Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Because I have a gash in the middle of my black heart and it’s kind of bleeding dark ink onto the keyboard. I blame you for it, by the way.
I blame you for a lot of things. What started it all is when you wrote back to me that day. You shouldn’t have. You didn’t need to. Not when you knew nothing about the stranger who sent you a letter from overseas.
I also blame you for responding religiously every week and making me wait for mail like in an old nineties movie with horrible colors.
But what I blame you for the most is how fucking easy it is to talk to you. To know that there’s someone who waits for my black fucked up letters and opens them every damn week. That there’s a person who thinks of me, reads my words, and considers them important enough to write back immediately.
And it all goes back to the first fucking time.
Why did you reply if you planned to never do it again? Why lead me on when you didn’t think of keeping up with it?
It’s your nasty selfishness, isn’t it?
Ever since the beginning, you only ever cared about yourself, your thoughts, and your damn problems. I put up with it and your character, but I should’ve seen the potential narcissist in you.
It should’ve been easy considering I’m probably one myself.
But narcissists are supposed to stick around, you know. They’re supposed to use people to their benefit and keep telling them boring tales about their fucking lives to feel a sense of grandiose shit.
So why the fuck aren’t you doing it anymore, Naomi?
And why the fuck am I writing this letter I will never send to you anyway?
Because you changed your address and I won’t be able to find your new one.
I guess my existential crisis is turning into a nihilistic one, and I don’t even believe in that fucking shit.
If one day you see this, know that I will never, and I mean never, forgive you.
Don’t live well,
Akira
15
Sebastian
Seven years later
“Smile, motherfucker.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling as I fasten my cuffs. Daniel takes the shot and grins like a fucking idiot on steroids, showcasing his dimples.
He taps his phone with a satisfied expression. When he speaks, it’s in his signature British accent that gets all the girls to drop their panties for him. “Now this, my mate, is what I call front-page newsworthy. Though you’ll never steal my title as the hottest bachelor of the year.”
I stare at the mirror and fix my tie as he circles me, snapping pictures and releasing satisfied sounds.
Daniel is about my height, but he’s leaner and has the type of blue eyes that make you want to stab them because they’re always on the lookout for trouble—like right now.
“Are you done?” I ask in a bored tone, managing to ignore him for the most part.
Mastering the art of observing one’s surroundings doesn’t mean I have to pay attention to everything that happens. It’s more about being aware of my environment and only reacting to what directly threatens me. Everything else is white noise.
“Nah. Possessing pictures of Prince Weaver is as rare as witnessing a bloody shooting star. I need to sell these babies to magazines—or fangirls. Whoever offers the best fuck first.”
“If you can handle an infringement of privacy suit, sure. I’ll be happy to steal some of your shares.”
“Oh, fuck you. As if you’d ever win against me in court.”
I raise a brow. “Want to try? I’m taking a pro bono case next month, so how about you take a similar one and we’ll see who wins first?”
“I would in a heartbeat if your uncle wouldn’t chop off my head for not doing my own pro bono cases.”
“It could be a good promotional opportunity. At least one of us will win. Me.”
He narrows his eyes as a smirk tugs on his lips. “You know what, fuck it. I’m taking more pro bono cases just to have a better record than yours.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He steps in front of me and clutches me by the shoulder. “I’ll win with flying colors. By the time I’m finished, you might have PTSD from standing in court and consider quitting law. Are you okay with that?”
“As long as you’re okay with me actually winning while you’re dragged in court by the prosecutor.”
“Oh, you’re fucking on. Don’t go crying to your uncle when I invade the magazines’ front pages again as the ‘Dream Lawyer of Every Woman’.”
I scoff.
He runs his fingers through his brown hair. “Don’t be jealous of my looks and skills, Bastian. It shows.”
“Fuck, and here I thought my complete disregard of your whoring habits wasn’t visible on my face. My bad.”
“You and your arrogance can sod the fuck off.”
“See you in court, Danny. Make sure you invite all the associates so they can watch your ass getting whipped.”