Chapter 5
Istartled awake, covered in a thin layer of sweat, my heart hammering against my chest like a runaway train.
That dream had been intense and so real.
Dacre’s lips against my throat.
Presley’s mouth between my legs.
Sinclair watching it all with hooded eyes from a chair in the corner.
It was so hot.
And so very wrong.
Panting, I scrubbed my hands over my face. There was something seriously warped with me that I was having sex dreams about a foursome with my insanely hot step-brothers. Why the hell was my subconscious mind drooling over them at all?
My mother would murder me if I so much as wore the wrong dress to an event. She’d have me locked in the basement and tell everyone I’d gone to some remote college in the Swiss Alps before she’d allow me to do anything to publicly tarnish the Aston name. And jumping one—let alone all three—of my new step-siblings would create a bigger scandal than this community of cash worshippers had likely ever seen.
Yet that dream had made me wetter than I’d ever been my own.
I strolled into breakfast an hour later, after taking the longest, hottest shower of my life, trying to scrub the memory of my dream from my skin.
What I’d witnessed my stepbrothers partaking in over the weekend was to blame. The crazy hot mental image of Presley railing the waitress was seared into my memories forever, no matter how hard I tried to forget it. A bit of selective amnesia would be great right about now.
So far, my stepbrothers were living up to every expectation I’d had when my mother had dragged me here—they were nothing more than rich, entitled playboys who liked to work hard, play hard, and fuck even harder.
With money came power, but that didn’t mean I’d be giving them power over me.
If they thought I was about to fall in line like a good little step-sister because they declared I was an Aston now, they were going to be sorely disappointed. My mother already had enough control over my life; my stepbrothers would have to get in line.
I stopped short at the domestic scene in the dining room in front of me. Byron sat at the head of the table, my mother at his side. In one hand, he held a cup of coffee, and in the other, my mother’s hand. He was reading something on a tablet propped in front of him, while my mother scrolled her own tablet, no doubt coordinating her busy schedule of shopping, party planning, and dress fittings. I had no idea how she planned to occupy her time now that the wedding was done and she was officially Mrs. Beatrice Aston.
Presley was seated at the dining table next to Byron, Sinclair on the other side of him, while Dacre was across the table, a seat left empty between him and my mom that was clearly meant for me.
I’d managed to successfully avoid them for the rest of the weekend by keeping to my room, only venturing out for snacks to break up my marathon of White Lotus, Bridgerton, and true crime documentaries. When the air in my room had grown particularly stale and the maids came in insisting on cleaning the bathroom and changing my sheets, I’d taken to wandering through the house. I’d discovered the locations of each of the three pools. There were two outdoor and one indoor. The indoor one had to be Olympic-sized, it was so huge, and it featured a sky-high diving board I’d never be stepping foot on with my fear of heights.
Swimming, on the other hand, had been a passion of mine since before I could walk. I’d made the swim team in high school and planned on joining the team at whatever college I ended up at. But my mother had pulled that dream right out from under me the moment she’d decided to force me to live hers instead, which meant going to the fancy college my new stepfather funded.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” My mother smiled at me in a perfect imitation of a loving parent. She turned her smile on Byron, the two of them grinning at each other like a picture of wedded bliss.
I wonder how long it will last?
How long would it be before Byron lost interest? Or kept working late? Or stopped coming home at all? How long until Mom’s new society friends started whispering about the state of the Aston marriage, or the tension they felt between the newlyweds at whatever events they attended that week? Would they be sleeping in separate beds this time next year? Would they have separate cars taking them to the same place?
Life was never picture perfect. Especially for the rich. They just had the means to hide it better than most. Everyone had skeletons in their closets, but the wealthy had dead bodies buried everywhere.
I took the vacant seat at the table, Dacre’s gaze sliding my way when I sat down beside him. The maid—one of many in Byron’s household—placed a plate of poached eggs loaded with hollandaise sauce in front of me.
“Um, excuse me,” I twisted in my seat. “I didn’t order this.”
She looked momentarily perplexed, glancing at my mother.
“I ordered it for you. You need a proper breakfast today,” my mother said, barely glancing up from her tablet.
Like hell I was eating that. Hollandaise was foul, an opinion of which my mother was well aware. Perhaps she was distracted by all the new zeroes on the tail-end of her bank balance.
I forced out a smile, turning back to my plate. “I’ll just take a bowl of gluten-free granola, if that’s okay.”
My mother gave me a disapproving frown, which I ignored. She could dictate a lot in my life right now, but my breakfast wasn’t going to be one of them.
“Do you have Portadillo granola by any chance?” It was my favorite. I’d eaten it for breakfast everyday back home, something my mother also knew. Maybe she had arranged with Byron’s extensive staff to have some on hand for me, I dared to hope.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Dempsey, we don’t. I can arrange it for you for another day.”
I smiled up at her with a nod, not wanting to let my hurt show. Byron had made such a big show about me being at home here, but it seemed my mother didn’t feel the same way.
Conscious of my stepbrothers watching the entire exchange, I handed the plate back to the maid. “Any gluten-free granola you have will be fine, thank you.”
She nodded once, accepting the plate of eggs and disappearing through the side door in the direction of the enormous kitchen.
Bryon tilted his head in my direction with a smile. “Excited for your first day at Cape Canyon College, Dempsey?”
I still didn’t have a read on Byron. I’d expected him to be an asshole billionaire who only cared about how much money he could make, how many houses and fast cars he could own, and how many miles he could track in his private plane. But so far, he seemed almost… nice. Which was suspicious. Rich people were never nice. It didn’t pay to be kind.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I toyed with the tablecloth where it hung in my lap. “I don’t really know what to expect.”
Cape Canyon College sounded like yet another playground for the wealthy. A prestigious, sprawling, ivy-covered campus, that was run more like a prep school than a college. I’d been told in no uncertain terms by my mother that I didn’t need to bother with the places I’d worked my ass off to earn at Dartmouth, Cornell, or Columbia, because I’d be going to Cape Canyon College once we started our new life.
Now that my mother had changed her last name to Aston and had a reputation to uphold as the queen of the community, I didn’t get to make my own decisions anymore.
“There’s an expectation of excellence from any student attending Triple C, but you’ll hopefully have a lot of fun there, too,” Byron said, eyes filled with encouragement.
How much fun could I realistically have at a college owned and funded by my new stepfather?
Byron has sent all three of his sons there. Presley and Dacre were still enrolled, and Sinclair had graduated two years earlier. Since then, he had started his own tech company, as Byron had told me with a note of pride—pride that made me wonder if Byron might really care about his offspring… or maybe he was just a really good actor.
“No better school in the country than Triple C,” Presley said like a walking advertisement. He shovelled a spoonful of scrambled eggs in his mouth to cover his shit-eating grin.
The maid returned, silently placing a bowl of granola with fresh strawberries and yogurt in front of me. I smiled up at her in thanks.
“Dacre, Presley, you wouldn’t mind letting Dempsey ride with you today, would you?” my mother asked, turning her faux smile on each of them.
Dacre’s eyes locked on me. “No problem at all.”
I shook my head, the idea of being stuck in a car with either one of them making my granola sink in my stomach. The plan had been to stay away from them, not be stuck in a confined space with them on a daily basis.
“No, that’s okay. I can make my own way there.”
“How?” Sinclair asked, fork halfway to his mouth. “Did you come with a car we don’t know about?”
If I did, it would be easy to miss. That garage was the size of a house and had more luxury and foreign cars than I could count on four hands, let alone two.
“Now that you mention it…” Byron said, signalling to someone out in the hall.
His valet stepped into the room, moving to Byron’s side and producing a set of keys.
Byron held them up, grinning. “A little gift for you, Dempsey.”
I stared at him like he’d grown a second head. He was giving me a damn car and calling it a little gift?
When I took too long to accept the keys I was being offered, my mother nudged me, her elbow connecting with my ribs, making me squeak in pain.
“Oh, um… thank you, Byron.” I pushed from my seat, reaching for the keys and sitting back down. I turned them over in my hand. “You got me a Bentley?”
Byron’s smile widened. “That’s right. Can’t have you walking these mean streets.”
He chuckled, my mom laughing along with him. The only mean thing about these streets were the asshole husbands who thought they could get away with anything and the talons on the women who believed being rich was better than being treated decently.
“I was surprised to see it in the garage, given you already own two,” Presley muttered.
Byron either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. “If you’d prefer not to drive it yourself, I can arrange a driver for you.”
I stared down at the keys, then back up at my new stepfather who’d just handed me a two hundred-thousand-dollar car like spending that was pocket change he found in the couch cushions.
“That’s okay, I’d love to drive it.” I shook my head to clear the disbelief. “Thank you so much for this, Byron.”
He nodded, satisfied with my reaction, and went back to reading his tablet.
“You better finish eating and then go upstairs and fix your hair.” My mother gave my arm a firm pat. A little too firm. “You don’t want to be late for your first day.”
“My hair is already done.”
“Oh.” She scrutinized me like a judge on a reality cooking show assessing a lopsided tiramisu. “Are you sure you want to wear it like that?”
My hands clenched at my sides under the table. I jolted in shock when Dacre’s warm, reassuring hand closed around my fist.
“You can’t hit her,” he muttered so only I could hear. A playful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. I stared back at him in surprise.
“Wasn’t going to,” I muttered back.
Ignoring the growing feeling in my stomach, I shoved an enormous spoonful of granola in my mouth.
The disapproval on my mother’s face almost made her forehead wrinkle. She’d better watch out or Byron would be trading her in for a younger model within the year.
She and I hadn’t always been at odds this way. There’d been a time when we were close. But all that had changed when I was sixteen and she’d turned a blind eye to my father’s insanity. We were in the same house, but we might as well have been miles apart. She played Susie Housewife while I went through hell.
Eventually, she’d packed our bags and we’d left, but only after I begged her to save me. And even then, she acted like she was doing me a huge favor.
It took me a while to understand my mother wasn’t naturally maternal. She cared more about the men in her life, and now her new money, than she did about her own child. And because of it, we’d never be close again.
“Miss Dempsey,” the maid said, returning to my side and holding out a letter. “This came for you this morning.”
Sinclair’s brow quirked from across the table. “Only been here three days and already getting your mail redirected. How eager.”
I took the letter from the maid, offering her a tight smile as I opened it.
“Dempsey can direct her mail here for the rest of her life if she wants,” Byron said to Sinclair. “This is her home now.”
Sinclair responded, but I didn’t hear the words. I was too busy staring down at the paper in my trembling hands. My stomach dropped like an elevator from the top floor.
Inside the envelope, written on a thick, luxurious piece of personalized stationery was a one-line note.
Didyou really think I wouldn’t be able to find you there, darling?
I screamed on the inside, forcing down the granola threatened to claw up my throat and it was like swallowing a stack of needles. I wanted to vomit it all straight back up on the perfectly decorated table setting.
I knew it would be easy for my father to find me eventually. My mom had married a highly prominent billionaire, their wedding making the social pages of every newspaper in a three-hundred-mile radius. But a part of me had hoped that Byron’s wealth and connections would stall my father. I hoped he would’ve moved on once he realized I was out of his reach.
If I lived a normal life with a loving mother, the smartest thing to do would be to turn to her and Byron for help. But I knew my mother would never allow me to taint her new life with the shameful sins of our old one. No matter how much Byron wanted to preach at me that I was part of this family now, I was only allowed to be part of it under the terms my mother dictated. And my father wanting to use me for his own cruel gain didn’t factor into her new reputation.
I was required to keep my mouth shut. Which meant I was totally alone in this.
Shoving the letter back in the envelope, I excused myself from the table and hurried from the dining room. Once in my room, I buried the letter in the back of one of the drawers in my dresser.
It was fine. Everything would be fine.
I just needed to get my ass into gear and come up with a way to get the hell out of here to someplace my father would never be able to find me. I had no fucking idea where that was or how I planned to do it, but anywhere was better than back with my father.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm my trembling nerves, I grabbed my book bag and the keys to my new car and headed for the garage.
Sitting by the door, gleaming in perfect gold, was my brand-new Bentley. The gold was a little too gaudy for my taste, but I wasn’t about to complain about a free car worth more than most people made in a year.
Sliding into the buttery leather seats was an absolute dream. It smelled brand new, the scent wafting over me as I brushed my hands across the steering wheel, taking in the sleek and shiny interior.
“Holy shit,” I muttered to myself, still not quite grasping that this was mine.
I slid the key into the ignition, waiting for the purr of the engine.
But I was met with… nothing.
Turning the key a second time, the same dead silence greeted me.
What the hell is going on?
“Wow, looks like your new daddy bought you a lemon,” Dacre said from where he leaned against the garage wall, arms crossed over his chest.
My eyes instantly narrowed on him. “What did you do to my car?”
He huffed a laugh. “I didn’t do anything to your car. Byron doesn’t know the first thing about buying them. He probably didn’t even check it once it got delivered. It clearly needs some attention.”
It was brand new, how had it broken down already?
Presley strolled into the garage looking like the football-playing prom king he probably was. “You look good in your new ride, D.”
“Shame she can’t drive it. Won’t start.”
Presley chuckled. “Oh yeah? Looks like you’re riding with us then.”
I jumped from the car, slamming the door shut behind me as every impure thought I’d dreamed about these two played in my mind. “I can walk.”
Pushing a button on the remote on my keys that I hoped was for one of the garage doors, I walked towards it. Only the door two archways over opened. Damn it.
“It’ll take you more than an hour to walk to Triple C from here,” Dacre called and I halted. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to ride with us?”
I sighed, swivelling on my heel. “Okay, well… Thanks, I guess.”
Dacre inclined his head to the bright orange Lamborghini Spyder parked beside him.
The car was hot, there was no point denying it. And Dacre would look even hotter in it. No point denying that either.
“I’m riding shotgun!” Presley called.
“Dude, it’s a two-seater car,” Dacre clapped back, opening the door for me. “You’re driving yourself.”
I slid into my second buttery leather seat of the day, immediately dropping the lighted mirror to swipe on some of my favorite peach lip gloss.
Dacre and Presley both watched, eyes trained on my lips.
When I was done, I twisted the cap and tossed it back in my bag, glancing between them.
Presley winked at me as he made his way over to a bright blue sporty-looking Mercedes.
“See you on campus, Sass.”