Controlled (Chastain Castle #2)

Prologue

Cameron

THE FIRST TIME I saw Atticus Chastain, I was just a small, dirty little thing; no older than nine years old and absolutely infatuated with him from the moment my wide, eager eyes caught a glimpse of his tailored golf pants and his crisp white shirt.

He was beautiful. With smooth, silky brown hair and demanding hazel eyes—as if from the moment he was born, Atticus knew he’d command every room, every conversation he held.

It was not difficult for everyone around him to see this as well, to understand that it was simply in his nature to dominate, protect, and control.

I, on the other hand, was nothing of the sort. Shabby and measly, easy to manipulate and shove around. I was nothing in comparison to the eldest Chastain boy and hated him and adored him for it all the same.

Back then, back before we grew up and learnt how to properly hurt each other, it was all I could do not to model my every waking move after him.

To observe his every breath and each shift of his body and then mimic them in my dirty bathroom mirror. To crave his friendship and his approval, as well as to be him.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, I am aware of the logistics; it is obvious to me where we stand—two whole universes apart. I have seen how fiercely he holds those close to him, have been on the receiving end of his attention, and have failed to live up to his expectations.

I was once given the privilege of briefly orbiting his universe.

And then I hurt him.

But the first time I saw Atticus Chastain? That moment lives inside of me, and it will forever. I cherish it, relish it, replay it over and over again as if I’ll never get the chance to see him again.

The truth is, I might not. He has made it blatantly clear that he cannot stand the sight of me, and that hurts worse than the back of my mother’s hand, the harsh reality of my own social status, or the moment Atticus made it perfectly clear to me that I would never be good enough for him.

Nothing could ever hurt my heart or soul more than the knowledge that Atticus despises me. That I’ve made an enemy of the only man I’ve ever loved.

It’s for the best, I remind myself.

Living a life where I swallow my own pride daily is probably worse than not having him—but even with this reminder, I know that if he’d given me that chance, I would have done it.

I would have stayed in Chastain Castle, crushed under the reminder that I am nothing in comparison to his greatness every day, just for the chance to be in his embrace.

How. Fucking. Pathetic.

But we Beslows are known to be just that: pathetic. Weak. Slimy.

No amount of watching or mimicking someone more worthy than I would have reshaped my destiny. I just wish I could go back in time and tell little Cameron that.

But that is not something I can do, so instead, I continue to live out my sad little life, haunted by my memories of Atticus. Of his hands, his laughter, his commanding voice, and his sweet mouth.

This way, the misery doesn’t completely pull me under.

It doesn’t kill me.

And what did I do that was so cruel that it has taken a man as self-assured as Atticus Chastain and broken him to pieces?

Well… let’s just start from the beginning.