Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
I just found out my baby sister is getting in bed with the enemy in every sense of the word, but the part that makes me lose my fucking mind is the damn pain in Bran’s eyes.
Can we talk?
We can meet briefly in the penthouse. You don’t have to spend the night if you don’t want to.
You looked really on edge. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can I see you?
So you’re not going to apologize for punching me? Not that I’m cross with you or anything.
Okay, I am but not about the punch. I know you didn’t do that on purpose, but you’re definitely ignoring me on purpose.
About Lan and Mia, I didn’t want to keep that a secret, but I knew you’d throw a fit if you found out, and, well… I was right, wasn’t I?
If it’s of any consolation, I think Lan is really serious about her. He’s never been serious about anyone in his entire life. He’s never had a relationship or fought for a girl’s affection. Can you believe he asked me to teach him how to practice empathy just to win her over? That’s the first time he’s ever asked me anything and I’m loving it. We got close this week, and I’m really enjoying our time together.
I even showed him a few of the paintings I keep a secret and he said he’s proud of me. Can you believe it? Lan being PROUD of me? The last time he said that was when we were young… Well, I might have played a part in how we grew apart, but anyway, he said he knows the right agent for me, and it’s HIS agent. He introduced us the other day and I really like her better than the one Mum has been trying to make me sign with. She understands my vision so well, and maybe soon, I’ll stop keeping those paintings a secret. I’m starting to have hopes and it’s because of none other than Lan. Isn’t that crazy?
Though I’m not in a particularly good mood.
Hint. It’s because of you.
I kind of miss you.
Okay, that was a lie. I REALLY miss you.
Nikolai, please. Don’t do this.
You’re clearly reading my texts, but you can’t spare me a few words?
You know what? Forget it.
Those were the texts Bran sent me over the past week, and yes, I read every one of them, but I couldn’t reply.
If I did, I’d get disastrously violent. My racing thoughts and fucked-up head haven’t calmed down yet. For the first time ever, I’ve spent two weeks on a high. A whole two fucking weeks.
This is not the state I want to talk to him in.
But against my better judgment—which is MIA lately—I’m outside the Elites’ mansion, where I used to wait for him every morning.
I lean against my bike that’s camouflaged by a bent tree and stare at the reason why I rode all the way here.
Despite the fact that I don’t reply to his texts, I actually follow his every move, whether through his or his friends' social media.
An hour ago, he posted a picture of Remington clutching him in a chokehold as both of them laughed. They were fucking laughing.
What made it worse was the caption. Late-night chats with Remi are the best. I’m so thankful to have you @lord-remington-astor.
And then Remington’s reply. Cheers, mate. You know you’re my fave. Don’t tell my spawn.
I wasn’t thinking when I came here. Something I haven’t been doing enough of.
Sometimes, I believe the best solution for this whole fuckery is to go into the Elites’ mansion, kill Landon, then kidnap his brother, but something tells me that won’t go over well.
As if that dilemma wasn’t enough, he had to post that picture with Remington. In his damn bedroom.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Is that what ‘Forget it’ means? Has he already found a replacement and tossed me aside?
Not in his goddamn dreams.
My fingers are stiff as I type.
Me
Come outside.
Bran
Look who decided to finally acknowledge my existence.
Come fucking outside, Brandon.
Where? Please don’t tell me you’re here.
Outside. Now.
Fine. You’re such a joy today.
I narrow my eyes at the phone. Of course I’m not a joy compared to that clown Remington.
Bran even once said, “He’s just so funny.” He fucking isn’t.
My muscles are about to snap from how wound up and tight they feel. Two weeks on a high is just too long and I don’t sense any signs of coming down anytime soon.
I took the pills the night I punched Bran, because I couldn’t trust myself anymore. I had to admit that I was losing control.
They didn’t help. Unless nearly fucking drowning in the pool is considered help.
Still, I took three of them earlier so that I won’t do something I’ll regret. The thought of hurting him fucking terrifies me. But I don’t think they’re working. The urge to punch someone is greater than I can contain.