II
SILAS
The Porsche growls beneath me like a restless predator, its flat-six engine roaring in harmony with my pulse. My hands tighten around the Alcantara steering wheel.
The snaking road ahead dares me to conquer it. The Scottish countryside rises and falls, a tangle of mist-covered hills and winding asphalt.
But the road? It’s mine.
The back end of my 911 GT3 RS kicks out as I take the corner. The tires scream as they grip the slick pavement. A controlled slide—it’s perfect. I laugh, the sound something between exhilaration and triumph. This car responds like it was made for me.
Well, it was.
Faster .
I shift gears, pushing the Porsche harder. The needle climbs. The engine’s growl deepens into a roar that vibrates through my chest. Outside my tinted windows, the scenery blurs into streaks of green and gray.
I’m invincible .
Untouchable.
Perfection. That’s what this is.
That’s what I am.
I ease into another corner, allowing myself to revel in the feeling of sheer power beneath my fingertips. The tires bite into the asphalt. I’m flirting with disaster and it feels so good. There’s no room for mistakes when you’re piloting a car like this, at this speed.
But I’m not familiar with mistakes.
Not behind the wheel.
Not anywhere.
The car emerges from the curve unscathed, roaring forward onto a brief straight. I ease up on the clutch to glance at the dashboard. The RPMs flirt with the redline.
A tantalizing reminder of how close I am to pushing the limits. I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. I’m better than anyone else on this road.
In this car.
At this school.
Hell, in this country.
A loud chime interrupts my thoughts. My father’s name flashes on the infotainment screen. I sigh, taking my foot off the gas and letting the Porsche coast as I answer his call. My father is notoriously annoying—the last thing I need is a car accident caused by his stupidity.
It’s been hours since I left the estate. What does he want?
I press the answer button on the steering wheel.
“What?”
“Silas?” His voice comes through as a boom. “Where are you?”
“Driving.”
“You know what I’m asking. ”
I sigh loudly, letting it drag out long and slow.
“I’m on my way to school. Is that enough, or do you need my GPS coordinates?”
“Hardly.”
He takes a sharp breath.There’s only one thing my father could possibly be calling me about, and I don’t care to hear it. Not when I’m having so much fun. Not when I’m trying so hard to keep it off my mind.
“Why don’t you skip the lecture and get to the point?”
Every second that ticks by, the more it grates my nerves. Easing the car into a lower gear as the road curves again, I wait for him to get on with it.
“The point, Silas,” he says, his voice rising, “is that the Peregrine-Ashford name isn’t a privilege you get to squander. It’s a responsibility, and right now, that responsibility rests on you.”
My knuckles turn white, gripping the steering wheel. I take the corner a bit too sharply, but the car responds well and keeps me on track. Of course, he’s throwing me off already.
“So, what? You called to remind me how important I am? Thanks for the pep talk, Dad.”
An exasperated sigh. “Don’t be flippant,” he hisses. “Do you want the world to know about our financial situation?” It’s a rhetorical question. “Our investments are failing. The estates are bleeding us dry with each passing month. The only thing keeping us afloat are a few trusts, loans, and our reputation.”
He’s getting worked up now. His voice has an edge of desperation—weakness, if you ask me. He’s trying so hard to mask it, but I can sense it. Pathetic.
“You have no siblings, Silas. No backup. You’re it. The heir. The only chance this family has to stay where it belongs. ”
I roll my eyes. It’s not my fault that he’s the only son his parents had. It’s not my fault that after Mum died he didn’t remarry and have more children. And it’s especially not my fault that he’s made so many terrible financial decisions.
Being the Duke of Surrey obviously got to his head, and now he’s looking to me to fix the problem that he’s caused with his lack of self-control. I intimately understand the position I’m in. Why wouldn’t I plan to continue our lineage? But I’ll do it on my terms.
“So, what’s your brilliant plan?” Sarcasm drips from every word. “How do I play savior? You want me to marry some suitable heiress?”
The silence is deafening.
I break it with a sarcastic laugh, sinking the pedal in unison.
“That’s what you called me for?” I can’t help the bitterness that comes out in my tone. “You want me to marry for money?”
I always knew my father wanted me to do that. After all, he’s always been bad with money and I get my charm and wit from somewhere. Things are finally catching up to him, though. He can’t charm his way out of this sticky situation.And just like the feeble man he is, he wants to pass the responsibility on to somebody else.
“I want you to do your duty. It’s not just about money. It’s about keeping this family at the pinnacle of society—religiously and financially.” His tone is clipped, but his voice starts to tremble with anger. “The world isn’t your playground anymore, Silas. You’ll be 20 next year. You’ve had your fun, but it’s time for you to grow up. The Peregrine-Ashford legacy depends on you.”
Your duty .
I’ve hated those words from the moment I was sentient enough to know what they meant. My father’s words echo in my mind. They scrape like sandpaper.
There’s fire building in my chest. “You know what?” I keep my voice calm. The Porsche roars in my place. “I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“Silas, you?—”
I hang up on him. He knows better than to call me back. The Porsche surges forward, the engine screaming its approval. That’s one of the reasons why I love this car. It’s a personification of me.
Striking. Aggressive. Powerful.
The road bends sharply ahead. I take the corner without hesitation, the rear tires sliding out, burning rubber and skidding on the asphalt before submitting to my will instead of spinning out of control. My heart pounds, veins filling with an intoxicating mix of adrenaline and defiance.
“Duty,” I mutter under my breath, the word leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “I am the family, and my ‘duty’ is to me.”
But as I push the car further and further to its limits, I realize that my father might have a point. As the sole heir to the Peregrine-Ashford name—because I can’t even call it a fortune right now—I can’t fall from grace.
My father is a complete fool, but I’m not. Maybe a marriage could serve my purposes. I have larger goals for myself; ones that involve a dutiful, pious wife. It was always a requirement that she had good breeding.
Only now, the stakes are higher—my plan has to be accelerated. There’s a fresh crop of students making their way to Augustine for their first semester right now. My car grumbles, the exhaust popping as I pick up speed along a short straight.
I can feel it in my gut .
My future wife is among them.
The smooth asphalt turns to gravel.
Augustine Diocesan Academy rises before me like something out of a gothic dream, with its spires clawing at the gray sky, ancient stone walls and creeping ivy.
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It always feels like I’m coming home. The gravel crunches beneath the Porsche’s tires as I pull into the courtyard. I let the engine growl for a moment before cutting it.
Heads turn. They always do. My Porsche is rare, one of a kind actually. New money can’t buy you this car—only status and influence can. And everyone knows that.
I step out of the car, my Italian leather shoes meeting the gravel with a satisfying crunch. A handful of the Academy’s footmen approach me quickly. I pop the hood and toss my keys to one of them.
“Don’t scratch it,” I say.
There’s true terror in his eyes.
A faint smirk twists my lips as I toss my backpack over my shoulder, fix my jacket and slip my hands into my pockets. I survey the scene. The courtyard is alive with activity. Students are milling around, staff hustling to carry their luggage, parents saying their goodbyes, Sisters corralling the incoming students.
But as usual, the moment I appear it all ceases.
There’s always a brief, transient moment whenever I enter a space where everyone goes quiet just to look at me. Whether it’s awe or fear, I don’t really care. It’s influence. It’s power. Then everyone pretends to carry on with what they were doing.
I say pretend , because the whispers always start after. A few of them reach me as I cross the courtyard.
“That’s Silas Peregrine-Ashford IV.”
“Isn’t his father a duke?”
“He’s even more gorgeous in person.”
“I’d kill to drive that car.”
I don’t even give them a cursory glance. If they’re whispering about me in my presence, then they don’t deserve my attention. But I’ll gladly command theirs.
However, there’s one person who doesn’t fall in line, of course.
My gaze lands on Lucian, lounging near the fountain like he’s the one who owns it. He’s writing in that stupid book of his—he’s always writing in it, like he thinks he’s the next Shakespeare. His dark hair falls into eyes.
After that call with my father, I’m a bit on edge.
“Lucian,” I call out, my tone laced with mockery. “All you do is write in your diary—I should have the Sisters put you in a skirt.”
He doesn’t look up. “The only thing you should do is keep it moving, Silas.”
Lucian is a thorn in my side.
We’ve been at odds from the moment we met last year. I don’t consider him a rival—we’d have to be on the same level for that to be possible—but he is quite annoying. To be fair, he isn’t even a threat. He’s more like a nuisance. Because he thinks the latent power residing within the hallowed halls of Augustine belongs to him.
I glimpse my friends gathered under our tree .
But something else steals my attention, stopping me in my tracks.
A Rolls Royce Cullinan glides into the courtyard. The sleek black paint gleams like obsidian, a pearlescent undertone to the color. Bronze forged 24-inch rims, bronze exterior trim. And that isn’t even the most impressive part. As the car rounds the driveway I see more of it—carbon bonnet, larger air intakes.
It’s a Mansory.
Aside from the fact that this masterpiece is a testament to wealth and taste, it’s completely custom—literally built to order.
“That,” I mutter under my breath, “is a car.”
Now, I’m curious. This is a new student, surely. I would’ve remembered a car like this. The Cullinan comes to a stop and the driver opens the door.
A girl steps out. Close behind her is a woman—more than likely her mother, judging from the grip she has on the girl’s forearm—but my eyes snap back to her daughter.
She’s…unexpected.
There’s something about her, a softness that contrasts with the hard edges of the car. Miss Mansory steps aside, a Hermès Kelly held with both hands in front of her, watching as her mother instructs the footmen.
The bag nearly matches her hair—she has long tightly curled auburn hair, pulled back neatly into a thick ponytail that brushes her waist. She’s short, with delicate features and even-toned brown skin.
She exudes poise, but there’s something else there. Her eyes dart around the courtyard as if she’s trying to take it all in at once. Despite her seeming hesitancy, her uniform is immaculate. There isn’t a single detail out of place, but it doesn’t look forced.
The golden cross dangling around her neck just adds to her appeal.
She’s been saving herself, I bet.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, it’s like the world slows to a halt. She smiles—just barely, a faint curve of her glossy plump lips that’s more alluring than a full smile—and then she looks away, turning her attention to her mother.
My mind starts working instantly. I walk over to our tree. There’s a spring in my step, one I haven’t felt in a while. A challenge has presented itself.
And there are few things I love more than a challenge.
My path turns to soft, springy grass as I approach my friends—my inner circle, my confidants, my pawns. They’re lounging on the benches beneath the ancient oak tree.
Its gnarled branches stretch out like protective arms over their heads. No one else dares to sit here without an invitation, and those are rare.
The murky sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on them. Smoke curls lazily from Max’s mouth, as he leans against the bench’s weathered wood. His golden hair is tousled by the gentle breeze, and his grey eyes sparkle with mischief when he catches sight of me. He’s often my partner in crime.
Beside him, Cedric sits ramrod straight. His dark curls are neatly combed, his hazel eyes sharp with focus. He looks up to nod in acknowledgment as I approach, while his fingers idly trace the spine of the leather-bound book he’s reading. Knowing him, it’s probably some obscure philosophical fodder.
Alistair is perched on the edge of his bench, hunched over a sketchbook. His long, light brown hair falls over his face as he works. I’m certain he hasn’t even noticed my presence yet.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Max drawls, taking a long drag from his vape. “If it isn’t the illustrious Lord Peregrine-Ashford, finally gracing us with his presence.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Miss me, did you?”
“Like a hole in the head,” Max quips, but there’s warmth in his eyes. He shifts to make room for me on the bench.
Cedric looks up from his book, his expression serious as always. “Silas.” He nods. “good to see you.”
Alistair tears his gaze away from his sketchbook, blinking as if emerging from a trance. “Oh, hey Silas,” he says softly.
I settle onto the bench, feeling the familiar weight of their expectations settle on my shoulders. They are my closest friends, but there’s still a wall I keep between us. It’s necessary to maintain order, respect.
“Gentlemen.” My voice is low and conspiratorial. “I trust you all had productive summers?”
The Rolls Royce is still in the courtyard, but the girl and her mother have disappeared. Possibly into the main building, since she’s new.
Max laughs. “If by productive you mean shagging my way through half London’s debutantes, then yes, incredibly productive.”
“I expected no less.”
His vape smells like blueberries. “Though I must say, the season was rather dull without you lot. No one else quite appreciates my wit.”
Cedric clears his throat, closing his book with a soft thud.
“Breaks are good.” He gives Max a pointed look. “I spent mine at the House of Lords.”
“How was that?”
Cedric’s eyes light up.
A crack in his stoic demeanor. “Fascinating, truly. The inner workings of government... it’s like a grand chess game, Silas. Every move calculated, every word weighed. It was enlightening.”
“Enlightening?” Max scoffs. “Sounds bloody boring if you ask me.”
“Unlike you, my family doesn’t want me to be a trust fund baby my entire life, Maximilian. I have aspirations for myself,” Cedric retorts. “And it doesn’t involve spending my time chasing skirts.”
I lean back. Their banter is familiar. Almost comforting, in a way. While they bicker, I notice Alistair has looked up from his sketchbook.
“What did you do?” I ask.
His dark blue eyes widen slightly. “I spent most of it at our family’s estate in Cornwall. The light is different there, you know?” No, I don’t know. But I let him finish. “I filled three sketchbooks just trying to capture the way it plays on the waves.”
“So,you stared at the sea for three months?”
There’s a flash of anger on his features. It’s that anger that bonds us together, I think. At the heart of it, we’re all the same—well, more or less.
“It’s art, Silas.” His eyes are sharp. “It’s hard for someone like you to appreciate it. You only care about cars and girls. ”
Suddenly, there’s silence. Max and Cedric stop bickering to look at me. Even Alistair realizes he has misspoken. I give him a scathing glare, but I don’t say anything.
The silence grows uncomfortable.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Silas.” Ah, there we go. “We have different interests.”
I smirk. There’s a collective sigh of relief.
God , I love this power.
Before they can ask about my break, I steer the conversation in the direction I planned the moment I approached them. I don’t really care what they spent their summer doing. But I am a benevolent leader. Sometimes, small talk is important.
I jut my chin out in the direction of the Rolls Royce. “Did you see?”
“The Mansory?” Cedric follows my gaze. “Very sweet.”
“Yeah, it’s one of a kind.” I nod. “I mean the girl who came out of it, though.”
“I caught a glimpse of her and her mother,” Max says. “What about her?”
I’m still looking at the car.
“Who is she?” I ask aloud. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”
“She definitely wasn’t at the debutante ball, I can tell you that much. Because if she was then I…”
His voice trails off when he notices the look I’m giving him. My fingers tingle.
Strange, I don’t even know this girl but I feel like knocking a few teeth from Max’s mouth. Just then, her mother returns to the car—without her.
More than likely, she’s been left in the care of the Sisters.
The Academy doubles as a monastery, the Sisters act as our teachers and caregivers. From this angle, we all get a good look at her mother as she slips into the car.
Alistair blurts out, “That’s Viscountess Lockhart.” I prompt him for more information with a look. “The church my family worships at was built by the first set of Lockharts—and it was built centuries ago. Their family sometimes visits, too.”
The daughter of a viscount, eh? Check.
“What else?” I prod.
I need to know if she’s worth my time and effort. After all, I know first-hand just how empty titles can be.
“They hosted the debutante ball this year,” Max says. “I remember because it was mentioned at the end—along with the fact that they donated millions to some charity in honor of the debutantes and their families.”
Millions to play around with? Check.
“Why wouldn’t she be at the ball if her family hosted it?” I ask.
That’s the million-dollar question. Literally.
“She could be too young?” Cedric offers.
I shake my head. “It’s her first semester here, she has to be at least 18.”
Alistair clears his throat. “They could be saving her.”
“Saving her?” Cedric says. “What do you mean?”
Max interrupts. “Families do that sometimes. Especially ones with as much money and influence as the Lockharts. They don’t need to introduce her to high society.” He takes another puff from his vape. “She is high society. For all we know she could already be promised to some foreign prince.”
I didn’t consider that. But I knew this would be a challenge. If it’s true and she’s already spoken for, it just makes the game a bit more interesting.
“Do any of you know her name?” I ask .
There’s silence.
Alistair finally breaks it. “Eden, I believe. Lady Eden Lockhart.”
“Hm,” is all I say.
But my brain is firing on all cylinders. The name fits her—elegant, understated. And like the Garden of Eden, she’s beautiful and untouched. She checks all my boxes. She’s perfect. Not just perfect either—necessary. She will be mine.
Eden Lockhart is exactly what I need to fix everything.
With her, I can redeem the Peregrine-Ashford legacy and meet my father’s expectations. Better yet, her connections and beauty make her the perfect addition to satisfy my own ambitions. She’s a golden key.
I smirk. “I want her,” I say.
More silence.
“As in?” Max asks.
Chuckling, I turn to him. “I’m going to make her mine.”
“In what way?” Cedric sounds incredulous.
Alistair gives me an open-mouthed stare. “You plan to date her?”
I shake my head.
I’m going to marry her.