CHAPTER 4
Riven
Brutal – Olivia Rodrigo
Alone.
I could've taken the transport like a normal person, but no. Riven Laordie apparently enjoys self-inflicted suffering.
I'm getting tired of myself, seriously.
If I weren't me and had to watch myself make these choices while still complaining about them, I'd literally strangle myself and leave my body lying there at some weird angle with my tongue hanging out.
I'm sweating like a snowman in hell, and I swear everyone on this street can smell me.
Probably. Maybe. Fuck if I know, but I can smell myself.
A few more meters and I'll be inside the tattoo supply shop, where there'd better be air conditioning or I'm actually going to melt into a sad little puddle.
After that, I'll probably go buy a lemonade—or an actual ice cube to crawl inside.
The weather today is way too fucking hot. Usually, this time of year, spring in Kairo-9 isn't this bad.
They literally have street air conditioning, so where the hell is it now that I'm melting?
I'd really like to find the fucker who forgot to press the activation button and kill him.
I step inside and instantly get hit with cool air and a refreshing mist right in the face. Only in moments like this do I love technology.
“Hey, Riven!” the receptionist greets me. “How're you doing? Fucking hot out there.”
“Don't even talk about it. I'm melting. I might start making round trips just to be greeted by your cool air and mist.” I step farther inside. “Hope you're doing good too. I need new needles and red ink. Got them?”
“Always for my favorite artist.” He smiles. “Back there.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
This shop is the only place in Kairo that sells actual tattoo supplies and ink. It's expensive as hell, but I like coming here. Josh's a sweetie, and the materials are premium quality.
I nod and head where he indicated. I scan the shelves, picking up different shades of red and silently judging them.
I need a blood red, but slightly darker. I grab one and examine it.
Nope, not it. Too light.
I swear I've been visually interrogating these inks for an hour, but it's probably only been three minutes.
I pick up several bottles when my comm suddenly buzzes.
I startle and drop them. They hit the wooden floor with a dull thud.
“Shit!” I yelp. “Oh, for God's sake.” I sigh.
One of the bottles rolls straight under the lowest shelf.
Of course it does.
I sigh and crouch down, sliding my arm under the shelf and patting the floor blindly.
Nothing.
Just perfect.
I lie on my stomach and crawl farther underneath like some military recruit on a mission.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
There.
I snag it with my fingertips and sit back on my heels, examining it.
Bingo.
The one that rolled under is the exact shade of red I was looking for.
Of course it is. Otherwise, it wouldn't be nearly as funny to watch me crawl around the middle of a shop.
I finally push myself back to my feet, smooth out my clothes, and check my comm.
It's my mother.
My eyes narrow as a knot begins to tighten in my stomach.
What the hell do she wants?
The screen flashes, and my mother's message appears, sounding exactly as if she were standing right beside me.
Mother: “Riven, you are summoned to the gala in two days.”
My grip tightens around my comm and the bottle of red ink, my knuckles turning white from the force.
No choice. No Hello, Riven. How are you? She'd have a heart attack before she'd ever do that.
Then I read the second message, my grip turns lethal.
Mother: “And dress in a way that reflects well on this family. Don't shame us.”
What the hell is wrong with them? I would embarrass them? Them?
The bottle explodes in my hand, splattering red ink all over me like I just committed a murder.
I look down at myself, and for a second, I'm frozen in time. Then I take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm me down.
“Put it on my tab, Josh.” I head for the exit. “Send the usual to my studio—and throw in the same shade I just painted myself with. Thanks, and sorry for the mess.”
I don’t wait for an answer.
I leave, the door sliding shut behind me with a soft swish. The heat hits me like a truck, but I'm too pissed off to care.
A gala? Summoned? Dress in a way that doesn't embarrass those pricks with the sticks up their asses?
What a fucking joke.
My parents only ever contact me when they need the heiress.
Their perfect family image.
I scoff.
Always out of self-interest. Never for me.
The Aurelian Plaza in District 6 rises above everything else in the district like a monument to excess, its sweeping glass facade bathed in cascading holograms and warm golden light.
I shake my head. Not in disapproval, not exactly.
More like I'm mentally bracing myself for what's coming. I already know exactly how tonight is going to go, and I deliberately chose to be myself, knowing my parents won't be able to say shit in front of everyone.
I climb the broad marble steps beneath towering crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, surrounded by immaculate gardens, sculpted fountains, and luxury vehicles gliding silently toward the entrance.
A uniformed doorman pulls the grand doors open for me, and the second my heels click against the polished floor, everyone stops whatever they're doing and stares.
At me, I hate it.
Maybe it's not me. Maybe they're staring at the doorman, right?
I take a deep breath and keep walking, my satin burgundy dress swishing around my legs with every step.
The polished black floor reflects the glow of suspended light sculptures while a live orchestra fills the grand ballroom with restrained elegance.
Champagne flows between politicians, corporate executives, celebrities, and old-money families dressed in flawless couture, every smile carefully rehearsed beneath the watchful eyes of discreet security and hovering media drones.
I sweep the room with my mismatched eyes—one pale green, the other pale blue—and spot them almost instantly.
My mother is dressed in a long black satin gown with a high collar and enough gold jewelry to remind everyone exactly who she is.
Even surrounded by breathtaking luxury, the place feels suffocating, as if every polished surface is another reminder that appearances matter more than people—Just like my parents.
Her hair falls perfectly around her shoulders, so immaculate it looks like she just stepped out of a salon.
She probably has her own personal cooling tech hidden beneath that fucking dress.
My father looks just as polished, his beard clean-shaven, his gray hair slicked back. A dark blue tuxedo tailored within an inch of its life.
The perfect image of a rich fucker.
Their gazes sweep over the room before settling on me. Instantly, I know they're not happy with how I'm dressed.
Here we go again.
I sigh and head toward them, my hands clenched at my sides.
“Riven,” my mother says, her voice flat, distant, stripped of any warmth.
Her eyes travel slowly over me, taking in every inch of my dress with silent criticism. “What an interesting choice,” she says smoothly. “I thought I made myself clear. Dress in a way that doesn't embarrass us.”
“Mother,” I reply coldly. “Hello to you too.” I glance down at my dress. “Oh, this? I thought it was very fitting for the family heiress. Don't you think?”
“Riven,” my father cuts in, interrupting the cold war. “This dress is not appropriate for an event like this. That plunging neckline, those thin straps—”
“And the backless design,” my mother adds smoothly, cutting him off. “You could've chosen not to look so cheap. You are a Laordie. Act like one.”
The urge to punch them rises inside me, my hands beginning to shake.
“Your mother is right,” my father says. “You look like some girl from the Lower Layers—a Below—waiting to get paid. This is not acceptable. You are a shame, girl.”
Girl.
I'm his daughter, and he calls me a whore. A girl waiting to get paid.
I try to calm myself by digging my nails into my skin.
“Excuse me?” My eyes narrow. My fists clench, then unclench, my stiletto nails biting into my palms hard enough to sting. “I wonder what high society would say if they heard Adrien and Celine Laordie speaking to their own daughter like that.”
My father takes a step closer, looming over me even with my heels, his eyes, that steel blue grey is piercing my soul.
“You will not threaten your own family, girl. This is not negotiable. You are the heiress, we didn't want it, or want you, but with Kyle's death, we didn't have a choice.”
He pauses, lowering his voice.
“So... act like a Laordie. Smile. And do not make a scene or I'll make sure your little rebellion with the tattoo studio comes to an end. Then I'll drag you back here.”
Another pause. He simply stares at me, his cold eyes pinning me in place.
“Permanently.”
With that, he steps back, smooths his jacket, and extends his arm to my mother. She takes it, and they walk away, smiling at the guests, leaving me here.
Alone.
The music, the conversations, they all seem so far away. I feel like I'm drowning.
My heart beats too fast, my breathing quickens.
How can they keep breaking through the walls I've spent years building just by reminding me I'm not wanted? By threatening the only thing, I have any control over in my life.
And using Kyle as an argument?
No.
The edges of my vision begin to darken. I'm having a panic attack, I know it.
They always hit whenever I'm reminded that I'm only here because they had no other choice, or whenever Kyle's name comes up like this.
Seriously, Riven, get a grip.
I close my eyes, trying to compose myself, my nails biting into my palms hard enough to almost break the skin.
My feet move before I can fully process it. I head for the bar and order shots of whatever they've got, I just need something strong enough to either calm me down or knock me out.
With every shot, my body loosens, my smile comes easier, and my posture relaxes. But it does nothing to numb the part of me that wants to scream and burn everything down.
If anything, it feeds the anger.
I play the perfect daughter when required—smiling at the right moments, exchanging polite words, looking exactly like the version they want on display.
But the sarcasm keeps slipping through.
Small, sharp comments disguised as jokes, each one aimed at the polished elite circling like vultures, each one tightening my father's jaw another fraction while my mother's eye twitches almost imperceptibly, like she's seconds away from having a stroke.
I look at them and smile—all teeth—before dipping into a mocking bow and setting my glass onto a passing waiter's tray.
Time to get the hell out before I either have another panic attack or some unhinged episode where I set the chandelier on fire and cackle like a cartoon villain.
I sway slightly from the countless shots I knocked back like they were milk and pull out my comm with clumsy fingers.
“C-Comm... call... one'a m'friends...” I mumble, my words slurring together.
My comm responds instantly.
Sorry, I didn't understand your request. Please press a button or try again.
I stop walking and squint down at the thing.
I can't even see the stupid tactile buttons, and this overpriced piece of supposedly advanced technology can't fucking understand me? It's supposed to project my interface, and it isn't even doing that right now.
I growl at it.
“Comm...” I inhale deeply, puffing out my chest like I'm preparing for battle. “Callfh... my friendsh.”
Silence.
“Rude.” I squint at the comm. “Comm... call... a... a c-cab!”
The comm repeats its nonsense about not understanding me. I thought I was pretty clear that time.
I scoff and leave the Plaza, guess I'm walking.
I just want to get as far away as possible from that world—That rich, unforgiving, selfish world.
And this time...
I mean it.