Chapter 1
Chapter one
Hunter
“We’re deeply saddened by the tragic events that took place last Friday night. Please be assured that here, at Willowbrook, we are dedicated and committed to supporting you.”
I’ve heard this speech at least a dozen times. To my father’s credit, he actually manages to sound sincere. I guess practice does make perfect.
It’s clear by the bereft and frustrated glances that no one buys his act, though. The auditorium is packed with the entire student body of both Willowbrook and Cedar Heights.
While my Willowbrook classmates seem immune to the events, I can’t say the same for the other ones.
The Cedar Heights cohort looks worse for wear.
Bexley’s bitch boy is sitting two rows in front of me, slightly to the right.
Every so often he turns in his chair, glaring at me with such hatred that I have to stop myself from flipping him the bird.
I understand he’s feeling big boy emotions, but frankly, this isn’t my fucking fault.
And despite the grief they are all feeling, I won’t allow anyone to pin the blame on me.
Bexley was going into that building no matter what. If they think I could have stopped her, then they didn’t know their precious leader at all.
Besides, I’m the one who got burned—literally. I swear I can still taste fucking ash on my tongue. I was also the one who got hospitalized for three days to treat smoke inhalation and minor burns. But yes… it’s all my fault.
Next to me, Rylan’s fist clenches and unclenches on top of his leg. It’s the only reactive sign that gives away his true thoughts. To everyone else, he just looks bored and inconvenienced at having to be here. Though, perhaps there is some truth in that as well.
And to be fair, the same seems to be the case for Tai. Though, he’s spending way too much time observing his freshly painted black nails. It’s starting to come off as gauche. At least Sophia looks miserable. Surely that’s what they want to see.
Fuck. How did we get here?
“More. You can take it.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Come on, just a bit more in your mouth.”
There’s a clatter of metal as Peyton throws down her fork in frustration. I cock an eyebrow at her, leaning back and folding my arms expectedly for the incoming lecture.
“You’re being extra bossy today,” she huffs quietly. “I’m trying my best.”
“Are you?” I ask, softening my tone. “Because I think you’re struggling this week. And it’s fine if you are. But be honest with yourself, Peyton. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that it’s too much some days.”
“Every day is too much,” she murmurs. “But this week especially sucks.”
I nod. “One more forkful then we’ll call it a night.”
Peyton sighs, slowly picking up her discarded fork. I wait quietly, letting her go at her own pace. I’m pleased when she manages the last bite, pushing the plate away in dismissal. “Happy?”
“At you? Yes. With life? No.”
She snorts knowingly, a hint of sadness tainting her expression. “Uncle Marcus being insufferable as usual?”
“I’m going to let that one slide this time,” I grunt.
“Oh, please. He’s always been insufferable. Just because you choose to ignore it most of the time doesn’t make it any less real.”
I laugh gingerly. “As opposed to Aunt Cordelia?”
Peyton crosses her arms, offering me a sympathetic smile. “Mom is far worse than Uncle Marcus. The two of them are creatures of their own doing.”
I won’t admit this out loud, not even to Rylan or Tai, but the past few days, my father has really gotten under my skin.
It’s starting to keep me awake all night, replaying his handling of this whole fucked up situation.
I keep wondering if he’s always been like this and I’ve been blinded by my admiration of him and his status or whether he’s just becoming worse the longer we’re stuck with Cedar Heights at Willowbrook.
Either way, I cannot stand to be in the same room as him at the moment.
It’s a constant facade of false narratives and performances.
Every time I hear him talking about the situation as though it’s the worst thing to ever happen to him, I just want to promptly depart the safety of my gated community and get as far away from him as possible.
I suppose Tai is lucky in that sense. He rarely has to deal with his father most of the time. But even this was significant enough to bring George back home.
Not for small matters such as his children’s birthdays or any other time they needed a parent.
Only the absolute desire and panic for damage control and handling of the crisis.
It sent him scrambling onto the soonest available first-class flight home.
Because hey… Even in a crisis, comfort is a necessity.
From what I’ve heard, Rylan has been getting it from every angle too. Like my father, Max is acting as though this is the biggest disaster in his career’s history.
How dare we cause such drama during the precious mayoral election campaign season? However, in typical aristocratic fashion, this is suddenly an opportunity to act the hero.
Publicly, our fathers are parading around, crying about the tragedy. But behind closed doors, we’re being punished for letting things get out of control.
I envy Peyton in a way. She has her own struggles too, but at least hers are something she can try to fix. I can’t mend mine.
To her enormous credit, she’s made great progress. We started our weekly dinner catchups two months ago after I caught her throwing up in my bathroom during one of my father’s beloved soirées.
Initially, I had scolded her for coming over while being unwell since I didn’t want to catch anything.
But after she finally cracked and admitted it was deliberate, I realized she was fighting a silent battle.
Our weekly dinner is our time to vent, to help give her a safe space to talk about her demons while trying to repair her relationship with food.
I blame that dim-witted airhead, Olivia. She’s so self-centered and obsessed with perfection that she directs her own insecurities onto everyone else within a five-mile radius.
I’ve never understood why Peyton joined the cheerleaders.
I know Aunt Cordelia pushed her to do it, and Peyton being Peyton did it out of desperate validation as a freshman.
But that was four years ago. Aunt Cordelia is now too absorbed and wrapped up in philanthropy schemes and social appearances to notice her daughter.
If anything, it just gives her more ammunition to bully Peyton into her idea of perfection.
I’m positive she wishes that Olivia was her offspring instead.
The two of them are cut from the same bitch-woven cloth.
I suppose that’s why Aunt Cordelia runs in Olivia’s mother’s circle.
Therefore, Peyton feels obligated to stay friends with Olivia, which in turn somehow justifies putting up with all the mean shit that girl does.
“Do you want me to drive you back home tonight?” I ask, offering Peyton a barrier of support from her mother.
She shakes her head. “I’ll get the driver to come pick me up,” she replies, pulling out her cell phone and texting him. “Mom is at some charity gala, anyway.”
I nod. “Right. Make sure you don’t forget your therapy session tomorrow.”
Peyton rolls her eyes. “Okay, Dad. I am capable of following a schedule, you know.”
Smirking at her response, I take a swig from my flask. The bitter taste of scotch coats my tongue, and I try not to linger on the fact that it’s the exact same liquor from last Friday. When I don’t respond to her witty reply, Peyton relaxes back into her chair, pinning me with her gaze.
“Have you considered therapy?”
“Me?” I ask incredulously. “Why would I need therapy?”
Now I understand the laid-back demeanor. She’s trying to lure me into a sense of comfortability before some big grand lecture.
Peyton tilts her head. “Come on, H. What happened is fucked up. It’s okay if you’re not okay.”
Glaring at her, I immediately turn defensive. “I’m fine, Peyton. Why wouldn’t I be? We’ll find the bastards who did this and it will get sorted.”
“Someone tried to kill you…”
“No,” I interject firmly. “Someone tried to burn down Cedar Heights. It was just misfortunate timing that I was stuck inside at the time.”
Peyton raises an eyebrow. “Do you really believe that?”
“Of course I do,” I snap back, clearly deflecting.
Do I believe it? Not for a fucking second.
Whoever started that fire knew Spencer and I were in the building. They deliberately led us to the auditorium, ensuring we had no way out. But as hard as I try to convince myself that she was probably the intended target and I was collateral damage, I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m wrong.
Whatever the reason for the fires, it doesn’t make sense to kill two innocent bystanders. They could have stayed hidden and waited for us to leave. But they intentionally sent us on a wild goose chase, started the fire, and trapped us in.
The only thing I know for certain is once I find out who is responsible, they’ll be digging their own six-foot deep hole.
“Okay,” Peyton murmurs sarcastically. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. By the way, I can smell the scotch from here.”
“I sleep just fine, thank you,” I shoot back.
Wrong.
I haven’t slept soundly since that night. None of us have.
My dear cousin finally relents, sensing that she’s not going to win this argument. The two of us fall into silence, and when the buzz buzz that’s been happening all evening starts back up, I finally snap.
“Who the hell keeps texting you so much?” I grumble. “At least turn the damn vibration off. I can practically feel the table humming. It’s been going off since we got here.”
Peyton’s cheeks flush as she quickly snatches up her phone. “No one,” she answers hastily.
“You’re a shit liar.”
“So are you.”
I snort. “Give me some credit, Peyton. Do you really think I didn’t see you dancing with that Cedar Heights douchebag at the dance? It’s him, isn’t it?”
Her eyes flash dangerously. “Steele is not a douchebag. And that’s none of your business.”
“Seriously?” I snarl. “Out of all the students, you decided one from Cedar Heights was your best option?”
Peyton leans forward, locking eyes with me. “Do you speak to Rylan like that? He’s the one who kissed Bexley in the middle of the hallway. So don’t you dare criticize my choices.”
“I do speak to him like that actually,” I quip back confidently. “I have, many times, in fact.”
Shaking her head, Peyton stands with a scoff. “You’re ridiculous, Hunter. After what happened to Bexley, you still don’t have it in you to show an ounce of compassion.”
“What happened doesn’t change the feud—”
“Fuck the stupid feud!” she shouts back. “Why the hell do I have to spend my life holding on to hatred and negativity toward a bunch of people I don’t even know? I deal with enough of that from our own circle.”
Tears swell in her eyes, and I realize I’ve taken this too far.
“Peyton—”
“I’m done for tonight,” she exclaims, reaching for her bag. “I’ll wait outside for my driver.”
Standing, I soften my tone and expression in desperation. “We had a deal. You can’t go yet.”
“I’m not hanging around you for another hour,” she sneers defiantly, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “You’re supposed to be in my corner—the one person who doesn’t make me feel like shit. But when you start your Cedar Heights bullshit, it makes me feel embarrassed for you.”
“It’s not like that,” I attempt pathetically, unsure where I’m going with the explanation.
Peyton scoffs. “It’s exactly like that. You’re the perfect spitting image of Uncle Marcus.
In fact, I’d say you’re actually worse. At least he’s pretending to care.
You can’t even manage that for one dinner around me.
This was supposed to be about me. But somehow, you managed to make my eating disorder about you. ”
“Peyton, stop.”
I follow her out of the dining room, keeping pace as she stomps toward the front door. She ignores me, nearly connecting my face with the door as she violently swings it open.
“Stop!” I try again, pleased when she at least pauses to turn around.
“I’m not going to throw up,” she says quietly, tone still angry. “So you don’t have to worry about that being on your conscience.”
“I’m sorry, Pey,” I tell her sincerely. “This is about you. I am in your corner. It’s just been a weird week.”
Peyton folds her arms. “Do you know how hard it was for me to admit everything to you?” She asks. “I cried all that night after I went home. I told myself it would be okay. That I’d feel better admitting the truth to someone I trust. You’re the only relative and friend I have.”
I let her continue, just nodding to show that I’m listening.
“Do you know how shit it makes me feel when I hear you say those things about other people? It scares the hell out of me, Hunter. All I can think about is what you really must think about me. What you might be saying about me behind my back.”
“It’s not the same. And this is our secret.”
“Maybe it’s not the same to you,” she points out. “But it is to me. Because realistically, how can you genuinely care when you hold so much hatred in just your pinky finger alone?”
Dropping my head, I let out a sigh. “I don’t hate them, Pey. I don’t know how I feel to be honest.”
“Were you like this toward her?” Peyton asks suddenly. “The night of the fire when you were trapped with Bexley. Did you treat her like this when she was trapped and dying?”
My head snaps back up, but I can’t form words. It’s as if they are stuck in my throat, choking me like the thick smoke that stole from both of us that night.
A peer. An equal.
Our hands entwined. Her pleading words.
“I won’t let go. You’re not alone, Bexley. I got you.”
No one knows the full truth from that night—not even Rylan or Tai. How would I even be able to put that confession into words when I can’t even admit the entire story out loud?
“It needs to be you.”
My brows furrow, completely forgetting Peyton is waiting for my response.
All I can focus on is that sentence again.
I’ve replayed it in my mind at least one hundred times since that night.
Bexley sounded so confident, so sure of herself, even as the fire rushed toward us.
She knew what she was sacrificing. And despite everything that had happened between us—all the pain, all the bullshit remarks and insults—she still chose to save me instead of herself.
I’m a piece of shit.
The sudden blinding of car headlights brings me back to the present as gravel crunches under tire wheels.
I find Peyton’s eyes, but before I can speak, she just shakes her head in disappointment, turning her back on me, and climbing into the rear of the awaiting car.
I watch as she pulls away, a heavy, crushing feeling inside my chest.
No, Peyton. I didn’t treat Bexley like that. But you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you the truth.
No one would.