Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
I begin to nod, but he doesn’t stay around to witness it.
He stalks off, a harsh slam echoing moments later.
I feel Boston’s eyes on me, but I ignore her, flying toward my room as quickly as I can without running.
My lungs fight me, demanding dominance, ceasing control beyond my own, and I know it’s too late to breathe through it. I lift my hands over my head, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth.
I hate this. I hate … everything!
I feel weak and pathetic and it’s disgusting.
My life was in control before … before what?
Before I was eight and moved into a mansion without my family because the manor had gone two decades without holding an heir and my father wanted me to be the first of the first females, even though heirs weren’t required to arrive until the age of ten.
Before my mom went to bed and never woke up, just two weeks after I left?
Before Bronx showed up two years later?
Delta a few months after that?
Before I dominated the Olympics, went to Greyson, climbing every fucking ladder put forth just for another to appear at the top?
Before my body decided to fuck me over and weaken me?
When was it ever in control?
Yes, I love what I do.
I love the Greyson society we’ve formed and love creating schemes to fuck those who try and fuck us, who break the rules and step over the very thin line painted in the sand.
I’ve made grown-ass men weep. Destroyed them from the ground up with little effort and minimal blood. I love that too. I love my girls and the mansion, and I want that head Greyson seat Calvin is keeping warm, but I’m Rayo Revenaw’s daughter. My duty first is to my family, to my name.
Family, above all, always, no matter what. That’s what he says.
But what the hell does that even mean anymore?
My sister fucked us and here she is, planning a fucking dance routine and eating imported salmon. I want to fucking scream.
To fight.
I want to fucking cry.
Apparently, I am because when I pick up my phone, unlock it with the stupid, immature password I updated it with, a wet drop falls onto the screen.
I swipe it away, go straight to the favorite tab and type out a message.
Me: don’t make me fucking beg, Bastian.
I don’t know why I sent that. He loves it when I beg.
Or he did.
I glare at my phone, tucking it back into my skirt as I grab my jacket and pull it over my shoulders.
I refused to “get dressed” for dinner about a week ago, and it feels like the most minimal of wins, but a rebellious one nonetheless.
Every night, my father forces these family meals on us. One might think it’s sweet that he’s using a shitty situation to try to make up for lost time, having all the dinners we never got the chance to have together, but a smart person knows the difference.
I know the fucking difference.
He’s not making up for lost time. He’s giving himself more. Facing the truth that at any moment, there may never be another chance for one.
Anyway, I’ve stopped changing into my dinner attire and don my Greyson uniform all day, every day, which is why I’m still wearing it now at midnight.
It’s been a few hours since my father sent me to my room, and I’ve paced around it for just as long. Waiting.
Sure enough, the moment he assumes we’re asleep, he slips into his car with his driver and down the long driveway they go, off to handle boss shit I’m not allowed to know about, even though I’m supposed to take his place someday.
I slip into the hall, using the secret escape staircase in the lavatory, and take it all the way down to the floor-level garage.
I’m not stupid enough to think there aren’t guards everywhere. Even if I hadn’t tried to escape a total of five times already, I would know.
This is why sweet little Delta brought a gift to campus for me today, and I’m ready to use it.
I slip into the hall, and sure enough, Hue is standing guard against the door.
His eyes flick up, hand lifting to his earpiece, but he only has enough time for his eyes to widen, and then he’s slumped against the wall, the arrow having shot into his leg before he felt the sting.
I smile at him and slip into the garage, sending a second and then third dart toward Victor and Franky, more freaking guards. Thankfully Franky has his back to me, or he might have gotten a jump on me and called for backup.
He falls to the side, hitting his head on an armchair, and I wince.
“That’s going to hurt later.”
I whip around, holding the gun up to my sister, but she only smiles, coming down the few steps to stand before me.