stepped her older sister, Cassandra. Twenty-four years old. Diamond-tier ability user. Heir apparent to the Davenport empire. Everything Blair was supposed to become but had never quite managed to achieve.

Cassandra moved like liquid shadow despite her business suit. Her platinum hair fell in perfect waves past her shoulders. Her smile held the predatory warmth of someone who enjoyed watching smaller creatures squirm.

"Hello, little sister."