Preston
So I lied. I’m nowhere near a saint, because what the fuck is this?
Torture. That’s what it is.
Listen, I’d rather be licking my wounds by playing games with Jude and watching Tom and Jerry—hey, don’t judge, they’re funny.
Better yet, I’d rather be pestering Jude and Kane like the goddamn parasite I am, but my father said, “Not today, bitch.”
I mean, not in those words, since he’s a robot and only speaks in monotonous sentences, but the intention is there, because I see his chauffeured car waiting for me at the arena’s parking lot.
“Fuck,” I say, making the smoothest U-turn known to man, but then I’m blocked by a literal giant who shakes his head at me.
Lenin.
Daddy dearest’s muscle, so to speak.
“Double fuck,” I whisper.
Lenin has no reaction, looking like he crawled out of a tax audit.
Tall, stiff, permanently unimpressed—the human equivalent of a bruise you forgot you had.
He doesn’t talk much, just stands there with that “time for your punishment” stare, like I’m his full-time disappointment.
Honestly, if people came with return policies, I’d send this one right back.
With a sigh, I trudge to the back seat of the car, and greet the driver, “Yo, Nelly.”
She nods at me through the rearview mirror but doesn’t remove her hands from the wheel, her white gloves as crisp as the night air. “Tough luck tonight.”
“Don’t talk about tonight. We don’t talk about tonight.” I stare at Lenin. “Unless I can go?”
He doesn’t reply.
If a ghost, a prison warden, and a wet blanket had a baby, that’s Lenin.
My very own personal nuisance.
“Your father really wants to see you,” Nelly says with an apologetic look, smoothly pulling out of the parking lot.
“Can you drop me off at Jude’s? Thanks. I’ll buy you ice cream. Or maybe the latest drugs on the market. I know a guy.”
Lenin and Nelly aren’t amused, though Nelly smiles at me because she’s cool like that. What’s uncool is that, like Lenin, she can’t be bribed, and unfortunately, my chirpy suggestions fall on deaf ears. So, what do I do?
What I do best, of course. Annoy the fuck out of them.
I spend the entire drive whining and talking nonstop about the most random shit.
What? You make my life difficult, and you can sure as hell expect that I’ll reciprocate.
An eye for an eye and all that poetic bullshit.
Unfortunately, we arrive at the dreaded place, and that’s how I find myself in hell on earth.
Just kidding. It’s only the Armstrong estate.
Sprawling at the top of Ravenswood Hill, this is where my ancestors decided to start the witch coven after immigrating from Europe.
Sorry, the family. They decided to start the family. Silly me for always thinking of it as a cool witch club.
I stare down at the black ring on my right index finger. The sun and crescent moon symbol engraved within looks ominous under the night lights.
Armstrong.
The ruling kings and pioneers in the energy sector—that’s what this symbol I was shackled with since birth means.
Every male heir in my family has this ring—Grandpa, Dad, Uncle Atlas, and finally, me.
Kane and Jude have the same kind of ring, just with different family symbols.
Kane’s has a compass rose because the Davenports basically run the world’s import-export cheat code.
Jude’s has a caduceus strangled by thorny vines, a very subtle wink at the Callahans owning the entire pharmaceutical scene.
The Osborns get a lion’s head framed with gears, which fits since they’ve sunk their claws into every inch of urban development in this town and beyond.
This ring is the personification of a blood oath that befell me just because of some stupid birthright—very nonconsensual on my part, by the way.
Now, I have to fall in line as the future heir of the empire.
If I could care any less, I would. I would care so little, no caring would be found in my body.
I’d finally be free from this fiasco and this family.
But I can’t.
Which is why I’m walking into the house with dear old Lenin by my side.
“I can walk on my own, Lenino,” I say with a grin. “I think I know the way since I live here.”
Officially, at least. I mostly spend my time crashing at Jude’s place. I thought about getting my own penthouse, but then I remembered that I and alone time are the most bitter enemies, so I voted against the idea.
In typical Lenin fashion, he says nothing. I’ve known this dude since I was young, considering he’s Dad’s right-hand man and all, but I don’t think he likes me.
I prefer Hayes.
Dad’s secretary of sorts and somewhat house manager. Not sure what his official title is, but he’s been around to bail me out of Vencor shit.
Vencor is this powerful secret society founded by the four influential families in Graystone Ridge. It’s been used to ensure our full control and influence over important sections of society.
And while the four families have collaborated their entire lives to maintain their bloodstained power, there’s been some shakiness lately.
My dad’s generation is barely holding it together, undermined at every turn by the following generation. Uncle Atlas, Julian, Jude’s older brother, Kayden, Kane’s uncle, and Serena Osborn.
Not that I care. They should all kill each other. Thanks.
“It’s rude to ignore me, Lenino,” I coo, my lips easing into a pout. “Shouldn’t you at least try to console me for losing tonight? Or are you going to punish me?”
He releases a gruff noise.
“Is that a no? A yes? Instruction’s unclear.”
No reply this time. Not even a noise.
Guess we’re back to pretending I don’t exist. Dad’s and Lenin’s favorite hobby—on par with golf.
So I focus on my surroundings instead, sighing dramatically, just to give Lenin sensory irritation.
Petty, the pettiest of petty. That’s me.
The Armstrong mansion isn’t a house. It’s a god complex with central heating.
Marble everywhere that screams imported, because my family believes locally sourced stone is for peasants. There’s a chandelier big enough to trigger a mild earthquake if it falls, and the reception room is lined with portraits of dead people I’m supposed to pretend I know.
All of them stare down like they’re waiting for me to turn out just as disappointing as Grandma says I will be. Spoiler alert—mission accomplished.
Every room smells like old money and newer guilt.
The walls are beige because nothing says “emotional repression” quite like that color.
The library’s full of books no one’s read, the piano hasn’t been touched since my stepmother’s last meltdown, and the dining table could seat up to fifty people we don’t even like.
Then there are the mirrors. They’re everywhere. Grandpa says they make the space look bigger. I say they just make the emptiness harder to miss and my face much more handsome.
As my reflection greets me, my lips tug into a smile on reflex, even as something tightens inside me.
“Pressie!” a small voice screams as my baby sister crashes into my legs from behind, hugging me tight.
“Mimi!” I turn around and pick her up, throwing her in the air as she giggles uncontrollably.
Her golden pigtails fly with the motion, and when she lands in my arms, she holds on to me with all her might.
Miley is seven years old but hasn’t grown that big yet. I’ll keep tossing her around until she no longer wants it, because Dad sure as hell doesn’t indulge in the innocent gesture.
She’s wearing a soft-pink nightgown covered with pictures of Doraemon, her favorite show that she’s made me learn by heart.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Miles of Trouble?”
“Shh.” She lowers her voice, looking around, and thank God Lenin disappeared. “I sneaked out. Don’t tell Mommy.”
“Never. But why did you sneak out?”
Her large blue eyes twinkle under the dim lights as she plays with the lapel of my Vipers jacket.
“I heard Nanny say you lost the game tonight, and I wanted to make you feel better. Look.” She reaches into her oversized pocket and produces a wrapped pastry, then removes the wrap and places it near my mouth. “I saved you this from dinner.”
“Aw, you kept it on you all this time?”
“Yup! Hid it under my pillow. It’s a bit crushed. Sorry, Pressie.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” I take a bite. “It’s so sweet.”
“Right?” Her eyes widen as she watches me, gulping audibly, practically drooling all over the place. “Does it make you feel better?”
“Way better. But I’m so full, you have it, Mimi.”
“Really?”
I push it toward her mouth, and she devours it in seconds. It’s her favorite petit four pastry, and she was obviously on the fence about eating it, but my little sister kept it for me instead.
It’s disturbing how different Miley is from her snake of a mother. You can bet I ordered a DNA test to make sure she was actually Lilith’s daughter, but unfortunately, it came back with a match.
Let’s just say my angelic half-sister takes after me rather than either of her parents. She looks like me as well. Her blond hair is curly and a bit darker than mine when I was her age, and her eyes are different, but she’s just as beautiful as I am.
No, not like me.
No one should ever be plagued with that. She’s way better.
Different.
She’ll definitely be different.
“You were awesome tonight!” she says after she finishes the pastry.
“I was?”
“Yup!”
“But I lost.”
“That’s okay. You were still so cool. I watched the game with Daddy for a bit before Mommy took me to bed, and you had awesome moves! Bang! Next time you take me skating, I’ll bring my sparkly skates, and you can teach me moves.”
Bias is showing, Miles. Forgiven, though. Can you blame her?
Then I focus on something she said and frown. “Dad watched the game?”
He doesn’t usually—I don’t think—and just shows up at the finals for image reasons.
Miley nods vigorously. “Yeah. Mommy, too.”
Gag.
“Miley!”
Speak of the goddamn devil.
Satan’s lover, aka Lilith Armstrong, rushes toward us in a flurry of silk and fluff, her hair gathered in a bun, her eyes shooting imaginary lasers at me.