Faithless Heir (The Heirmarked #1)

Chapter 1

EVA

I’m not a complainer. Most of the time, anyway.

But being banned from your own parents’ funeral should be a criminal offense.

Six hundred heads turned toward me, the British prime minister and the Met deputy commissioner included, when my brother stood up mid-ceremony and marched me out, without a word.

Apparently, crying at a funeral is tactless nowadays. Half a dramatic swoon, a tear too many, and you’re banished.

Publicly. Humiliatingly.

A dazzling storm of blinding flashes and sharp clicks scorched my pupils as soon as the doors creaked open.

Vultures doing what they do best—circling misery, looking for a fresh serving.

Head down, I dragged my feet, swallowing the lump in my throat, desperate not to let another pathetic sound escape, while the Etheridge guards swept in and hushed the media quickly.

Obviously not quick enough, since their supersonic cameras managed to capture this monstrosity.

I straighten in my chair, staring at my laptop screen. The headline on the Hello web page reads:

‘Tears and Tension: Inside the VIP only Etheridge Funeral’

Underneath is a particularly unflattering image of me being dragged out by Brother Dearest.

Of course, Dan is flawless in his tailored black suit. Me? I look like some broken bird, pulled out of a nest—chestnut hair crumpled to one side, bloodshot eyes clearly edited by the tabloids to highlight the red and make my pupils a shocking turquoise. And is that a freaking twig in my hair?

The photo could easily be mistaken for a paused frame in a horror film.

“Kill me now,” I groan and pull my laptop shut a little too harshly. My lamp flickers. The warm halo inhales the lazy curls of steam from the untouched pot of ramen on my new desk, in my new bedroom, in my new flat.

With a deep sigh, I fall back in my chair and close my eyes.

This blows. Not only was the whole ordeal incredibly embarrassing, but this was the absolute last thing I needed right now.

When I agreed to transfer to Kingsden College of Philosophy, Politics, and Economics in Fort George—agreed, coerced; my consent from a morphine-high brain after seven days in the ICU was dubious at best—I was hoping to keep a low profile.

You know, hide in the shadows, blend into the walls, live under my hoodie.

It was entirely doable. Kingsden is a small division of Bristol University, buried in the Cotswolds countryside, surrounded by small towns.

Here, students are a hard split between Oxbridge-reject Londoners, filed two hours away from tabloids and political agendas, and locals who keep to their close-knit circles.

I was all set to blend in. As certain as rain in England.

Now everyone knows who I am. Which means three things.

One, locals at Fort know there is an Etheridge in town.

Two, my security has been doubled to protect me from unwanted attention.

And three, I have to sit here alone, while my roommates are at a club launch with the rest of the Kingsden students.

Lucky me.

My phone vibrates on the desk like a taunt. More pity calls. The final vibration sends it flying off the edge. I leap to catch it just in time and see the name on the screen.

“Hey,” I answer, swiping the FaceTime call from my best friend.

A freckled ginger-haired face fills the screen, the busy Manchester city center flashing behind him. Caden takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.

“Is my misery amusing to you?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Oh, give it up, no one is falling for your I-have-too-much-money problem. Everyone was going to find out who you were sooner or later. Get over it already.”

“I’m over it.” I frown.

“Then what’s with the face?”

“Jack is driving me crazy.” I shrug. “He’s going overboard with all the security protocols and whatnot. Yesterday, I was five minutes late, and he barged in and scared the shit out of my roommates.”

“To be fair, your five minutes is half an hour in real time.”

“Whose side are you on?” I groan. “Seriously. He’s been lurking around so much, they call him Peepinator.” Caden laughs, dodging a few people who try to tip my skinny friend off the curb. “Where are you going?” My eyes narrow at the familiar street in the background.

“Just meeting some friends at the club.” He scratches his head. Yeah, sure. I know what’s at the end of that street, and it’s not a club. “The more important question is, what are you doing at home on a Saturday night?”

“Jack has me on a complete lockdown, remember?”

Thanks to the long list of enemies Grandpa has collected at Fort, it’s not safe for me to leave my flat unless I’m surrounded by black suits. A life my Labour councilor father and social worker mother tried their best to shield us from. Until six weeks ago, when my brother changed his mind.

Now, Dan is the bigshot CEO of Etheridge Enterprises, walking in the footsteps of our grandfather, the London real-estate mogul.

His life is all private jets and champagne brunches with Premier League players, while I sit here, alone and confined.

Frankly, I liked him better when he was just another gremlin glued to his Xbox, hoodie always up, hair never brushed.

Our parents would have Dan’s head if they saw him now. And mine for going along with this travesty.

“Are you serious?” Caden laughs. “You have actual bodyguards, Eva. What’s the point of them if you can’t go out? Even I could keep you safe inside. Well… from the spiders, anyway.” He winks.

I open my mouth to argue, but then forget how to close it. He’s got a point. After all, most of my assigned security are former police. They can keep me safe on one night out, right?

Chewing on my thumbnail, I consider my options.

“That’s right.” Caden flashes me a victorious smile. “Order them to take you out and earn their paycheck for once.”

I chuckle. I swear this guy could convince me to rob a bank and then take the fall for it.

We never went back to our home in Manchester after the accident.

Too many memories. There are a lot of things I miss about my old life.

My university friends, our modest cul-de-sac family home, with oak furniture and Mum’s plants overtaking every sill, and Lily, our family dog, but nothing compares to Caden.

I have known him since preschool. We spent every day together. He’s not your typical friend. I can’t trust him to keep a secret, and we don’t have a lot in common. But we work. I’m his voice of reason, and he’s my voice of mayhem.

“Screw it, I’m going.” The first smile of the day tugs at the corner of my lips.

Caden’s pace falters as he angles himself away from the familiar blue neon sign of The Poker Lounge. Like that will fool me.

“Go on then, break your wallet,” I say with a meaningful look.

Caden glances at his feet nervously, then flashes a devious grin. “I won’t. One friendly game.”

“It’s never just one, Caden.”

“I promise,” he drawls. “Now go. Don’t die on me, okay.”

“I’ll try.” I shrug and hang up.

With a deep breath, I ditch my sad pot of ramen, rise from my desk and start tearing open boxes neatly stacked in the middle of my room—I really need to unpack.

A full week in Fort George, and I’m still pulling clothes from my suitcase while the wardrobe sits empty.

Maybe a part of me hasn’t come to terms with the fact that I live here now.

Damn. I actually live here now.

It’s not so bad. The flat is cozy, with modern black-and-white décor, a small common lounge with an open-plan kitchen, and three ensuite bedrooms. My roommates are nice.

Well, Thea is. Penny is our resident chaos-seeker.

The look on that girl’s face when I refused to go to one of her underground parties was comical.

Slowly, I work my way through the boxes in the dim light from the table lamp, not turning the main lights on, not even when I almost trip over the pile.

Darkness is my new comfort mode. Bright hurts my eyes.

My therapist gave me some clinical term for it.

But I don’t care for her labels, nor the multilayer psychoanalysis behind them.

Tearing tissue, shredding ribbon, snapping zippers, I rip through primly wrapped clothes with tags in luxury garment bags. Where the hell are my evening outfits? Each item of clothing in here is courtesy of Grandpa’s housekeeper, Kate, who loathes my chic style with a passion.

Irritation starts creeping in as my fingers itch to find something familiar. I don’t look at the labels on the box anymore. Yanking lid after lid, cardboard splitting under my nails, I finally see a folded black piece at the top of a box labelled Kitchen Maybe?

Nice try, Kate. Nice try.

Twenty minutes later, I tiptoe down the stairs wearing the black silk skirt and a matching fitted blouse. I glide an extra layer of pink lip gloss on, and push open the glass door of Charlton House Porch with my arse, then spin around and stop mid-step.

“Feeling suicidal, are we?” Jack, the head of my security—a freckled man with a weathered face—grumbles, blocking my way.

“No, just rebellious.” I flash him a smile. “Brace yourself, big man, we’re doing this.”

He gives me a hard stare for a long moment before letting out a long exhale and opening the Bentley’s rear door for me.

I don’t blame him. He’s just doing his job.

But one month in London after the accident, surrounded by overbearing guards and staff, is all the Etheridge lifestyle I could stand.

I’m not some politician’s daughter raised with the veil, nor have I been in this life long enough to desensitize myself.

If I’m going to survive this, I need to be able to breathe. A little.

“You have your panic button?” Jack starts with his usual checks as I settle in.

“I do.” I tap the band of my skirt where I cut a hole to tuck it in.

“And your phone’s charged?”

I make a face and set my phone on the wireless charger next to my seat.

“Happy now?” I shrug.

“Far from it. I would rather you were going anywhere but the Grant club, but I guess I don’t have a choice, ma’am,” he adds sarcastically, then mutters something aggressively Scottish and slams the door like it insulted his mother.

Wait, did he say Grant club?

Well, I didn’t know that!

If anyone is a threat to me at Fort George, it’s the infamous Mason Grant.

All Fort men look like sentinels of menace, but he is definitely the scariest. More importantly, he is heir to Fort’s most powerful crime family, who have a vendetta against mine.

I have only seen him once, thundering into campus on his Ducati.

But that was already once too many. I have heard enough about him not to want to see him again.

I chew on my lip, half-considering cowering back to the flat, as Jack speaks to the three guards in the BMW SUV behind us.

But just because the club belongs to the Grants, doesn’t mean he’ll be there. Most of Fort is owned by Grants or Berkeleys or Pikes. The three prominent families in Fort. Besides, non-exclusive clubs don't seem to be his scene.

I grab my phone, my fingers typing fast, as Jack starts to walk back to the Bentley.

Hey, I’m coming.

Thea

Awesome. The spare keys are next to the kettle.

Let it go already. I lost them one time.

Thea

In three days.

Is it busy?

Thea

Yeah, it’s packed. No one will know you’re here. Now get here quick. I need someone to stop me before I strangle Penny. She is out of control.

I type and retype several texts when Thea, who should be a certified mind reader, sends another text.

Thea

Not him.

Phew!

I let out a deep sigh as Jack slinks into the driver’s seat. “What’s that, kid?” He looks over his shoulder. “Did you change your mind?”

“Nope.” I reach for my seatbelt. “And don’t call me that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack turns on the engine.

“Or that.”

As the cars pull away, tires crunching gravel in spitting rain, a mixture of dread and exhilaration washes over me. Like the thrill of stepping toward the cliff, knowing I can’t fly.

One night.

What’s the worst that can happen?